A singleton abroad

I just got back from the most ridiculous, tacky, and OTT press trip I have ever been on…incidentally it was also the most fun - by a mile.

When my editor received the invite, she guffawed (as only editors know how) and emerged from her office clutching the offending article by one corner like she might catch a horrible disease from it. “I’m not sure if this is your cup of tea, but it’s certainly not mine so if you want to go, feel free,” she said, dropping a print out of the trip’s itinerary on my desk.

Now, to be perfectly honest, I knew before I’d even read the thing that I was going to say yes. I’ve admittedly already got a bit of a rep in the office for taking advantage of every press freebie that comes my way, and if it involves spending a few days relaxing at a luxury resort and getting paid for the pleasure, I’m most definitely there. But even to me, this trip looked a bit much - four days in Antigua at the opening of a new ultra all-inclusive couples-only destination brought to us by the Caribbean’s most commercial resort group with raucous parties every evening and the company of international press, C-list celebrities, and the groups most loyal customers (ie. wealthy vulgar Americans). It sounded awful but I figured I could opt out of all the activities and work my way through the final Harry Potter tome so of course, I graciously accepted.

Fast forward a few weeks and I’ve arrived, my group of eight UK journalists, one PR and two reporters from E! Entertainment are sat in the lobby drinking our first glass of Champagne and waiting to be shown to our rooms when the concierge finally presents me with my key and I run off upstairs to investigate the mini-bar situation. And boy, am I in for a treat - there’s no ‘mini’ about this bar - it’s a proper bar with full size bottles of spirits, a fridge stacked with beer, wine, bubbly, and mixers, and a basket overflowing with calorific nibbles. I’m so excited I don’t even take in the four poster bed, whirlpool bath, plasma screen TV, or ocean-view balcony before pouring myself a welcome G&T. Well, there’s not much time to waste. Shaggy takes to the stage soon to kick off the first evening’s festivities.

Expecting a cheese-fest that will be more likely to make me cringe than join in with the grinding, I am pleasantly surprised by what turns out to be a great show. I forgot just how many Shaggy songs I knew, and all us girls end up having a brilliant time dancing by the side of the stage to classics like ‘Oh Carolina’ and ‘It Wasn’t Me’. Shaggy even starts to look quite attractive in an unexpectedly disarming way. So much so that I consider hanging out with the E! Entertainment crew, who plan to hijack him for an interview when he comes off stage. Then I realise that coming onto Mr Lover Lover himself would be very wrong indeed and I send myself to bed.

The next day, I somehow end up volunteering to go zip lining in the rainforest and find myself with my stomach in my mouth flying from tree to tree in the pouring rain 3oo feet above the ground. It’s obviously all a bit much for me because I max out on fun by 9.30pm that night and sneak off to my room (and Harry Potter) before Sean Paul even takes to the stage.

When the final night arrives - the dreaded pool party - I fully expect to duck out early again, unable to bear the embarrassment of being seen dancing in a bikini, but something miraculous happens. I end up first in the pool, and stay there for a full three hours dancing my little socks off and occasionally getting out to drag someone else in.I manage to convince all the UK crowd, a Californian couple we met on the zip lining trip, and also one of the company directors of the resort group, who seems to be getting a little flirty in the hot tub! He is undeniably attractive and charming but as one of the hosts of the whole event and having recently hit the big 4-0, I know he doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just doing his job - schmoozing and boozing.

At least that’s what I thought to begin with, but after sinking my umpteenth margarita, I notice the vibe has changed. I decide removing myself from the hot tub (and him) is the best idea so I head onto the (dry) dance floor for another shimmy. But barely half a twist into the song, he’s at my side: ‘Lets go for a walk on the beach’. It’s not so much an invitation as an order and I can tell by his eyes that walking isn’t what he has in mind. I am shocked! I mean, admittedly I may have encouraged his presumptuous attitude earlier in the evening by plucking the cherry out of his Pina Colada and proudly showing off my skill at tying the stalk in a knot with my tongue, but come on, everyone has a party trick, it’s not my fault if people misconstrue that particular one as an act of flirtation.

Anyway, I digress, to get back to the moment…the question on deck was did I want to go for a walk on the beach. And I must confess that I really, really did.So I went – and like the rest of the trip, it was completely ridiculous, a little bit wrong, but unexpectedly quite fun!