Sun Sand & Sequins Read online

  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.”

  I almost cheered and hugged her on the spot. We were staying! Well – for now at least…

  Three

  Once Dad had got the soap out of his hair in mine and Em’s shower, we all got ready for the beach. “What am I going to wear for swimming?” I asked Mum as we left our keys with a very relieved Mr Santos and headed down the dusty street towards the sea. I’d taken off my hoodie, my overskirt and my white T-shirt, and with my yellow vest and pink cropped trousers I almost felt like I was in a new outfit.

  “We’ll buy you something to swim in, love,” Mum said, sounding mellow as the lovely sun warmed her shoulders. “This place looks like it might have some nice shops.”

  It did. Out on the seafront, rows of little boutiques faced the beach with the most adorable – and expensive – beach outfits you ever saw. For visitors with a little less cash, there were kaftans and bikinis, sunhats and flip-flops all lined along the front, where colourful gypsy ladies had set up market stalls while their husbands tipped black hats over their eyes and snoozed away in the sun. I picked out a brown and white striped swimsuit and a brown straw hat, which I clamped straight on to my head.

  Maybe losing my luggage wasn’t such a bad thing after all, I mused happily as we headed down on to the sand. Kicking off my trainers, I tied the laces together and slung them around my neck, loving the feeling of the boiling hot sand between my toes.

  We found a kiosk that sold hot little beefsteaks in a bun, kind of like a hamburger but chewier. With lots of ketchup and mustard, they filled us up perfectly, leaving just enough room for an ice cream. Em and I laughed ourselves sick at the sight of a holey yellow ice cream called a “Cheesy” on the side of the kiosk. Sadly they didn’t have any in the freezer!

  Mum and Dad found a great little spot by one of the big rock formations, where there was just enough shade for all of us when the sun got too strong. And after slathering ourselves with suncream, we all tried a bit of paddling. The water was colder than I was expecting, but after the heat of the sand it was completely gorgeous.

  “Psst!” Em nudged me as I snoozed happily underneath my new brown hat. “Look who’s over there!”

  I pushed my hat up with one thumb and stared across at where a game of beach football was taking place on a specially laid-out pitch, with seats running around the sides. Nipping in and out of a bunch of shouting, laughing lads was João Santos.

  Em jumped up.

  “Where are you going?” I said in alarm, although I already knew the answer.

  “To play football with João, of course,” Em said over her shoulder. “Mum? Dad? Can I go?”

  Our folks gave a couple of sleepy grunts that sounded like yes.

  “Watch out for Em, will you Coleen love?” Mum mumbled, opening one eye to check where the game was taking place before closing it again.

  “You can’t interrupt their game, Em,” I warned as I got to my
feet.

  “Of course I can,” Em said. “Anyway, their right wing is rubbish. I can do better than that.”

  When Em gets an idea in her head, she’s like a little bulldozer, knocking down everything in her path to get where she wants to go. And while she’s a brilliant right wing for Hartley Juniors, our local under-eights football team, the game she was marching towards was made up of lads five years older than her and, in some cases, twice as tall.

  “Em!” I hissed, struggling through the hot, slippery sand after her. “Don’t barge in! You’ll make me look stupid!”

  “You won’t look stupid,” Em said. “How many of these lads have ever seen a girl play like I can? And you’re my sister, so you’ll be dead popular.”

  It’s safe to say that among all the seven-year-old girls that I’ve ever met, Em’s unique. Even when she says stuff like that, it doesn’t come out as boasting. It just comes out like it’s true. Which it usually is. Resigned to the fact that this was about to get embarrassing, I stopped at the edge of the game and watched as Em jumped over the pitch-side seats and headed towards João like a little whirlwind of tangled brown hair and ancient purple swimming cozzie.

  “Hi,” she announced, just as João was about to kick the ball to one of his mates.

  The other lads started laughing and whistling as João mis-kicked. To João’s credit, he didn’t turn all nasty on Em for making him look silly. Instead he picked up the ball and smiled at her. “Hi. Emma, yes?” he said.

  “Call me Em,” she said, taking the ball out of João’s hand and lining it up efficiently on the sand. “And you got the side-spin all wrong on that kick. You should’ve done it like this.”

  She demonstrated. The ball soared off the sand and landed smack in the opposite goal, leaving the tall, spotty goalie looking totally dumbfounded.

  All the lads suddenly clustered around Em like she was some sort of miracle that had appeared out of nowhere.

  “Where do you learn to kick that way?”

  “Girls, they play football in England?”

  João glanced around at me as Em got chatting to the rest of the lads. I walked as casually as I could on to the pitch.

  “Hiya,” I said. Stay cool, I told myself firmly as I felt myself wobble. “Sorry about my sister. She’s football crazy.”

  “She’s crazy good,” João said admiringly. “She has maybe just eight years?”

  My stomach was in danger of bouncing right out of my mouth.

  “She’s seven,” I said. “And totally mad.”

  João laughed. “I can see,” he said. “You play football?”

  I shook my head. “Fashion and music’s more my line,” I confessed.

  “You like surfing?” João asked.

  I was surprised at the question. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never tried it.” I glanced out at the sea, where a line of surfers bobbed among the waves. It looked pretty fun.

  The game was starting again, this time with Em right in the middle of it all.

  “I’m glad that you are staying,” said João to me. He gave me this cute little half-smile, his dark brown eyes meeting mine for what felt like ages. Then he jogged back to rejoin the game.

  I sat down on one of the seats beside the little pitch and hugged my knees close to my chest. Something inside me felt like it was about to explode, but in the nicest way you can imagine. I think João liked me!

  I watched the rest of the game in daydreaming heaven.

  “João’s totally brilliant,” Em announced, flopping down on the seat beside me after nearly an hour of running about. “I wish he could come and live in England and play football with me all day long.”

  João and the rest of the lads came and sat with us. A couple of them gave Em high fives.

  “This is Zeca, this is Carlos, this is Paulo and this is Nuno.” Em introduced everyone, waving her hand around the footballing gang. “Guys, this is my sister Coleen.”

  Now I knew what Em meant about her making me popular. The lads were all puffed out from their footie and dead interested in us and England.

  “I want live in England,” said Nuno, who looked a couple of years younger than the rest of the lads.

  “I think the weather in Hartley would disappoint you,” I joked. “And we don’t have a beach like this on our doorstep.”

  “Is not so good here either,” said Zeca, the tall spotty lad who’d been in goal. “No money.”

  The others murmured agreement.

  “What?” I said in surprise. I glanced back at the huge, gleaming hotels on the seafront. “What about those hotels? And all those shops?”

  João looked serious. “We don’t like these hotels so much,” he said. “They make persons like my father lose his business. All the tourists and their money go to the big hotels and not to us. Things were different before they came to Castelo do Sol. It is harder now.”

  I felt a wave of shame as I remembered how excited we had been when we saw the big hotels on the waterfront, and how disappointed we’d felt on seeing Hotel Paraíso. “Broken taps and old towels,” I said as I understood.

  João made a face. “Broken taps, exacto,” he nodded.

  Dad appeared at the side of the pitch. “Game over, is it?” he asked, looking disappointed.

  “Too late, Dad,” said Em. “Bad luck. Tomorrow, guys, yeah?” she said to the footballers. “And can my dad play next time?”

  It was amazing the way my little sister had all these big lads in the palm of her hand. Nodding and agreeing enthusiastically, they all clapped Em on the shoulder and ruffled her hair. Then they nodded at me and shook Dad’s hand before heading away from the pitch and back to their homes.

  “Nice lads,” Dad commented as we all walked back to where Mum was still sunbathing by the big rock. The tide was coming in now, and it wouldn’t be long before Mum’s towel got a soaking. “Nice place, too. I’m so relaxed, I can hardly believe it was only this morning we were at home.”

  “Brilliant place,” Em agreed, clinging on to Dad’s hand. “Can we always come here on holiday, Dad?”

  I glanced over to where I could still just see João jogging up the beach and back towards the Hotel Paraíso. It was time to rev up my brain and figure out a way of making some extra money for the Hotel Paraíso so that Mr Santos could get new taps instead of always having to fix up the old ones. And I admit it – I also wanted João to smile at me again, just the way he’d smiled on the pitch and made my chest go all tight and brilliant.

  Four

  The sun was starting to dip down behind the edge of the cliffs when we finally dragged ourselves away from the beach. The tide had come in almost as far as the beach-football pitch, and was now on the way out again. It left behind these stretches of perfectly smooth sand which made me want to run out and leave my footprints all over it. The tide thing was different from Spain, where we’d been before.

  Back at the hotel, Mr Santos looked delighted to see us again. “Senhor! Senhora!” he cried. “And the senhoritas too! You have a good time on our beautiful beach? João tells me that your young girl plays football like a champion.”

  Dad beamed. He coaches Em’s team back in Hartley, so anyone with a good word about Em’s footie skills is a mate for life. “She’s our champion all right,” he said, unable to resist a little boast. “Top goal scorer for Hartley Juniors this season.”

  Mr Santos whistled. The two men launched into a football chat right there and then, with Em joining in for all she was worth. To my delight, João popped out from the back room and joined in the chat as well, his hair all slicked back from a shower. He darted these little looks at me every now and then.

  “Football,” said Mum, shaking her head as we listened to them going on about leagues and penalties and the European Champions League. “It’s a whole language of its own. Come on, love,” she said to me. “Let’s go and get changed.”

  The tap was back on in Mum and Dad’s bathroom, and newer-looking towels had been laid out o
n everyone’s beds. Mum and I took turns in the shower, chatting about girl stuff.

  “João seems like a nice lad,” said Mum, rubbing her hair dry as I hopped in the shower after her.

  I turned the tap on and tilted my blushing face up to the hot jet of water. “He’s all right,” I mumbled.

  “He seems to like you,” Mum said.

  “You think?” I poked my head out around the shower curtain, unable to resist asking.

  Mum just smiled at me. “So,” she said, changing the subject, “what are you going to wear then?”

  “Well, there’s the pink trousers, the pink trousers or the pink trousers,” I said, feeling both relieved and disappointed that we weren’t talking about João any more as I wrapped myself up in my new towel.

  “Come on, my little fashion queen!” Mum said, putting on a nice pair of white jeans and a pale blue top that matched her eyes. “Aren’t you always saying you could improvise a whole new wardrobe out of a curtain and pair of socks?”

  “Hardly!” I giggled, picturing the end result: gross!

  “You know what I mean,” Mum laughed. “This is a chance to be inventive, Coleen. Make the best of it.”

  I thought about what Mum had said as I walked back to our room. Maybe I could improvise a whole different look every day, just with what I’d got. I laid out everything I had on the bed and took a long, hard look. Maybe – just maybe – there were a few wardrobe surprises I could pull off before our rep found my suitcase and brought it back to me. “I’ve never seen that top before,” Dad commented as we all gathered back in the reception area, ready for our food.

  “You have, Dad,” I grinned. “Just not like this.”

  I’d made myself a great little top out of the scarf I’d stuck in my hand luggage at the last minute: looping it around my neck, then criss-crossing over at the front and tying it around my waist at the back. With the skirt I’d worn over my trousers on the flight that morning, it worked really well. And my trainers looked kind of funky, even though I’d never have thought of putting trainers on with this skirt before.