of taxi drivers, chauffeurs and holiday reps, I spot a sign with our names on it. It’s upside down.
‘The travel company is having a push on attracting
serious
golfers,’ Anisha continues, ‘but the only person who’s ever been near a set of clubs in our office is
Nigel, my boss, and it’s his wedding anniversary. He was thinking of turning it down altogether until I told him about my enthusiasm for the sport.’
‘A sport you’ve
never
played . . .’
‘Keep your voice down,’ she hisses as we approach our sign. ‘It’s only a formality, but for the purposes of the next four days, you have a handicap of six.’
Panic rises up in me. ‘I have
no idea
what that means!’
‘You’ll be fine,’ she whispers through a demented smile. ‘Hello!’
The guy with the upside-down sign has that
tall-dark-handsome
vibe going on, the kind that’s made me question my intelligence on occasions in the past. His clothes are the
definition of Mediterranean smart-casual: stone-coloured Armani jeans, white T-shirt against tanned arms. Very tanned arms.
When he smiles it’s wide and warm and a little bit heart-stopping, so much so that I have to remind myself that this is what happened the first time I set eyes on Daniel Madden. And Miles
Bowden-Smith. And Charlie Welsh. And look where they left me: broken-hearted, stripped of all dignity and, in Charlie Welsh’s case, with a smashed pencil case. (It was in primary school. I
stamped on it in a huff when he went off with Diane Little. I’ve managed to refrain from similar outbursts since, despite repeated provocation.)
‘You must be Anisha – and Sophie.’ We shake hands. ‘I’m James. I look after marketing for the hotel. And I’m your chauffeur for today.’
I’d assumed until he opened his mouth that he was Spanish, but it’s clear he’s British, even if I couldn’t place the accent beyond that. We smile and nod and note how
warm it is and how pleasant our flight was, at which point he invites us to follow him to the car park.
He pops open the boot of an imposing white 4x4 and hesitates. ‘I’ve just realised you haven’t got your clubs. Did you forget to collect them from the carousel?’
‘Ah, well . . .’ begins Anisha, ‘one of the women I was liaising with from the tour company suggested it’d be better to hire clubs while we’re here. They said
it’d be easier, and there’d be less of a risk of loss or damage to our own.’
‘Oh.’ He raises his eyebrows and my heart starts to pump alarmingly fast. ‘Okay, I’m sure I can sort that.’
‘Would’ve been nice if they’d told you, eh?’ she adds, rolling her eyes theatrically as I make a mental note to remind her when to stop talking.
He heaves our bags into the boot as Anisha slides into the passenger seat, while I crawl into the back, hoping to hide from any golfing questions. It’s a strategy that proves hopelessly
ineffective.
‘You’ve got handicaps of six and seven I believe,’ he says, gripping the steering wheel as we speed along the motorway.
‘That’s right,’ I reply decisively, in the absence of a response from Anisha.
‘Very impressive.’
I hesitate. ‘Is it?’
He laughs, as if I’m being modest, not just befuddled.
‘So the plan is for you to check into the hotel this afternoon. We’ve booked dinner for you in the restaurant this evening, then tomorrow your tee time is at twenty past nine. I can
meet you in reception at eight forty-five and take you to the pro shop myself to make sure you’re all set.’
‘Fab!’ Anisha says.
‘Good. I think you’ll love the course. It’s very scenic – and challenging. We’ve booked you in for every morning of your trip, except Friday, when the Palermo Cup
takes place.’
‘Oh yes, the Palermo Cup,’ I nod, having apparently developed Golfing Tourette’s.
‘Hosting the tournament is a real coup for the resort. It attracts golfers from all over the world. So on that day, unfortunately,
‘The travel company is having a push on attracting
serious
golfers,’ Anisha continues, ‘but the only person who’s ever been near a set of clubs in our office is
Nigel, my boss, and it’s his wedding anniversary. He was thinking of turning it down altogether until I told him about my enthusiasm for the sport.’
‘A sport you’ve
never
played . . .’
‘Keep your voice down,’ she hisses as we approach our sign. ‘It’s only a formality, but for the purposes of the next four days, you have a handicap of six.’
Panic rises up in me. ‘I have
no idea
what that means!’
‘You’ll be fine,’ she whispers through a demented smile. ‘Hello!’
The guy with the upside-down sign has that
tall-dark-handsome
vibe going on, the kind that’s made me question my intelligence on occasions in the past. His clothes are the
definition of Mediterranean smart-casual: stone-coloured Armani jeans, white T-shirt against tanned arms. Very tanned arms.
When he smiles it’s wide and warm and a little bit heart-stopping, so much so that I have to remind myself that this is what happened the first time I set eyes on Daniel Madden. And Miles
Bowden-Smith. And Charlie Welsh. And look where they left me: broken-hearted, stripped of all dignity and, in Charlie Welsh’s case, with a smashed pencil case. (It was in primary school. I
stamped on it in a huff when he went off with Diane Little. I’ve managed to refrain from similar outbursts since, despite repeated provocation.)
‘You must be Anisha – and Sophie.’ We shake hands. ‘I’m James. I look after marketing for the hotel. And I’m your chauffeur for today.’
I’d assumed until he opened his mouth that he was Spanish, but it’s clear he’s British, even if I couldn’t place the accent beyond that. We smile and nod and note how
warm it is and how pleasant our flight was, at which point he invites us to follow him to the car park.
He pops open the boot of an imposing white 4x4 and hesitates. ‘I’ve just realised you haven’t got your clubs. Did you forget to collect them from the carousel?’
‘Ah, well . . .’ begins Anisha, ‘one of the women I was liaising with from the tour company suggested it’d be better to hire clubs while we’re here. They said
it’d be easier, and there’d be less of a risk of loss or damage to our own.’
‘Oh.’ He raises his eyebrows and my heart starts to pump alarmingly fast. ‘Okay, I’m sure I can sort that.’
‘Would’ve been nice if they’d told you, eh?’ she adds, rolling her eyes theatrically as I make a mental note to remind her when to stop talking.
He heaves our bags into the boot as Anisha slides into the passenger seat, while I crawl into the back, hoping to hide from any golfing questions. It’s a strategy that proves hopelessly
ineffective.
‘You’ve got handicaps of six and seven I believe,’ he says, gripping the steering wheel as we speed along the motorway.
‘That’s right,’ I reply decisively, in the absence of a response from Anisha.
‘Very impressive.’
I hesitate. ‘Is it?’
He laughs, as if I’m being modest, not just befuddled.
‘So the plan is for you to check into the hotel this afternoon. We’ve booked dinner for you in the restaurant this evening, then tomorrow your tee time is at twenty past nine. I can
meet you in reception at eight forty-five and take you to the pro shop myself to make sure you’re all set.’
‘Fab!’ Anisha says.
‘Good. I think you’ll love the course. It’s very scenic – and challenging. We’ve booked you in for every morning of your trip, except Friday, when the Palermo Cup
takes place.’
‘Oh yes, the Palermo Cup,’ I nod, having apparently developed Golfing Tourette’s.
‘Hosting the tournament is a real coup for the resort. It attracts golfers from all over the world. So on that day, unfortunately,
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