Chasing Daisy

usual fun I’d have on the plane in business class luxury with my pal, I had to sit next to Frederick. Holly and I spend most of our flights gossiping and knocking back free drinks, but my boss slept most of the way and I could hear his snores even through my head-phones. Aeroplane films just don’t have the same impact when the sound of a chainsaw is going off in the background.
    At first I didn’t realise Frederick was coming too, and since I’ve been here, my days have been spent with him, preparing the drivers’ and core crew members’ meals in the penthouse suite of our über posh hotel, after which I scuttle back down to my room a couple of floors below. Will and Luis, on the other hand, spend the majority of their time with their personal trainers, Tarquin and João – Luis flew João in from Brazil on Simon’s insistence.
    I’ve barely seen Will. Luis is being mildly pleasant, but on the whole acts like I don’t exist, and I’m sick to death of Catalina’s demands. In fact, anyone would think I’m her slave. ‘Get this! Get that! I need water! WATER!’
    Urgh.
    I can’t wait for Holly to get here in a couple of days so we can check out the souks in Manama City. I haven’t had anyone to sightsee with and I’m dying to see the Al Fateh Mosque, plus, apparently, there’s this crazy tree, all alone in the middle of the desert, which is kept alive by an underwater spring! It’s called the Tree of Life, or something.
    Yes, I’ve had a lot of time to read the travel brochures in my hotel room, can you tell?
    By day five, though, I’ve had enough, and head down to the hotel bar for a change of scenery. Alcohol may not be illegal in Bahrain – unlike neighbouring Saudi Arabia – but I haven’t had anyone to drink with here, anyway. Will’s practically tee-total and Luis, well, Luis is Luis. But after several lonely evenings by the pool followed by solitary television viewing in my room, tonight I’ve decided I’ll get drunk on my own if I have to. Call me an alcoholic if you must.
    The bar overlooks the swimming pool and blue ocean beyond. I stand and look out at it for a moment while slurping my cocktail through a straw. And then I notice a dark-haired man sitting alone at a table by the window. Luis.
    The wave of relief is enough to make me bite the bullet and take my drink over to his table. It occurs to me as I reach it that perhaps he’s meeting a woman, but it’s too late to turn back. He’s seen me.
    ‘Hello, bun tart,’ he says.
    I take a seat, too much in need of company to mind.
    ‘Hello, testa di cazzo ,’ I reply with a smile.
    ‘Dickhead?’
    ‘You’re learning.’
    ‘Fair enough. Cheers.’ He leans across and chinks my glass.
    ‘What are you drinking?’ I ask.
    ‘Vodka tonic.’
    ‘Does your personal trainer know about this?’ I raise one eyebrow.
    ‘Not unless you plan to tell him.’
    ‘I’ll see how I feel later.’
    He grins at me and I relax back into my chair.
    ‘So what are you doing down here?’ he asks, swirling the ice around in his glass.
    ‘Bored.’
    ‘No one to play with?’
    ‘No. I miss Holly.’
    ‘You’ll just have to play with me instead.’
    ‘I think you’ve got more than enough women to play with.’
    ‘Not tonight, though, bun tart.’
    ‘Piss off. Or how do you say it? Va se lixar ?’
    ‘Well remembered. Do you speak any Portuguese?’
    ‘Afraid not. Just Italian.’
    ‘How’s that, then?’
    ‘My mother is Italian,’ I explain. ‘Although I’ve spent most of my life in America.’
    ‘So you grew up bilingual?’
    ‘Funnily enough, no. My mother never spoke to me in Italian. I learned it when I was a teenager.’
    ‘Wanted to get back to your roots?’
    ‘That’s right.’ Hmm. Actually quite perceptive. For an idiot. ‘My grandparents on my mother’s side live in Italy and I went to stay with them one summer when I was eleven. They didn’t speak much English so I started to teach myself Italian with books. Then I studied it at school when I returned to the States. Sorry, this is really boring.’
    ‘Far from it,’ he says. ‘What about your name? Daisy Rogers doesn’t sound very Italian.’
    ‘No. That’s my father for you. My middle names sound more Italian: Paola Giuseppe. I was named Paola after my grandmother. Giuseppe is my mother’s maiden name.’
    ‘Paola. There’s something feisty about Paola. I think it suits you more than Daisy.’
    It’s not the first time I’ve heard such words and