STUFF
After our celebratory meal of boiled eggs and plain pasta, Katie and I made a toast with tap water.
“To the greatest holiday we’ll ever have!” we said, clinking together two mugs she’d found at a car boot sale.
We lay down on our threadbare mattress and opened the holiday brochure for our six-star stay. Many pages were both dog-eared and annotated. We revisited photos of exotic fruits, monkeys, smiling swimmers, and a flawless footprint-less beach.
“We’d better sleep,” I said, unable to drag my eyes away from a mango smoothie by a jacuzzi, “We have our journey to the airport first thing.”
She blew out the candle. We embraced throughout our slumber.
The rain lashed us as we hiked up the edge of the motorway. Beeping horns accompanied us most of the time. Not a single driver stopped to help. No doubt put off by our soaking wet raggedy clothes and luggage. However, the money we’d saved by not taking a taxi or train would afford Katie a fifteen-minute session on the powerful jet ski we’d seen on the bottom right of page 42 of our well-worn brochure.
As the plane cruised our clothes gradually dried. We gazed out of the window knowing we would soon step into luxury.
We entered the huge resort on a golf buggy. We were driven past swimming pools, bathers sipping cocktails, and finally arrived at our glorious villa with its own hot tub. The bellboy patiently observed us taking repeated deep inhalations of the high-quality bedsheets. He cleared his throat, “Your package includes breakfast, Sir and Madam, please come to the Chill Café between 9 and 11am.”
He did a little bow and left.
“We should have tipped him!” said Katie.
I winced, “We can’t afford tipping, darling. The only cash we have is for your jet ski ride on the last day.”
I showed her the little envelope with the currency I’d changed up at the airport. She kissed my cheek.
We spent a few hours by the pool enjoying free iced water, walked along the free flawless beach before jumping wildly against free waves in the free ocean. We ‘borrowed’ some sun cream from a German father of two screaming children who asked our opinion of the poolside wine list, but we managed to change the topic to the free snorkel hire at the Sand Hut bar.
Washing off the salt water in our rain shower, we realised we were absolutely starving. We split the complimentary nuts between us on the bed sheets, before distracting ourselves by gazing up at constellations from our hot tub.
At 3am we awoke, ravenous. Katie said she might die. I felt I would soon follow.
Before sunrise we were outside the Chill Café pacing and mumbling, hoping it opened early or that someone would drop a Brazil nut out of the window. We were welcomed in at 8:59am.
We covered our plates with every item available. Then we went for seconds and thirds. Katie slipped a dragon fruit and Danish pastry into her bag. I filled my sun cap with figs.
Full, feeling human, and with our new strategy of stockpiling breakfast goods, we were able to continue exploring more of our luxurious resort, page by page, as we’d imagined in our dim bedsit back home.
We had a free cycling tour of a local village, a free zipline for adults, free local cuisine cooking class, free sunrise meditation, even a small free petting zoo and free nature walk with a free crossword puzzle (for children). We filled each day indulging in the best service that came without a hint of impatience or boredom. We smothered the memories of flavourless meals, short showers, watered-down milk, mouldy bread, freezing nights without heating, and stuffy colds, flus or injuries without medicine, with our newfound, unbridled, six-star luxury. Staying up late each night, we marvelled at our suite, trying the different light switches and gadgets that all came as standard. Every drawer contained at least one item from our suitcases so that the place felt more like our real home.
Our final activity came. I approached the jet ski hire hut with the only cash I’d brought. I handed it to the tanned man behind the desk.
“Sorry, Sir, this is not enough. New prices, see.”
He passed me the latest brochure.
Katie ran up, already sporting a life jacket and childish, incandescent smile. Her unmanicured hands wrapped around my waist.
“What’s that you’ve got there?” she asked, looking at the shiny new brochure.
I gingerly explained. She shrugged her bright red shoulders.
“Oh don’t worry, baby,” she said, “We’ve had the best time.”
Sitting on the edge of the boardwalk as the man from the jet ski hire hut looked on, we flicked through the new holiday catalogue.
“They have another resort, look!” I exclaimed, and we were immediately enthralled by the pictures of Inca-themed waterslides on page 72.
“Do you think we can afford to go soon?” Katie asked.
I totted it up, including my potential pay rise at the orange juice factory and her not getting her hair cut more than once a year.
“Yes. So long as we don’t do full or half board. We can go in four and a half years, darling. We might not get the hot tub in the room again though.”
I kissed the side of her head as a docile grey nurse shark passed silently beneath our swinging feet.
Katie leaned gently on my blistered shoulder.
“That’s fine,” she whispered, “It’s worth it. This has been the best weekend of our lives.”
DANIEL BIRD’s writing has appeared in Litro, Reflex Press, Mono, Fragmented Voices, Coffin Bell, BULL, Penstricken, and Freedom Fiction Journal. His first book Sorry Men, published in 2024, explored the ridiculous hopelessness of half the world’s population. He lives and works in Hong Kong.
Read more by Daniel Bird:
A story in Freedom Fiction
A story in Bull magazine