The pool gate squeaked loudly as Charlotte pushed it open. It swung shut with a clang. She looked at the swampy green pool, her nose wrinkling at the smell of dank, murky water. A dead frog floated on the top amongst some rotting leaves.

The resort was old and dated, the pool definitely not for swimming in. Paint was peeling off the rusty fence and a lone plastic chair was the only poolside furniture, tipping forward at an angle, suggesting a broken leg.

It was hot and muggy, although only 8 in the morning. The sound of cicadas rang out loud and insistent. A mosquito whined past her ear. She waved a hand across her face as it hovered nearby, and wiped her sweaty brow.

The Moorings Resort website had boasted an inviting clear blue pool and sumptuous grounds. But on inspection the ramp which led down to the estuary was rickety and unsafe, the mouth of the river where a few tired old boats bobbed tethered to the pier was overrun by a mangrove swamp.

She could hear the steady hum of traffic from the highway which was right near their bedroom.

Her boyfriend Harry appeared yawning at the other side of the fence. He was wearing his swimmers and his towel was slung over his shoulder. His face fell when he saw the pool.

“You’re fucking kidding me!”

They had had a sleepless night. Tossing and turning in the stifling bedroom. No air con. Not even a ceiling fan. The bed was too soft, and sank in the middle. Charlotte had clung to the firmer side of the mattress like she was drowning.

“We’re not staying a whole week in this dump”. Harry slapped at a passing mossie. “Let alone another night.”

Charlotte bit her tongue. She wanted to say I told you so. Harry was always looking for a bargain, and a whole week at The Moorings was dirt cheap. You get what you pay for.