Then let me guess, you dress up as a cop in some kind of budget Magic Mike show?’
He splutters a laugh.
‘What makes you say that?’ he asks, clearly equal parts offended and amused.
‘You’re not the only one who can make snap judgements. You’ve go to be one or the other – what are you, fifteen per cent body fat?’
‘Fourteen,’ he replies casually. ‘My goal is twelve, but have you tried the crème brûlée here?’
‘Are you always this arrogant?’ I ask.
‘Only when provoked,’ he laughs.
His cheeky smile infuriates me.
‘So, what?’
‘So, I watch the games on CCTV, keep an eye out for cheaters. I saw you, playing your weird hand with chips usually reserved for high rollers – it’s my job to keep an eye out for things like that. But I saw something else: I saw that you were upset. I saw you crying in the elevator, I saw you approaching the edge on the terrace, taking your heels off… It sounds stupid now,’ he laughs, ‘but I thought you were going to do something stupid. I was worried about you and couldn’t just leave you to it.’
‘Thanks,’ I tell him, finally softening. ‘I’m sorry I thought you were a stripper.’
‘I’m sorry I thought you were a prostitute,’ he laughs. ‘Kidding,’ he adds quickly, probably having seen the unimpressed look that is no doubt on my face.
I let out a little laugh. It’s hard not to be charmed by him, even when he’s being cheeky.
‘Just remember that whatever life throws at us, we can fix it,’ he tells me casually.
He’s over simplifying things, but I appreciate the thought, and there is some truth to it. Things are bad sometimes, but we deal with them.
‘Well, I’d better get back to work. I’m Jack, by the way,’ he tells me, offering me his hand to shake.
‘I’m Georgie,’ I reply. ‘I’ll be sure to remember your name for my Tripadvisor review – this hotel’s suicide prevention service is second to none.’
As our hands separate, Jack pulls a bouquet of artificial flowers seemingly from the thin air between our hands.
‘For the lady,’ he says jokily, adopting an English gentleman’s accent.
‘Wow…’ I laugh. ‘Aren’t you a cool guy.’
Jack wiggles his eyebrows at me.
‘I’ve always got something up my sleeve. See you around, Georgie.’
‘See you,’ I call after him.
‘I’ll probably see you first… because of all the cameras…’
I examine the artificial flowers he gave me – rainbow-coloured carnations. As flowers go, they’re pretty ugly, but I can’t help smiling at them. Jack hasn’t just given me flowers, he’s given me a tiny shred of hope in the biggest mess I’ve ever been in – a far more impressive trick than pulling flowers out of thin air, don’t you think?
Make-up is a wonderful thing. Not too long ago I watched a video of a Korean teenage boy doing make-up tutorials on YouTube. He gave himself a Kardashian-style makeover with nothing but a few beauty products. His lips were fuller, his cheeks perfectly contoured and his eyebrows seriously on fleek – it almost made me feel a little inadequate, that a boy could effortlessly wing his eyeliner, but whenever I try to do mine, in an attempt to make them even, I apply too much and end up looking like Amy Winehouse circa ‘Rehab’.
I might not be as skilled as that guy is, but I’ve done a pretty good job at patching up my face so I can go back out – yes, you heard me, I am taking myself out. As much as I want to curl up in a ball, drink myself stupid and cry myself to sleep, that’s not what I’m going to do. I’m going to keep a smile on my face, go and enjoy my freebie three-course dinner (for two) and I’m going to do it all without a man by my side.
It’s a nice idea, to think I can take a couple of hours off from my heartache, but considering it’s been on my mind every second of the day since it happened, I’m not going to hold my breath – but I am going to go for dinner.
I check that I’m ready in the floor-length mirror. My eyes look a little red still, but my make-up is fixed. Liv did a great job with my extensions; I’d believe this were my real hair, had I not just paid a lot for it and endured the lengthy process of having it fitted.
My dress is red, short, strapless and tight. My thighs are probably a bit too big to be so exposed, this strapless bra isn’t doing much to support my boobs and I feel like I hold my tummy in on autopilot when I suspect someone is looking at me. I’m probably only a few pounds overweight, but I just don’t think my short arse is carrying it well. Stepping back into my heels goes a long way to making my legs look longer and a bit slimmer, taking me from 5’5” to 5’9”, but they’re shoes, not liposuction.
My outfit is as on as it can be, my make-up is fixed, my hair is still salon-perfect and I’m ready to go.
I walk out of my room with my head held high and head for the lift, ready to negotiate the map of the massive Black Diamond Hotel. This place really does have everything under one roof, I’d much rather stay here than head home to Blackpool for a family wedding.
I trace the map with my finger, following the route I’ll need to take to get to the restaurant. Luckily it doesn’t seem too complicated. Despite the size of this place, I’m not going to be needing a compass.
I’ve got the lift to myself, so I adjust my outfit in the mirrored doors. Walking seems to have driven my dress up a little too high.
As I make the short trip from the lift to the restaurant, I take my time, careful not to stumble over in my high heels or pop out of my dress, or anything else that might embarrass me. Between flashing the porter and Jack thinking I was a prostitute who was going to jump off the roof, I think I’ve felt as mortified as I can possibly feel today.
Tottering through the bar in my heels, the muscular figure of a man propping up the bar catches my eye.
‘Jack?’
The man turns around.
‘Georgie, hey. Buy you a drink?’ he asks.
‘What’s that you’re drinking?’ I ask. I didn’t expect to see him ever again – let alone so soon.
‘Bourbon,’ he replies, raising his glass. ‘Want one?’
I scrunch my nose as I take a seat on the stool next to him. It doesn’t seem like this is his first drink, and – I know I don’t know the man – but he doesn’t seem himself.
‘Not really a fan,’ I tell him. ‘I’d love a Sea Breeze, though, please,’ I tell the barman.
Jack
