you’ll have to stick to the spectating. Shame you
couldn’t enter the amateur competition – with those handicaps you’d have been in with a good shot. But all the places have gone, sadly.’
Anisha scrunches up her nose. ‘Ooh, that
is
a shame, isn’t it?’
Fair play to Anisha, the hotel is nothing less than spectacular. That evening, I’m lounging on a plush Bedouin-style sofa overlooking a vast infinity pool as darkness
descends on the resort and a constellation of palm trees rustles in the breeze.
There’s a family on an adjacent table that look straight out of a Boden catalogue (complete with perfect, dimple-cheeked children) and next to them, several groups of guys about our age
– late twenties – with the clear potential to become rowdier as the night wears on.
The lights from the pool bar twinkle as I sip my fifth glass of Cava since dinner (and I’m not normally a big drinker), which consisted of the most delectable sequence of dishes to ever
pass my lips.
The evening, in short, should be perfect. But I’m preoccupied.
‘
Handicaps are numbers that indicate roughly how close to par a player is expected to shoot in a given round
,’ I read from my phone to Anisha in a hushed whisper. ‘
A
player’s handicap score is found by scoring his or her last twenty rounds individually, then averaging the ten best and multiplying by point nine-six. For your handicap strokes from a single
round, consult the scorecard and find the course slope and rating from the tees played. Subtract the rating from the score, divide by the slope and multiply by one hundred and thirteen
.’
I look up. ‘I need to go and lie down in a dark room.’
Anisha swallows a mouthful of her drink. ‘You’re getting awfully wound up about all this. You know, I feel so much more relaxed about everything since I met Adam. He brings out the
best in me.’
Anisha met
The One
about two months ago – a newly qualified junior doctor who’d moved into the apartment above hers and who would no doubt have been on this trip in my place
had he not been forced to work this week. It’s lovely to see her so happy; she’s never come close to finding someone before now. But I must admit, her unrestrained state of infatuation
does serve as a constant reminder of how very
single
I feel at the moment.
I can’t deny that after I’d done my crying when my long-term boyfriend Joel and I split up nearly a year ago, a bit of me enjoyed the novelty of being on my own. But like all
novelties, it’s started to wear off. And while I’m not
looking
– you never find someone when you’re
looking
– I can’t help feeling that
something’s absent from my life right now.
I don’t know if it’s necessarily love.
But whatever it is consists of a big, unruly list of things I miss: curling my arm round someone in bed . . . talking long into the night . . . having sweet-dirty thoughts about a man
there’s a vague possibility of re-enacting them with (because I’ve given up on Ryan Gosling).
‘You need to relax, Sophie,’ Anisha tells me, breaking my train of thought. ‘That’s what we’re here for.’
‘How can I relax when I’m supposed to be playing golf tomorrow at a level that appears to be extremely high, when in reality I wouldn’t know one end of a club from my elbow? Or
arse. Oh, you know what I mean. Why did you say we had handicaps of six and seven anyway? Couldn’t you have said something less impressive?’
‘I had no idea they were impressive at the time – I just blurted two numbers out to Nigel. I was thinking on my feet. Anyway, don’t worry . . . I’ve got it all sussed
out.’ She leans in drunkenly, taps her nose and winks – hoping, I can only presume, to imbue a sense of confidence.
‘Got all what sussed out?’
She leans back with a satisfied smile. ‘We don’t have to play golf tomorrow, Sophie. We’ll be just fine.’
‘But I thought—’
‘Leave it to me. You don’t need to
couldn’t enter the amateur competition – with those handicaps you’d have been in with a good shot. But all the places have gone, sadly.’
Anisha scrunches up her nose. ‘Ooh, that
is
a shame, isn’t it?’
Fair play to Anisha, the hotel is nothing less than spectacular. That evening, I’m lounging on a plush Bedouin-style sofa overlooking a vast infinity pool as darkness
descends on the resort and a constellation of palm trees rustles in the breeze.
There’s a family on an adjacent table that look straight out of a Boden catalogue (complete with perfect, dimple-cheeked children) and next to them, several groups of guys about our age
– late twenties – with the clear potential to become rowdier as the night wears on.
The lights from the pool bar twinkle as I sip my fifth glass of Cava since dinner (and I’m not normally a big drinker), which consisted of the most delectable sequence of dishes to ever
pass my lips.
The evening, in short, should be perfect. But I’m preoccupied.
‘
Handicaps are numbers that indicate roughly how close to par a player is expected to shoot in a given round
,’ I read from my phone to Anisha in a hushed whisper. ‘
A
player’s handicap score is found by scoring his or her last twenty rounds individually, then averaging the ten best and multiplying by point nine-six. For your handicap strokes from a single
round, consult the scorecard and find the course slope and rating from the tees played. Subtract the rating from the score, divide by the slope and multiply by one hundred and thirteen
.’
I look up. ‘I need to go and lie down in a dark room.’
Anisha swallows a mouthful of her drink. ‘You’re getting awfully wound up about all this. You know, I feel so much more relaxed about everything since I met Adam. He brings out the
best in me.’
Anisha met
The One
about two months ago – a newly qualified junior doctor who’d moved into the apartment above hers and who would no doubt have been on this trip in my place
had he not been forced to work this week. It’s lovely to see her so happy; she’s never come close to finding someone before now. But I must admit, her unrestrained state of infatuation
does serve as a constant reminder of how very
single
I feel at the moment.
I can’t deny that after I’d done my crying when my long-term boyfriend Joel and I split up nearly a year ago, a bit of me enjoyed the novelty of being on my own. But like all
novelties, it’s started to wear off. And while I’m not
looking
– you never find someone when you’re
looking
– I can’t help feeling that
something’s absent from my life right now.
I don’t know if it’s necessarily love.
But whatever it is consists of a big, unruly list of things I miss: curling my arm round someone in bed . . . talking long into the night . . . having sweet-dirty thoughts about a man
there’s a vague possibility of re-enacting them with (because I’ve given up on Ryan Gosling).
‘You need to relax, Sophie,’ Anisha tells me, breaking my train of thought. ‘That’s what we’re here for.’
‘How can I relax when I’m supposed to be playing golf tomorrow at a level that appears to be extremely high, when in reality I wouldn’t know one end of a club from my elbow? Or
arse. Oh, you know what I mean. Why did you say we had handicaps of six and seven anyway? Couldn’t you have said something less impressive?’
‘I had no idea they were impressive at the time – I just blurted two numbers out to Nigel. I was thinking on my feet. Anyway, don’t worry . . . I’ve got it all sussed
out.’ She leans in drunkenly, taps her nose and winks – hoping, I can only presume, to imbue a sense of confidence.
‘Got all what sussed out?’
She leans back with a satisfied smile. ‘We don’t have to play golf tomorrow, Sophie. We’ll be just fine.’
‘But I thought—’
‘Leave it to me. You don’t need to
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