I turn and gesture towards Susie, who is paddling up and down, panting, hair scraped into a topknot, her face scarlet with the effort, or maybe the manager’s presence. As a TV producer who’s done my fair share of casting, I can see exactly where this is headed, and I’m going to make him say it.
‘They are usually . . . they are there, in the evening, for more . . . decorative purposes.’
‘What, like . . . water baubles?’
He allows himself a small, tight smile. ‘If you like.’
‘You mean, not a couple of middle-aged lard-arses here for a dip during the day.’
He holds up my towel. ‘I wouldn’t put it like that. But if you don’t mind . . .’
I launch myself back into the middle of the pool with a whoosh. ‘Oh, but I do mind. Now that we’ve violated your viewing benefit, we might as well enjoy our special privilege.’
He stands, his expression hardening. ‘If you don’t get out, I will be forced to call security.’
Why can’t he just let it go? Why does it matter so much that we haven’t followed orders? I’ve always been a rule-taker; now it seems I’m breaking my own, and theirs too. Like him, I’m not ready to back down – not today. And so, I snatch his smile, staring back up at the sky. ‘Go ahead. It’ll give me an extra five minutes.’
In fact, it takes security at least ten minutes to get up here, by which time Susie has flopped out and rushed off to the toilets. I stay, idly bobbing around, admiring the feathery cirrus clouds, enjoying the feeling of silky water on my skin. For so many years, going swimming was such a chore – hoiking the twins into their suits, shivering in the shallow end watching plasters bobbing by, apologizing to ploughing front crawlers who crashed into my splashing kids, wrestling clothes on wriggling, whingeing wet bodies while my own damp skin prickled in the chill. With the introduction of children, swimming went from a fun, relaxing pastime to a teeth-grinding trial. Much like Christmas, and adult conversation. I feel extremely serene, even though I’m apparently about to be escorted off the premises by some bouncers.
When they arrive, I have to stifle a giggle, as they’re straight out of Casting Central, biceps squeezed into their suits, earpieces in place, ranging round the pool like Men in Black. Susie comes back from the toilets, fully dressed. The manager and Ms Adams also return, ready to nod approvingly as I’m borne away. The hipster is filming again. May as well put on a show.
‘I’m doing my best to be a water bauble,’ I say to the manager. ‘Would it help if I did some artistic swimming, like in the Olympics?’
‘You need to get out now,’ he replies, a muscle flickering in his cheek.
‘I’m shy. Everyone’s looking.’
One of the bouncers holds up a towel, which is actually rather gentlemanly. I have no beef with him, even though he is very beefy. I shake my head, while maintaining an elegant support scull to keep myself afloat.
‘Come and get me,’ I say, and attempt a flamingo position quite creditably.
This, predictably, causes some consternation. Security are unwilling to get in the pool, feeling it will compromise their authority. Ms Adams also flat-out refuses. The manager is reluctant but determined, and actually starts taking his shoes off, when he spots poor Jeremy walking past with a tray. Jeremy is dispatched to fetch me out. Susie is now on a lounger, wearing sunglasses, watching us from behind her Jilly Cooper. Her mouth drops open as Jeremy takes his shirt off. Topless, in his underpants, he’s not very decorative.
‘Just get in,’ snaps the manager.
Jeremy eyes the lapping water like it’s lava. Miserably, he jumps in, and I’m propelled backwards by the subsequent wave. He starts to wade towards me. I’m ready to wind this up now, but can’t resist flicking him with water and swimming away. It’s all so silly, and still feels unreal, like the phantom dog on the farm. None of it matters. Some things matter, but this doesn’t. I don’t know why I never realized that until now.
‘Please, miss,’ says Jeremy, holding out his hand. I do feel sorry for him. But he’s a dolt. I dive under the water, can see him groping around, flailing as I slither by. There’s the dull sound of a music beat, and when I emerge at the other end, the DJ has upped the ante and is playing ‘Move Bitch’ by Ludacris. It’s a banger – we tried to use it on a Red Eye show about training unruly dogs, but couldn’t get the clearance.
Dashing water from my eyes, I catch sight of a big clock on the far wall. It’s nearly 11 a.m. Shit. My booking. I haul myself out of the pool, saluting the DJ, who sticks out his pierced tongue. The hipster whoops.
‘A wise choice, madam,’ says the manager, trying to disguise his relief. ‘You need to leave now.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I reply, taking the towel from the bouncer. ‘I need to get dry and dressed. Do you want me dripping through your dining room?’
Once again, there’s a brief moment of confusion, before the manager gestures me towards the toilets.
‘Please be quick,’ he says, and I’m satisfied he’s sufficiently broken.
As I pass Susie, I reach into her bag, fish out her purse, and produce a tenner. ‘This is for Jeremy, and Jeremy only,’ I say, handing it to the manager, who bows, receiving it between finger and thumb.
‘Oi,’ says Susie. I smile down at her and we high five. No – not really; we’re not in a movie. Instead, she leans forwards and hisses, ‘I’m going to fucking kill you! We could have been arrested! I’m so embarrassed I could die!’ She follows me to the toilets, haranguing me as I rub myself dry.
‘This is so out of character,’ she continues, as I take off my stylish but sodden bikini. ‘What’s gotten into you? Have you had a row with Robbie? Why are you just standing there naked like you don’t give a toss?’
‘I took some Vicodin this morning.’ I ponder, waving my underwear under the hand dryer.
‘What?’
‘I had a headache, a really bad one. And I took some other tablets. And then I got knocked out at the train station.’
‘What?’
‘Only for a second. Anyway . . .’ I put on my damp knickers. ‘I don’t think it’s any of that.’ It’s the atoms, regenerating me. Where they came from, I don’t know. I could guess, but I’m not sure I’m ready yet. I just want to drift, for now.
‘Then what is it?’ She helps me fasten my bra. ‘Christ, look at your toenails.’
‘I know, I haven’t had time.’
‘What’s going on?’
Squeezing out my hair under the dryer, I attempt to define it. ‘I want to have a nice day. Just . . . do what I want.’ What if I did what I wanted?
‘And you want to get arrested.’
‘For swimming? No, I want to slow down. You know, like that TV show where the reindeer just plods through the snow? I want everything to be . . . leisurely and simple. I want a leisurely, simple day. Just for a change.’
‘It’s going well so far.’
