Rodney Bay, Saint Lucia
The phone rings. "Please sir, is it all right to be sending the gardener? He wants to trim your bush. Can he do it now or should he come later?" It's not often that I'm awoken with a call like that but I swear that's what was said. Somewhat disconcerted I agree to the unexpected topiary and groggily grab my mobile to check the time. Bloody hell, it's 10am!! I've slept for 12 hours straight.
I get out of bed, sporting ferocious bed-hair and clamp a hat on my head. I can't face a cold shower right at this moment. Down at the beach bar breakfast is in full swing so I wander over and there's Eliza Doolittle, a young singer signed to Parlophone, sat at the table. Transpires she's out here too to do a shoot for a separate issue. She's looking through her shots from yesterday on a laptop and they're all vibrant and summery, perfect for her sound.
Around the table are Victor, the photographer, and Bella, his assistant, along with Lyndsey, a journalist I already know. Introductions are made, coffee and croissants consumed and plans hatched for Corinne's shoot.
They're off today to shoot a young West End singer and soon-to-be soap actress called Natalie, for a swimwear spread. Seems like this St Lucia trip has been expanded into a whole series of features, which is why Corinne's shoot has now been moved to Saturday giving us two free days to enjoy the island.
However life is not that simple, and I spend from 11am to 4pm glued to the computer in our stifling living room where there's no air-con and a fixed line internet connection. Without wireless and with too much to do to be sat on the blackberry, I experience the glories of the Caribbean by sitting at a desk, sweating profusely onto a laptop.
The schedule of International phoners that were to be done today have been postponed overnight, meaning there's only a couple of UK ones to be done. Safely completed Corinne hits the beach while I hit letters on a keyboard with soul-sapping devotion.
A late lunch on the beach gives me a break and returning to the villa I realise we need to buy some water as the fridge is now empty. Intending to walk straight to the resort shop I get waylaid by a visit to the concierge to ask for them to send someone over to fix our showers.
Assured that the maintenance man will swing by to fix them I wander through the rest of Cotton Bay Village. It's completely and utterly deserted, being the low season here in St Lucia; the start of the rainy and hurricane-threatening summer months.
Seems the only people staying here are those of us doing the various shoots which explains why we're being offered such largesse; while they have free space and staff that still need paying, it makes sense to provide us all with free accommodation, meals and drinks and hey presto, a bunch of articles in a national newspaper mentioning how fabulous the resort is. Sunday supplement readers will see the piece and decide they need to stay there too, hopefully booking up their Christmas breaks. The cost of our stay is a drop in the ocean compared to the value of advertising the resort gets.
What seems a win-win situation for all concerned however has its downfalls when the resort is deserted as I now discover. The shop nestling amongst the villas has shut its doors at precisely 5pm. Such rigid clock-watching seems distinctly un-Caribbean especially as the nearest alternative shop is in Rodney Bay, a 15 minute drive away. It's two minutes past five when I reach the shop and the door is locked. The guard sat snoozing by the entrance to the resort shrugs her shoulders with lazy indifference when I ask if there's anywhere else to buy some water, as obviously the shop has served no-one all day. Looks like beer will have to be the answer.
Back at the villa I finally get a bit of time for a quick swim in the sea in the belief that the showers will soon be fixed and a lovely hot shave, shampoo and shower will at last be mine. But sadly the maintenance man confirms the power to the hot water has failed and it'll be tomorrow before it can be fixed. I grit my teeth and think of England while the bracing water flows.
As dusk falls both Corinne and I spend time on our laptops approving videos, answering emails, making travel plans and so on and it's pitch black before we emerge, sprayed head to toe with mosquito repellant to walk up to the 'fine dining' restaurant at the top of the resort, named Piano Piano. It's fortunate we do as we learn once up there that the beach restaurant is closed for a local wedding.
Already in Piano Piano are many of the shooting contingent - those we have met earlier plus Charlotte the fashion editor, Cleo the make up artist and Natalie who was being shot today frolicking in the sea modelling swimwear along with her husband James who has accompanied her out here. On the walls are signed pictures of Caribbean celebrities who have eaten here, and then the most notorious recent resident, one Amy Winehouse! We'll be much better behaved...
Daiquiris are ordered and then we all move through to our table. Lyndsey, Corinne, Natalie, James and I are all sat together and it transpires that Natalie and Corinne not only have a mutual friend but have previously met at a party. Stories are swapped, anecdotes told, questions asked and experiences shared over very good food - my Caribbean seafood and rum bisque is followed by spiced Moroccan lamb and apricot cous cous. Compliments to the chef!
As coffee arrives Corinne retires, but I stay chatting and once the restaurant closes we all decide to see if we can gatecrash the wedding. Down by the beach the party is in full-swing and at first the bar refuses to serve us, but some heavy female persuasion by a forceful bunch of attractive British women determined to drink soon wears the barman down and bottles of red mysteriously appear.
By now the wedding DJ has thrown caution to the wind and a non-stop megamix of wedding cheese pours out, sending Natalie into reveries of her cheer-leading days and prompting her to teach the girls a whole set of routines. As 'YMCA', 'Cotton-Eyed Joe', 'Billie Jean', 'Like A Virgin' (at a wedding?!?!) and more pump out some quite astounding dancing comes from the Brit contingent. But that's as nothing compared to the locals attempting the 'Macarena'. The plus-sized and middle-aged bride leads a line of women in a ground-quaking stomp though the song.
Eventually at 1am the night is over and it's time to head back to the villa. Who knows what joys tomorrow will bring...
