“Do you work here?” I ask the heavily tattooed but otherwise cute young chap fiddling with his smartphone in the gym. He looks up.
“Yeah,” he says. That’s quite a tan he’s got: deep caramel. His hair is blond and brown spikes.
“Plenty of machines here,” I say. “Which is great. Shame there’s no bikes or…”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,” he says. “Look.”
He disappears through the looking glass. Following him into the mirror, it’s a little tunnel to another room. I’d never have spotted it. In this room there’s a running machine, a cross trainer and two bikes.
“We’re going to put some signs up,” gym cutie says.
“You need to,” I say, looking at the magazines on the windowsill. All South African editions of Glamour, Elle and Vogue dating from October 2014. Maybe the hotel owners are South African, I think.
“Yeah, people always say they can’t find the cardio equipment,” he says. “The signs are coming soon.”
Can’t quite place his accent: American from somewhere. Will ask him later. In a non-flirty way.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll be back after breakfast to use the bike then.”
“See you later,” he says, and winks.
I’m sure he’s like that with everyone, I think. It’s nice, actually, for once, not to feel the pressure to have a holiday romance. Gives me more time to rest and relax. The problem is: I miss my boyfriend. It’s very relaxing at this tiny boutique hotel though. Is nice.
Look who is on my bedroom wall (photo attached).
The others have gone for a walk to the beach so am just scribbling this whilst on the bike.
Going for a swim before lunch. And later cycling round the town on a real bike.
Happy Friday late morning everyone!
*1998. By Greg Moody. A cycling murder mystery.