“So far so good, eh?” Dad said as we all filed on board and took our seats near the front of the plane.
Mum muttered something about chickens and eggs. Em clambered across to the window seat and pulled out her new football magazine.
“If you’re going to read that,” I pointed out, “how come you get the window seat?”
“No arguments, kids,” Dad said. “You can have the window on the way home, Coleen. This is our holiday now, and I plan to enjoy it.”
Kids! I scowled at Dad. Ignoring me, he took out his fitness magazine, and I could see him sucking in his stomach as he looked at the muscly bloke on the front cover.
“What do you think of my stomach, Trish?” he asked Mum, sounding a bit anxious.
“Squishy,” said Mum. Her nose was already deep in a pink, sparkly novel that was guaranteed to be all about kissing tall dark strangers. “But nice.”
“Just as well you like it, Mum,” I said, settling back into my seat as the plane started taxiing down the runway. I jabbed the cover of Dad’s mag. “Coz there’s no way it’s ever gonna look like that.”
We flew through a clear blue sky, with Em giving us Fascinating Factoids about Portugal and football practically the whole way. Apparently the whole country is mad for it. No wonder my little sister was excited that we were going there.
“And half the Marshalswick Park squad have holiday homes in the Algarve,” Em said happily, folding up her magazine as the plane started its descent into Faro airport. “That must mean it’s brilliant.”
As I’ve said before, Marshalswick Park are Em’s favourite team. They’d risen up the league like a rocket ever since they’d taken on this new manager, and now they were serious contenders for the top spot – as Em told us most weekends after watching their matches on the telly.
We got through baggage control and came out into the bright Portuguese sun. I whipped out my new sunnies and stuck them on my nose as our rep ushered us all on to a big, air-conditioned bus that stood outside the airport underneath these waving palm trees.
“See?” said Dad smugly as we all settled back into our comfy seats and watched the driver and his mates packing our luggage into the big locker underneath the bus. “I told you everything would be OK.”
The bus wound out of the airport. After about fifteen minutes, it pulled off the dual carriageway into the first resort: a buzzy-looking place with loads of bars and extremely tall hotels.
“Not us,” said Dad as the bus doors slammed shut and we drove on.
“Shame,” Mum sighed. “It looked like fun.”
We stopped off at three more places along the way. The bus was getting emptier and emptier, and still the rep hadn’t read out our names.
“Are we going to Spain?” Em complained after the fourth place came and went.
The bus put on its ticker and pulled off the main road again.
“Castelo do Sol,” I said, reading out the town’s name as we swung past a sign and a bunch of half-built hotels that had Mum looking tense. “What do you think that means?”
“Sol Campbell’s castle!” Em gasped.
Doesn’t that girl ever think of anything but football?!
The bus squeezed down an impossibly narrow lane that had me flinching back from the windows, thinking the mirrors were going to scrape the buildings on both sides. Then it pulled out again on to this long beachfront road. There were three massive hotels all stood next to each other, with pools and sea views across a gorgeous sandy beach. The road was fringed with palm trees, and these brilliant rock formations stood down by the shore like huge golden statues.
“It’s magic!” I breathed, staring at the beach in delight.
“I take back everything bad I’ve ever said about you, Kieran,” said Mum, staring up at the hotels. Their polished marble walls shone in the sun like glass, and their pools winked through the bus windows at us like pale blue sapphires.
The bus dropped three lots of totally ecstaticlooking holidaymakers outside the three hotels. There was only one family left as we swung away from the seafront.
Us.
“Hotel Paraíso,” said the rep, snapping her little notebook shut as the bus gave a very final-sounding wheeze and stopped at the side of the road. “That’ll be you lot, then. Save the best for last, eh?”
We stared at the place the bus had brought us. The water-stained red and white awning over the main entrance flapped at us in an embarrassed kind of way, and the words Hotel Paraíso flickered in blue neon letters across the front of the once-maybe-white-but-now-grey building.
“Paraíso means ‘paradise’,” offered the rep.
There was a beat of silence.
“KieRAN!” Mum yelled.
“What do you want me to do, Trish?” Dad protested as the bus whooshed off down the road, leaving us outside the Hotel Paraíso with our luggage around our feet. “You heard what she said. There’s nowhere else!”
“You’re never booking us another holiday, Kieran,” Mum shouted. “I’ll give all the travel agents in Hartley your photo and order them not to serve you. And if I see you anywhere near the Internet, I’ll cut up your bankcard.”
“I like it,” said Em, staring up at the hotel. “It looks friendly.”
“Friendly if you’re a rat or a flea, maybe,” Mum yelled. “Honestly, Kieran…”
I looked at the hotel while Mum ranted on. I could see what Em meant. OK, so it wasn’t made of glass and marble, and there was no sea view. But the windows shone like someone had taken the trouble to clean them, even though the building itself looked like it hadn’t had a new coat of paint in years. The flickering blue letters spelling out the hotel’s name were naff – not to mention broken – but it was on the sunny side of the street, and it seemed quiet.
“…and I can’t believe a place like this even has a pool…”
“Mum doesn’t half go on,” Em said. She picked up her Marshalswick Park suitcase and pushed open the hotel door.
Mum stopped shouting. Even when she gets mad, she doesn’t like upsetting strangers – like the hotel manager we were about to meet. She and Dad stiffly followed me and Em inside.
Some soft guitar music was playing in the small, blue-tiled reception area. There was a dark-haired man with a thick black moustache standing at the reception desk, along with two other people: a kindlooking dark-haired woman and a lad about my age. I did a double-take at him. He had gorgeous soft-tanned skin, black hair that curled around his shoulders and these huge brown eyes with eyelashes like you see on really pretty cows. I had this awful feeling that I was staring, but I couldn’t help myself. He was the cutest thing I’d ever seen.
“Welcome to Castelo do Sol,” said the manager, stepping forward and shaking Mum and Dad’s hands with both of his own. If he’d heard them rowing out on the pavement, he didn’t show it. “We hope that you will have a very nice stay with us. I am Antonio Santos. Please allow me to present my wife Ana, and my son João.”