Sun, Sand & Sequins

“Are you OK, Coleen?” Em smirked.

“Fine,” I muttered, blushing even harder than before.

“…very quiet rooms at the back,” Mr Santos was saying to Mum, opening the bedroom door. “Please let us know if there are any problems. This is for your girls.” And he gave this lovely little bow, letting me and Em in and taking Mum and Dad to the next door along.

The room was whitewashed, with pale yellow blankets on the beds and slatted wooden shutters on the window. João put our suitcases on the waxed wooden floor. “Nice bag,” he grinned as he set the pink sparkly monster down. He spoke great English, with this adorable accent. “It’s yours?” he asked, raising his eyebrows at Em.

“As if!” Em said, looking offended. “It’s my sister Coleen’s.”

“Cheers, Em,” I muttered, snatching up my sparkly case as João left the room. “Now he thinks I’m a weird pink-suitcase freak as well as a clumsy, blushing idiot.”

“Chill out, Coleen,” Em said, rolling her eyes at me. She flipped her suitcase over, tipped out its pathetic contents and shoved everything into a drawer. “Unpacked,” she announced, slinging her case under her bed and flopping down with her football magazine.

I stared at the contents of the pink suitcase. For a minute I couldn’t work out what I was looking at.

“This isn’t mine,” I said at last, pulling out a floaty white dress and holding it up in confusion. “What…”

I upended the case over my bed. A whole bunch of stuff fell out that I’d never seen before. “I don’t believe it!” I wailed, rifling through everything. “Where are my sequinned sandals? Where’s my new swimsuit?” It was the cutest swimsuit you ever saw, blue with red and white spots and this little white frill around the legs that was totally nautical and now.

“Hey,” said Em, glancing up from her magazine. “What are the chances of two pink-suitcase freaks sharing the same plane today?”

“Mum!” I went running down the corridor to share my suitcase disaster. “I’ve got the wrong…”

Mum and Dad were standing in their room arguing. Mum was holding a threadbare towel that looked as if it had seen better days.

“…ever so polite and I know it’s clean and everything,” Mum was saying, “but you don’t expect holes in towels, do you? You need to get on to our rep and insist on changing hotels, Kieran.”

“You can’t change hotels now,” I said, stopping in their doorway as a wave of dismay flooded through me. “They’re ever so nice, Mum. What will they think?”

“I’m sorry, Coleen,” Mum said. “I know Mr Santos and his family have been very welcoming, but this is our holiday and I expect certain standards.” She held up the towel between her fingers. “I don’t mean to be unkind, but I wouldn’t dry our dishes with this.”

Dad looked harassed. “I think we should give it a go tonight, Trish,” he said. “We’re all tired and I need a shower. Let’s give it a chance, and if you’re still not happy in the morning, I’ll talk to the rep about moving. OK?”

Mum sat down on the bed with a sigh as Dad disappeared into the tiny little en-suite bathroom and shut the door.

“Mum,” I said, remembering about my suitcase fiasco. “I’ve got the wrong bag. There’s all this gear I’ve never seen before. What am I going to do?”

Mum sighed and shook her head. “Whatever next? I don’t know, Coleen,” she said. “Is there a name on the suitcase?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t put my name on mine either,” I confessed.

Mum did this hard-breathing thing through her nose, which is always a sign that she’s about to lose it. “Your dad can report it to the rep and she can try and track down your bag,” she said. “But in the meantime, you’ll just have to wear what you’re wearing right now.”

“Every day?” I said, aghast. I loved what I had on: hot pink cropped trousers, a little skirt over the top, a grey hoodie with pink piping around the edge, a white T-shirt over a yellow vest and white Converse trainers. And I did have that extra T-shirt and a few accessories in my hand luggage. But as anyone knows, even the best clothes get seriously dull after a couple of days. “Mum—”

“It’s either that or wear this other person’s clothes,” Mum snapped. “Now, I’ve got a headache, Coleen. Go and see what Em’s up to. When your dad’s finished in the shower, we’ll go and find something to eat, OK?”

I trailed back to our room, telling myself that the rep would find my bag before the end of the week. Trying really hard not to cry as I wondered if I’d ever see my favourite sandals again, I stared at the mystery person’s luggage on my bed. Then I started sorting it out. White dress, white shorts, green T-shirt with a hideous logo on the front. Grey leggings. Grey leggings, on a summer holiday? I packed it all away again and slammed the suitcase shut. There was no way I was wearing that lot.

Great. Stuck in one style for my entire holiday. What would João think when he saw me looking exactly the same every single day?

Me and Em both leaped out of our skins as we heard Dad yell: “OWWW!”

“What happened?” Em demanded, dashing down the corridor and charging into Mum and Dad’s room with me hot on her heels. “Did you find a dead mouse?”

Dad was standing in the middle of the room, dripping wet and wrapped in a towel that looked even more threadbare than the one Mum had been waving around. In his hand was something that looked suspiciously like a shower tap. There was shampoo still in his hair, sticking up in white bubbly clumps.

“It came off in my hand,” he said. “The shower went scalding hot and there was nothing I could do about it!”

Mum snatched the tap off Dad. “That’s the final straw, Kieran,” she said. “We have to take this up with Mr Santos and then move hotels. Before tonight, if possible. Em? Coleen? I hope you haven’t unpacked yet?”

“I haven’t got anything to unpack, have I?” I pointed out grumpily. I couldn’t believe how badly this holiday was turning out. Not only had I lost my suitcase, but we would leave the Hotel Paraíso forever and I’d never see João again. And even if we did see him, he wouldn’t speak to us because we’d walked out of his hotel. And I was stuck in one pair of trousers all week. Life just wasn’t fair.

Mum looked like a bull on the rampage. As Dad struggled to rub the rest of the shampoo out of his hair with the threadbare towel, me and Em followed Mum down the stairs.

“Mr Santos,” said Mum, banging the shower tap down on the reception desk. “We’ve got a serious problem with our shower.”

Mr Santos’s smile wavered at the edges. “I’m so very sorry, Senhora,” he said, looking flustered as he took the tap off Mum. He turned and rattled something off in very fast Portuguese at his wife, who dashed for the telephone.

Mum was shaking her head. “I’m very sorry too,” she said, “but we can’t stay here, Mr Santos. Broken taps, dreadful towels. This isn’t what we were expecting. I think it’s best if we leave.”

Mr Santos’s moustache quivered. He looked like he was about to cry. “Please, Senhora,” he said, “my cousin, he is a plumber. My wife is calling him now. We will fix your shower imediatamente. There will be new towels in your room tonight. And please, with our apologies, you must come for dinner at our restaurant tonight, free of charge.”

“Well…” Mum wavered. She’s always a sucker where food is concerned.

“My wife, she makes the best bacalhau in Castelo do Sol,” Mr Santos said, taking Mum’s hand. “You will taste it tonight.”

João appeared at Mr Santos’s side, looking nearly as worried as his dad. I so wanted to see his gorgeous white smile again.

“Let’s stay, Mum,” I begged. “Mr Santos is doing his best to help us.”

“I don’t know, Coleen…” Mum began.

“What’s bacalhau?” Em asked.

“Codfish,” said Mr Santos.

“Like cod and chips?” Em said, brightening. Cod and chips was her favourite.

“More like your fish pie, maybe,” Mr Santos explained.

Em beamed. Fish pie was her next favourite.

“You will fix the shower for us this afternoon?” Mum checked.

“Claro que sim,” Mr Santos nodded, shaking her hand vigorously. “For sure. And the towels too. Tonight, eight o’clock, you will eat for free in our restaurant. You will not regret it, Senhora.”

“Right,” said Mum, making a decision with the deepest sigh you ever heard. “We’ll stay tonight. But if things don’t improve, Mr Santos, we are leaving in the morning.”