By then we knew the drill. Towels down before breakfast to secure the good sun loungers. Coffee, refined carbs, then back to it. Idling. The only difference on this day was the new blood. They’d arrived the night before. We wondered how they’d fare, and more importantly, if they’d be good at keeping out of our business. By noon, we’d found out. 

“I’m not proud of it,” she said. We could just about make out what she was saying. Her spindly legs were dangling in the pool and she was clutching a Long Island Iced Tea in a plastic beaker. The three people she was talking at were listening, but so was everyone else around the pool – those in earshot at least. Some were laughing to themselves and others were exchanging little looks from their sun loungers, their eyes scouting for allies in judgement. 

“My husband has been doing it since we were kids,” she continued. “What does that say about me?

“Well, I’m not judging,” said the man whose attention she was courting. He was a buff fifty-something health proselyte. Two days earlier he’d been lecturing another bloke about the necessity of putting on muscle. Now the shoe was on the other foot. 

A friend of the loud-mouth ringleader piped up; “I need a wee.” She was about to get up to find a toilet. 

“Just piss in the pool,” came the uninvited reply. This was accompanied by a shriek of laughter. A few of the eavesdroppers faces, including our own, suddenly drew pictures of serious concern. We’d been enjoying sniggering from a safe distance, but now we were involved; we were planning to swim in that pool. Not anymore. 

“But it’s not the same,” she said, getting back on topic. “It’s not cocaine anymore. She took a gulp of her Long Island. “It’s full of shit.” She leant back slightly to allow the sun to cross her face. “I tell my son,” she continued, wagging a finger. “I tell my son, what are you doing sniffing that garbage? It’s not what it was in the eighties when your old man was peddling it to The Yuppies.” She affected a told-you-so pout. “Does he listen? Does he fuck?” She tugged at her bikini top, pulling it up. “Anyway, I blame his dad.”

“He needs a fitness regiment your son,” said the buff man. 

“He needs a new father and new brain,” she replied. 

“I’m serious. I’m in the gym at four-thirty every morning and it’s changed my life.”

“Four-thirty!” She howled at the thought and took a mouthful of her Long Island.

“I’m serious. Listen now. You listening?”

She nodded. “I am.”

“Every year you age, you lose muscle mass. See this?” He smacked his chest. “If I have a fall, all this muscle is protecting me.”

She looked him up and down. 

“I’ll take my chances.”

He sighed, clearly disappointed.

“You are in good nick though, I’ll give you that,” she said. “I’m a flirt. I flirt for shit. Never been with another man, but I flirt for shit.”

The buff man blushed. He blushed and then he started to convulse. Either he’d had one too many Red Bulls, or he was having a stroke or a heart attack or some sort of fit. Other people around the pool started to catch on. They cautiously began to take upright positions on their sun loungers. One or two lowered their sunglasses slightly to get a truer look. One even stood up, loitered in a stance that suggested action, only to sit back down again. 

The buff guy’s wife was yelling. “What’s happening? He’s a healthy man. He’s a healthy man.” She must have said it ten times; “He’s a healthy man.” 

I couldn’t help but quip to my partner; “Doesn’t look like a healthy man.” 

She shushed me. 

Someone called for a doctor. No one came. It didn’t matter. The loud-mouthed-pool-pissing-advocate had already grabbed him and dragged him to a flat surface by the side of the pool. She put him in the recovery position.

The pool had become a colosseum. People on sun loungers open-mouthed and leaning forwards, many still holding their drinks. Other than the daily water callisthenics, it was the first action we’d seen in days. 

The man came around, wide-eyed. He didn’t look so fit anymore, but at least he was conscious. The lady slapped him on the back. “Get yourself to the doctor, love.” She picked up her Long Island. Downed it. “I needed that,” she said. Then she went to the bar and ordered three Pina Coladas. My eyes followed her for a while but she was soon busy in a new conversation. 

I, on the other hand, couldn’t relax. Not anymore. After some fidgeting, I turned to my partner. 

“What if she’s actually been pissing in the pool?”