days off in exchange. Plus, it means I don’t have to go to Waves next week,” Manuela explained. She’ d been assigned Nancy’s duties — orientation and excursion sales — at the five-star fifteen kilometres away. We all filled in when needed at our sister resorts, where smaller numbers of Oceana guests stayed. But we preferred Atlantis, where our shifts passed more quickly.
“Really? Is she with Rhion today?” Blythe had met the Iowan surfer five months earlier in the lineup at Chito’s Juice Bar in La Crucecita. I didn’t think much of him; the few times we’ d met, he’ d made eye contact with my breasts.
In the beginning, Blythe shared details about her love life on an almost daily basis, and prodded me to reciprocate with news about mine, Come on, tell me everything! But I’d stopped doing that. Once, over two years earlier, I’d told her about a tourist I’d slept with, only to find out that my confession had circulated to the other tour reps, who teased me about it the following day. She apologized, but I remained wary around her ever since, which probably wasn’t fair. When I began to exclusively hook up with couples, I’d often confess a false crush on a resort worker to draw Blythe off my trail. I avoided bringing anyone back to my room. It wasn’t practical, anyway — my dates tended to have their own king-size beds, which worked better when there were three bodies and six legs.
“They’re going to a beach somewhere down the coast. She was excited. I guess things are getting serious between them?” Manuela asked.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
Blythe had been left at the altar just before Huatulco. She told me this over drinks early on in our contract, her blue eyes growing wet as they often did when she grappled with big emotions. Three hundred guests witnessed her humiliation from the church pews. Like a convert to a new religion, Blythe was almost evangelical about the wonders of casual relationships. She spoke of her ability to separate emotions from sex as though it were a badge of honour she’ d pinned to her blouse. She lectured me about how to “turn off the girl-brain” and said she didn’t care that Rhion planned to return to the U.S. in two months.
“¿Verdad?” Manuela asked. “Come on, tell me what you know!”
“Don’t repeat this,” I said with only a minor twinge of guilt, “I heard her yell, ‘you cold-hearted asshole’ last week. And then there was the sound of a door slamming and Rhion’s flip-flops slapping down the corridor. And more yelling yesterday.”
“Veeerrry interesting.” Manuela stroked her chin.
“Yes. I asked her about it a few days ago, you know, to see if she was all right, but she denied anything was wrong.” Blythe’s eyes had been red, her skin pale and without its usual layer of foundation and blush. I’d felt like hugging her, but held back.
“Hmmm. And how are you today? You look tired.” Manuela’s eyes were wells of sympathy. She wore a new shade of eyeshadow, one that perfectly matched Oceana’s turquoise logo.
“Yeah, I slept badly last night.” I pushed back my shoulders and rubbed my eyes. “Where is everyone? It seems so quiet today.”
“You sent off two busloads on the croc trip this morning. And well,” she said, pointing to the recreation area, “Cardio Pump started a minute ago.” The class was offered at 10:00 a.m. and new guests flocked to the Sunday class, full of good intentions. By Tuesday, Maria, the instructor, would be grumbling about her dwindling numbers. She trolled the beach distributing brochures that extolled: IT’S NOT EXERCISE, IT’S A PARTY!
“Right. And after that is the first Spanish class.” I grinned at Manuela.
“They’ll all be saying, ‘olé Manuela, co-mo est-as’ afterward,” she said, with a clenched jaw.
“And they’ll feel so proud of themselves until you unceremoniously correct their errors. Like you do mine.”
“Escucha, I need a little fun. Hey, but you could teach that class, if you were not so shy and practised more with us. Ameera. Habla español,” Manuela teased.
“Si. Si. Una cerveza, por favor.” I rested my forehead against the desk.
“Aha, so it is a hangover then. La cruda, en español. Do we already have a Word of the Week?” Manuela poked my shoulder with a sharp purple fingernail. “So. Who did you go out with last night?”
“Si, la cruda. I stayed here, had a few drinks with las turistas at the bar.” Inside their room, Serena had pulled me close, her kiss surprisingly hard, like a man’s. But her skin was soft, her scent musky like sandalwood. Sebastiano closed in behind me, his arms encircling us, his belt buckle hard against the small of my back.
“Los turistas. Turistas is masculine,” Manuela corrected.
“Right, los turistas.” I knew that.
“I don’t understand why you party with them! We spend the whole day dealing with their stupid problems. ‘I ordered an ocean view room, but I can only see a partial ocean view!’ Manuela drawled in her best Canadian accent, which sounded Bostonion to me.
“I know, I know. But it’s easier than going all the way to town for a drink.”
“‘Why doesn’t everyone here speak English!’ ‘I want a king-size bed!’” Manuela mock-whined.
“They’re not so bad after they’ve had a couple of drinks. They become more human with booze.” I laughed and Manuela snorted. “But I should have paced myself better.”
The Cardio Pump ladies line-danced in the morning sunshine. Like flags on a windy day, their pale arms jerked to the rhythms of a salsa song. I considered how my usual vigilance seemed to be fraying. I’d gotten drunk with strangers and probably hadn’t been careful enough about hiding my flirtation at the bar, even after receiving Anita’s email the day before. And there had been other small, emotional accidents; I had a vague memory of disclosing too many personal details to Serena and Sebastiano and then I’d fallen asleep in their room.
Manuela sighed and shook her head, as though concurring with my silent thoughts. I turned my attention to the computer and saw that Anita had finally sent a reply.
Dear Ameera,
Thanks for your e-mail. I’ll print our correspondence and file it along with the complaint.
Best,
Anita
I sighed, long and loud, troubling over the terse brevity of the message. Was Anita truly bothered by the complaint, or had she just been in a hurry? Maybe I was reading too much into it.
“¿Qué pasó? Are you okay?” Manuela asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just exhausted.” I stood and tidied the information rack, making a show of looking industrious. I inhaled deeply, arranging the brochures into symmetrical rows.
It will be fine.
“Did you say something?” I turned to Manuela.
“No, I was humming along to the music.”
Once again the words rustled through my mind. It will be fine.
I briefly considered telling Manuela about the online complaint. She was my
