by Lucy Lord
‘I loved you when you were stroppy . . .’
Tamara shook her head sadly. ‘Mad.’
‘Hell, baby, I even loved you when you were drunk and borderline psychotic.’
And they started to kiss again.
*
‘I can’t believe you’ve actually finished it,’ said Bella, raising her champagne glass. ‘Congratulations, darling.’
‘Layshons, Daddy,’ added Daisy, lifting up her beaker of diluted juice, and both adults smiled indulgently.
Andy had taken them all out for a late Sunday lunch to celebrate completing the second draft of his book – which had been no mean feat after the eventful summer they’d had. Aside from Daisy’s poisoning, which neither of them wanted to think about, there had been the moving in, the renovations, their boisterous house guests, the pool party, Summer, Jack and the constantly lurking paparazzi, India’s beating and the subsequent arrests of both Jamie and David Abrahams. It had hardly been the peaceful retreat, conducive to writing an intellectually demanding history book, that Andy had been looking forward to.
But he had done it. And where better to celebrate than Benirrás, the most beautiful west-facing beach on the island? It was here that the hippies famously still came to do their drumming on Sunday afternoons, as the sun set over the dramatic fist-shaped rock to which only the heartiest of swimmers would attempt a journey at this time of year.
Now that it was nearly November, there were only a few locals eating and drinking at Elements, the eco-chic bar to the right of the beach as you looked towards the sea, but the hippies were out in force as usual – several about to pack up their backpacks and drift off to Goa, or Thailand, or Bali for the winter months.
Benirrás was a smallish cove surrounded on all sides by high, steeply descending forest. A few years previously, one sizzlingly hot summer, a dreadful fire, which had lasted the best part of a week, had devastated a large proportion of the forest. There had been speculation that it had been caused by a careless tourist throwing a cigarette butt out of a car window – that would have been enough, so tinder-dry had the landscape been that year – but it had, in fact, been due to a couple of the hippies lighting a campfire in a cave.
The ambitious reforestation plan had been so successful that the forest now actually looked like forest again, rather than the desperately sad swathe of burnt terracotta stubble that had backed the beach for the first couple of years after the fire.
The beach was sandy, but rocky once you were in the water, which was incredibly clear as a result. As well as the hippies, and tourists who came to watch them in high season, the beach was very popular with families with small children, and Bella now waved to a forty-something yummy mummy she recognized as a new attendee at Britta’s yoga classes.
‘Don’t think we’re going to get much of a sunset today,’ said Andy, looking out at the dark clouds gathering over the sea. As he spoke there was a clap of thunder, and Bella laughed.
‘No flies on you, darling.’
In response to the thunder, the hippies began drumming, and within minutes heavy rain was lashing down onto the beach. Bella, Andy and Daisy, sitting outside but protected by the large white awning over their heads, watched, enthralled.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Bella.
‘So are you,’ said Andy, seriously.
‘Hey, what’s brought this on?’ she laughed, pleased.
‘I just want you to know that you and Daisy mean everything to me . . . my girls . . .’
‘Aw, thanks, darling.’ Bella smiled.
‘I mean it. After we nearly lost Daisy, I started to realize how stupid I’ve been, so stubborn and proud with my ridiculous aversi—’
‘Your ridiculous what . . .?’ Bella’s smile was getting wider, her heart thumping. He couldn’t mean what she thought he meant, could he? Surely not, not after all these years.
Waves were pounding the shore now, rain thundering into the sea, all the boats in the lovely little bay bobbing madly. The hippies were drumming wildly, demonically almost, which added to the eerie, frenetic atmosphere.
As if he’d finally made his mind up about something, Andy hailed the nearest waiter, and indicating Daisy, who was watching her parents curiously, asked him to look after her for a few minutes. The waiter nodded, smiling.
‘Come with me,’ said Andy, taking Bella by the hand. Laughing, she followed him, running onto the beach, which was now deserted save for the mad drumming hippies.
Once they were almost at the water’s edge, halfway across the beach, Andy dropped to one knee on the wet sand. The rain was pelting down on both their heads, and down inside Andy’s glasses, which he took off as he delved into his jeans pocket and produced a ring.
Bella looked down at his dear, familiar, dripping face and smiled, more happy laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep inside her.
‘Bella, I love you more than I love life itself. Will you please do me the honour of becoming my wife?’
Chapter 28
Summer had approached the Island Life offices with some trepidation, not sure what kind of reception she was going to get. She had shopped the editor to the police, for one thing; trespassed on company property, for another. And she was still cringing at all the details about her sex life that David had thought fit to spill all over the Press.
But as she walked through the glass swing doors, her former colleagues gave her a standing ovation.
‘Welcome back, Summer!’
‘¡Bienvenido querida!’
‘¡Hola, guapa!’
The sight of all the friendly, smiling faces relaxed her and she smiled back.
‘Muchas gracias, todos,’ she replied, and made her way over to her old desk, the one that she used to share with the part-time weddings editor.
She logged onto the Macbook and smiled as she saw her desktop wallpaper ping onto the screen – the breathtaking view from her parents’ house – along with easily accessible shortcuts to her various folders: Restaurants, Recipes, Seasonal Ingredients, etc.
‘Hey,’ she called out, to nobody in particular, ‘how come everything’s exactly as I left it?’
Valentina walked over to the desk and whispered, ‘David ordered me to get rid of all traces of you, but after he kissed and told about you like that I just thought Fuck him! – disgusting little man. There was no way he could tell whether I’d done it or not – he was useless at all the technical stuff.’
Summer felt almost tearful at such loyalty. ‘Thanks, Val,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve made my life so much easier. You fancy lunch today?’
‘I’d love it,’ smiled Valentina. ‘It’s great to have you back. We’ve all missed you.’
*
That evening, as Summer walked the short distance between the Island Life offices and her pretty little flat in the Old Town, it started to rain. Only a few tiny droplets to begin with, but still – rain, proper rain. It was funny, every summer was long, and hot, and every late October the farmers would bemoan the lack of rain, claiming it had been the longest, hottest summer ever and that their crops were going to suffer, and they’d keep on moaning until the rain set in. For a little rock of an island that the rest of the world associated with year-round sunshine, the seasons were actually very important. She’d heard it had rained in the west yesterday, but it hadn’t hit Ibiza Town until now.
Summer couldn’t resist breaking into a little dance. Arms outstretched, palms upward to feel the drops drizzling, and very shortly afterwards, plopping onto them, she began humming the tune from Singin’ in the Rain. Do do do do do, do do do do do dooooh . . .
Oh wow, this was going to make her next article so easy. She’d been wanting to write about the deliciously bosky wild mushrooms that you could find in some of the forests in the centre of the island – how to forage for them, while still respecting the environment; how to prepare them, getting rid of any creepy crawlies, and identifying any poisonous ones; and, most crucially of all, how to cook them. The
re were loads of ways, but the simplest, and probably the most delicious, was just with butter, garlic and lots of parsley.
But without the rain there would be no fungi. OK, she corrected herself, automatically subbing her piece already: fungi would exist, but probably underground, and not very tasty – if indeed edible at all. By this time the rain was pouring down, and Summer broke into a run up the narrow winding street that led to her flat. She was nearly home now, laughing and crying at the same time. Laughing because the rain was exhilarating, because it was good for the land, because it meant she could write about wild mushrooms (and eat them). And crying because . . .
Well, because of Jack, of course. She still cried about him on a daily basis, though she’d hoped that today, her first day with her old life properly back on track, might have been different. It hadn’t. OK, she supposed it had, to an extent – in that she felt she could actually have a functioning life again, a life in which she wasn’t continually obsessing in some idiotic teenage fashion over a movie star who treated adult women the way rock stars treated groupies.
Jack had been linked to several Hollywood starlets since he’d been restored to flavour of the month in Hollywood, and each one hurt Summer more than the last. She couldn’t believe she’d been stupid enough to fall for everything – anything – he’d told her. She almost felt sorry for David Abrahams, as at last she understood, for the first time in her life, what it was to yearn, physically, for somebody who quite clearly could take you or leave you. But she’d never lied to David. She’d never said that she loved him, whereas Jack had told her constantly, from just after they’d first made love on their beautiful little beach, that he loved every single thing about her.
He really was a very good actor, Summer thought cynically, as she let herself into her flat and walked out onto her balcony, enjoying the feeling of the rain on her skin. Yeah, that was what made him such a successful movie star. The handsomeness helped, of course (she tried not to think about how much his handsomeness helped) – but the ability to appear genuine while you were lying your gorgeous ass off? The ability to look into the camera with the same (false) sincerity with which he’d looked into her eyes?
Oh, he was bloody good at his job, no doubt about it. Quite possibly he’d been rehearsing for his next role as they’d rolled around in the shallows together that first time. Maybe he was up for Burt Lancaster’s part in a remake of From Here to Eternity? The thought brought tears tumbling down her face again, but this time she didn’t bother brushing them away as by now the storm was so heavy that her tears were being washed away by the rain.
Summer walked over to the edge of her balcony and looked down at the view towards the harbour, the view that used to make her so happy. There was a proper storm brewing now and the sea was very choppy – although all the boats bobbing about in the harbour seemed to be OK.
‘Fuck you, Jack,’ she said, letting the wind and the rain wash the tears from her face. It didn’t seem to work. The more the wind and rain did their washing and blowing business, the more her tears flowed. She tried to focus on the harbour, over the winding backstreets, on the boats that looked so small from here, but were in fact enormous yachts. Local housewives dressed in black were leaning out of windows, struggling to pull in the flapping, sodden washing that they’d hung up on lines earlier in the day.
‘Fuck you, Jack!’ This time Summer shouted it out, wanting to feel free from him, wanting her every waking moment not to be dominated by his handsome, famous face. ‘I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU!’ She sank to her knees, crying, on her sodden, windswept balcony, not caring about the cold and the wet, her mind too full of Jack – remembering how it felt to fuck him, to kiss him, to plan the rest of her life with him.
‘Please just get out of my head!’ Summer cried, huddled on the slippery terracotta tiles. ‘Stop making me hate my life. I want to be happy again.’
‘I’ll make you happy again, if you’ll let me,’ said a lovely, cultured, beautifully familiar voice.
Slowly Summer sat up and turned around, the wind whipping her wet blonde hair across her face, her drenched clothes clinging to her body.
‘Jack? How did you get here?’
It really was him. Tall, soaked to the skin and just as handsome as she remembered him, standing right behind her on her balcony.
‘Can you ever forgive me?’ he asked simply, holding out his arms to her.
Summer hurled herself into them, banging her fists against his chest, sobbing harder than ever.
‘You lousy, lying, cheating, rotten BASTARD!’
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Summer. Please forgive me? Please? I love you.’
‘It’s been months,’ Summer sobbed.
‘I know. And there hasn’t been a moment when I haven’t been thinking of you. Hey – let’s get out of the rain.’ Still with his arms around her shivering shoulders, he led her into the warmth of her flat.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jack repeated. ‘What more can I say? I was a stupid, pig-headed buffoon. I was jealous . . .’
‘You were jealous? You were fucking engaged! And how do you think I’ve felt recently, seeing you in the papers with – now let’s see, who was the last one? Oh yeah, Amy Lascelles – or was she the one before? You have no idea—’
‘Summer, shhh, shhh, they were all publicity stunts, set up by the studios. You know how it—’
‘Actually, no, I don’t!’ Summer’s voice was rising, becoming more bitter and sarcastic with each word, all the pent-up hurt and anger pouring out in a torrent of bile. ‘Because I’m not from your world. I’m not a famous fucking movie star! Or had you forgotten that?’
‘Jeez, what do I have to do to stop you shouting at me?’
In exasperation, Jack took her in his arms and kissed her.
It worked.
*
Jack and Summer curled up in front of the wood-burning stove on Summer’s little two-seater sofa, every single bit of their bodies entwined. One of Jack’s hands was stroking the back of her neck, the other her slender thigh. They had changed out of their wet clothes and couldn’t stop gazing at each other. Every few minutes they stopped their conversation to kiss again.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about David,’ said Summer. ‘I was ashamed. He was such . . . oh God – there’s so much to tell you!’
‘About Abrahams’ and Jamie Cavendish’s little scam? I know. And well done getting the proof – that was very cool work.’ Jack kissed the top of her arm – the part of her currently closest to his mouth – unable to relinquish body contact for more than a few seconds.
‘But how can you know? It was hardly global news.’
Jack laughed. ‘Haven’t you forgotten the Bella–Poppy grapevine? News sure travels fast on that plant.’
Summer laughed too. ‘Those girls!’ Then she frowned. ‘How creepy, though, to think of him lurking right outside that window, waiting for a photo opportunity.’ Spontaneously, she jumped up and pulled the curtains together more tightly.
‘I should never have let him come between us,’ said Jack seriously. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s OK. You’ve said it.’ Summer smiled back into his eyes and kissed him, pulling him down onto the sheepskin rug on the floor beside her. ‘All that matters is that you’re here now. And I’m never going to let you go again.’
‘Oh, Summer,’ said Jack softly as he undid the tie on her towelling bathrobe, pushing it off her shoulders. ‘How I’ve dreamt about this.’ Taking one golden breast in both hands and then the other, he licked and sucked her nipples, gently at first and then harder, until she was throwing her head back and crying out with joy.
‘Please, Jack. I don’t think I can wait any longer.’
He knelt back on his heels, undoing his own robe and exposing the finely muscled torso that she remembered in such exquisite detail, the broad shoulders, the scattering of curly dark hair, the dark line leading enticingly down from his navel to . . .
Oh God, that
cock.
And now he was thrusting it inside her, filling her with the most exquisite sensations, kissing her as though she were the most precious thing on earth. Covering her face and body with kisses as he thrust and thrust and thrust, breathing how much he loved her.
‘I love you, Summer, I love you, I love you, I love you.’ It was so quiet that nobody but the two of them would have been able to hear.
‘Oh God I love you, oh God that feels so good, oh yeah, oh God I love you, Jack.’
Again and again they gave each other pleasure with all the love and lust that had built up, unsatiated, over the last few months.
Afterwards, feeling him throbbing still inside her, Summer kissed Jack on his damp, sweaty shoulder, so happy that tears were starting to form in her eyes. There had been so many tears today. But these were good ones.
‘Welcome home, my darling.’
Eight months later . . .
Can Talaias stood on top of a hill, a few kilometres outside San Carlos. The dilapidated old finca had been discovered in the late Sixties by ex-RAF pilot, louche film star and professional cad Terry-Thomas, he of the moustache, gappy teeth and catchphrase ‘Jolly good show’. He had been horse riding in the unspoilt countryside with his wife when he’d come across it, and had been so captivated by its incredible location, with views all the way down to the sea, that he’d snapped it up pretty much on the spot.
Fabulously quirky and glamorous renovations followed, including the addition of a circular tower (Terry’s private suite), an enormous crazily paved terrace, a swirly, irregularly shaped swimming pool and three levels of tropical gardens. Rumours abounded of deliciously decadent and scandalous parties at Can Talaias when Terry was still alive, and now his former home had been turned into one of the most beautiful and captivating boutique hotels in Ibiza.
It was the perfect place for a wedding.
*
‘Are you sure nobody’s going to mind about the dress code?’ Bella asked, last-minute nerves starting to freak her out again.