It was paradise. Sun, and clean, white, empty sand beaches for miles and miles. The tourists would arrive once a week, by boat, from the capital, some 40 minutes away across the estuary. There was a rough track through the jungle, and people and stores could come that way if the sea was too rough, but it needed a good four-wheel drive to negotiate the mud and streams. But even paradise needs workers, and I was one of them. I'd set the holiday village up and now managed the place. I wasn't the owner, of course, I didn't have that kind of money, but I'd worked in the tourist industry, hotels, restaurants and so on, and had the qualifications that were needed, though I was young for the job.
There wasn't much time for sex, though I had an occasional lover back in the capital, on the rare times I had to go back there to sort out some problem, or could get off for a short break. But frankly, I was just too busy, and I was still enjoying the challenge of running a four star hotel in a village of wooden huts in the middle of nowhere, on the edge of the ocean. I lived in a T-shirt and shorts, and my clients lived in a lot less. I was surrounded all day, every day, by almost naked flesh, in all colours, shapes and sizes. Some monstrous mountains of flesh, a good many lovely creatures, male and female.
Manjula arrived on the Friday evening boat. I'd seen the name of an Indian couple on the guest list, but I saw her and my heart gave an unexpected leap. She was very young, slim, shy. She made me think of the wild buck that we sometimes saw in the jungle. Big dark eyes, looking out at the world from under dark lashes with a touch of fear. She was wearing a sari, rich in reds, blues and golds, and I thought, some races are lucky – they have such simple and wonderful national dress, so practical, and yet so attractive. Her husband was the usual businessman, perhaps ten years older than her, oily in his charm, arrogant and demanding, self-important too, with his portable phone never far from his ear – was I already unconsciously feeling a little jealous? On the Monday already he was leaving – urgent business called him away, but would I take special care looking after his lovely new wife? I promised to do my best, like the good professional that I was.
As manager, I had my own table in the restaurant, open to the sea breezes, under a palm-tree canopy, and I would invite the guests to join me, give them something of the history of that part of the world, talk about the animals, do my best to be the charming host. So I invited her to join me regularly. Manju, her friends called her – and I was already a friend. Fresh out from India, an arranged marriage, her family knew his back home. I'd seen her on the beach of course, wearing an old-fashioned one-piece swimsuit that my grandmother might have worn. But it still managed to look sexy on her. Over our second meal together, I touched her hand briefly, as she talked about the loneliness of leaving her home and family for a new continent and starting life together with someone she didn't know. I offered her something more modern to wear – I had quite a collection of things that tourists might have forgotten and need. I showed her into my office, and opened up the cupboard, and closed the blinds. I had things to decide with the cook. I'd left her there for ten minutes, before coming back, knocking warningly on the door before coming back in. She was wearing a bright red bikini that showed off her darker skin. I kept my hands to myself, but they were itching. I didn't usually get so hot for my guests; in fact this was a first.
She confessed that she got bored just swimming and lazing by the sea. And her shyness meant that she didn't easily get to make friends with the other guests. I suggested a little riding – we had a handful of pretty tame and tired horses, so guests could ride along the sand. There wasn't much choice – just left or right along the beach! And then back again. But it made a change for her.
