Читать книгу All Inclusive - Farzana Doctor - Страница 6

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After my shift, I returned to my room, but Blythe and her boyfriend Rhion were arguing again, their voices ringing across our shared wall.

“I was daft to ever trust you, you bastard!”

Rhion murmured something back.

“How could you do this to me?”

Murmur, murmur, murmur.

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I decamped to the staff cafeteria, and sat in the back corner where there was a Wi-Fi signal. I checked my e-mail on my phone, most of it junk. The last message to load was from Anita, my manager. The subject line read “Online Complaint.” Curious, I clicked it open.

Dear Ameera,

I’m writing to notify you that we received an anonymous complaint through our online comment form today. Although a record of it will be filed in your employee record, we will not follow up unless there are repeated complaints of a similar nature (it’s nearly impossible to investigate when there is no contact information left by the complainant).

It said, “Ameera is not professional. She’s sexually inappropriate with Atlantis customers. She is a bad example.”

I trust that you have been professional in your conduct, but if there is anything you’d like to notify me about that may have caused a complaint like this, it would be best if you reported it.

Best,

Anita

My pulse quickened and I flushed shame. Gavin, my ex-boyfriend, came to mind, an unwelcome intrusion. I pushed him away, and refocused on Anita’s message. I took a deep breath, hit Reply and quickly composed:

Dear Anita,

Thank you very much for the heads-up about the anonymous complaint. I can’t imagine who would write such a thing about me. There have been a few tourists who have asked me on dates, and I’ve declined (always politely). I wonder if this could be a reaction to a rejection, or perhaps a prank of some kind? Please do let me know if the issue escalates, and be assured that I make every attempt to be courteous and professional with our guests.

It must be freezing in Ottawa these days! I hope you’re weathering it well.

Best,

Ameera

I took another deep breath, reread my reply twice for typos, and considered adding a happy face to the end of the last sentence. I decided against it and pressed Send.

My mind ticked through the meagre parade of tourists with whom I’d recently had sex. They were all nice enough folks. Who’d make a complaint like this? It didn’t make any sense.

I closed my eyes and once again Gavin swaggered forward. This time I didn’t resist him. His toothy smile flashed across my eyelids and then there was the heat and press of his lips on mine. His hands were warm and insistent. I drew my thighs together.

It was always unexpected, this wanton arousal. I could be walking along the street, and see a guy wearing a shirt that reminded me of Gavin. Or I could hear a song we’ d listened to together. And then I’d be aching for him, the instinct Pavlovian. A stupid animal-like response.

We’ d dated in six-month increments. When we were together we’ d swear we were right for one another. We’ d leave whomever we were dating and have an intense affair. Then we’ d break up, parting with almost as much certainty as when we’ d reunited. During our breaks we’ d date other people, avoid texting, and remove one another from our Facebook news feeds. But soon enough we’ d end up bumping into each other at Jackson Square Mall or out at a concert or gallery opening. And then, as though in some kind of evil carnival hypnotist’s trance, we’ d fall into one another’s arms, dopey and happy and forgetting that we’ d end up miserable.

A few months in we’ d remember (or finally admit, again) that we weren’t compatible. He was fairly sure he wanted marriage and kids and I was fairly sure I didn’t. A deal-breaker for us both. My friends joked at the reversal of gender roles, called me a commitment-phobe. But that wasn’t it. I was a romantic. I liked relationships, loyalty, commitment. I just didn’t want to do it his way. I’d never pined for weddings or baby showers like most of my friends. I guess I hoped he’ d change and he imagined that I would, too. Number one on the list of things not to do in a relationship.

Two months before I left Canada for Huatulco, we were broken up, the fourth time in four years. A mutual friend was having a birthday party at the Slainte bar. I knew he’ d be there, too, but I thought I was over him. I wanted to be over him. I’d heard he was seeing someone else and was happy. They were engaged. I thought it would be safe.

I was the composed ex-girlfriend. I greeted Tamara, his fiancée, with an enthusiastic hello and graciously exclaimed over her sparkly cliché of an engagement ring. Gavin and I hugged hello, my right hip tingling where his hand had brushed over my jeans. We retreated to our separate corners. Later, we gazed at one another across the pool table and before I knew it, we were in the back alley, my tongue in his mouth, his hands up my blouse, me unzipping his pants. He came fast, with a howl and a laugh and a look of wonder. Pleasure was like that for Gavin, an unexpected, gleeful novelty. Without missing a beat, he slid his hand down my jeans, past the elastic of my underwear, and inside me. Every inch of me vibrated with his touch.

The back door slammed and Tamara and two of our friends wandered out for a cigarette. He pulled away from me, and one of my breasts flopped out of my bra. I stuffed it back in and his stickiness, still on my fingers, smeared across my blouse. He ran inside, following his girl, while my friends sighed and shook their heads. “Oh come on, Ameera. They’re engaged,” Robyn said with a sigh. She said engaged like it was something sacred.

“They’re happy together. And it never works out between the two of you,” Jennifer counselled.

I got the feeling that my friends blamed me for what happened, even though Gavin was equally responsible; they didn’t invite me to two subsequent parties, but did include him. I heard that he and Tamara repaired things, and two months later, I left for Mexico, hoping for a fresh start. I’d meet someone new, or focus on my career for a change. Or something. I hadn’t been home since. I wasn’t ready to face everyone, especially Gavin.

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I reread Anita’s words, looking for meaning between their straight lines. She was a fan of emoticons and her writing style was typically informal, but this message was concise and cold. Perhaps Nancy’s recent firing had got everyone at head office riled up. But Anita liked me, I knew that. I sat up tall, rolled the kinks out of my neck, and reassured myself that everything would be fine.