The holiday

A short story by Rachel Wolf

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here was magic in the desert at midnight: a hint of danger, a touch of romance. I couldn't believe I was here.

"Blood!" The shout came from just beyond the amber light of the fire pit: tiny flickers of flame turning to ash on the sand.

"Blood?" I looked at Lucy.

"One of the men, I think," she said, her face creased and worried.

We had arrived the day before. "What's your room like?" Lucy ran into mine. "Bigger than our entire ground floor!" She fanned her face, collapsing on a low velvet sofa.

"Prosecco?" With a flourish, I pulled a towel from the room service trolley.

"Dates? Cake?"

"Zoe, is this for real?"

I crossed my fingers, holding them up. "Here's to not waking up tomorrow to drizzle and puddles!"

"What do you think Dave and Jamie are doing back at home?" Lucy asked, biting into a small cake so beautiful it looked like a miniature art installation.

I checked my watch. "7pm in Abu Dhabi makes it 3pm in Southend. I'd guess watching football on the TV with a six pack?"

"And we're here. On your midlife crisis break. Pinch me, then top up my glass?" She grinned, holding out her champagne flute.

Dressed in new outfits, we headed down into the huge, hushed restaurant, which glowed with gold and purple tones.

"Tell me again this dress isn't too young," Lucy said, tugging it down.

It wasn't busy. There was a shiny-haired group of four in the corner, sat against plumped cushions, by the huge black-framed windows.

The view caught the edges of the luxury hotel, complete with turrets; then the black emptiness of the desert at night.

This was like nothing I'd known: camels, sunsets, five-star service. "Go on then," Lucy said. "I mean, what inspired the dip into savings, and talking me into coming with you? Was it empty-nest syndrome?"