SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories)

by Belinda Jones

  Lara pushed her wet hair out of her eyes and looked down at where her turquoise bra shone clearly through her thin, white, lace sundress, surveyed the view for a moment – perfect plump, damp flesh, oozing out over a straining heart-shaped neckline - and shrugged nonchalantly.

  ‘It won’t be wet in Nice,’ she said with certainty. ‘And I can dry off on the way to the airport. Anyway, I like this bra. It seems a shame to hide it.’

  And then she flashed her most sunshiny smile and asked, ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready,’ confirmed Tash, pulling her anorak hood over her hair, yanking her rucksack over her shoulder and grabbing her best friend’s arm as they dashed through the rain-drenched streets of Redland, and down the hill towards the bus station.

  They’d agreed in advance not to waste money on a taxi. They’d need all their Euros to spend on patisserie and wine. Every few minutes they had to stop as the wonky wheels on Lara’s suitcase caught on a drain, or veered off the pavement into the gutter.

  ‘I told you not to bring that monstrosity,’ complained Tash. ‘Why couldn’t you bring a bag? Or a rucksack like me? We’re only going for three days. Why do you need so much stuff?’

  ‘I don’t own a rucksack. And anyway, how do I know what I’ll feel like wearing until I get there?’ asked Lara patiently, as if Tash was the one being silly. ‘I had to pack my entire summer wardrobe so I’ve got all my bases covered. Denim shorts or a kaftan? Heels or flats? A dress or a jumpsuit?’

  And then she got that wistful look in her pale blue eyes and carried on.

  ‘I never know what clothes are right for a place until I arrive and soak up the atmosphere. I have to see the locals, and take in the colour of the sky, and smell the air and…’ Lara paused for a moment. ‘How do I know which Lara I’ll be in Nice? I’ve never been there before. I’ve packed a lot of blue. You know, because of Cezanne. I believe blue is the right colour for the South of France. That’s why I chose this bra. The label says ‘azure.’

  ‘You don’t half talk nonsense sometimes,’ said Tash, fondly, without a trace of anger.

  She was as used to Lara’s ways as she was to her own. The girls had been born at the same hospital, on the same sticky night in August, almost 26 years ago. Their mothers had been friends ever since and the two girls had never known life without the other. Although Lara had been born and raised in England, her mum and dad were from County Donegal and ‘as Irish as potatoes’ (as Tash’s dad put it). She might speak with the same subtle Bristol burr as Tash but Lara’s mind was that of an Irish fairy queen. She lived by different rules, saw through different eyes and seemed to feel emotions that Tash had only ever read about in poetry books. It was Lara’s differentness that drew Tash to her best friend like a magnet. Life was never boring with Lara in the room. She was a free spirit; brave, adventurous and wild. But she was also almost naively honest and she could be far too trusting, which made her vulnerable. Her inquisitiveness, openness, and lust for adventure, coupled with the fact she had the face of a super-model and the body of a Playboy Bunny, meant that Lara was like catnip to players, users, conmen and sociopaths alike. Which was the only reason Tash could find for her best friend still being single when she was probably the most beautiful creature on the planet. She was inexplicably drawn to men who seemed to want to own her, control her, break her wild spirit and ultimately destroy her. A few had come close, but thankfully none had managed yet. At 25, Lara’s sweet but feral spirit remained entirely intact.

  Lara loved with the same passion that she lived and every time a man broke her heart, it was the end of her world. For a month or two at least, and then she would fall for the next good-looking bastard who came her way. And they came her way in droves! Tash, on the other hand, had been contentedly dating Dan since Fresher’s week at university, and the wedding would take place in six weeks time – with Lara as chief bridesmaid of course. This long weekend in Nice was to be the girls’ final fling and although Tash was excited about the trip, she had a slightly uneasy feeling in her stomach about exactly how the next three days would unfold. Trouble seemed to follow Lara around like a loyal puppy dog, and all Tash really wanted to do before the manic run-up to the wedding was relax. She said a silent prayer in her head, wishing for peace, quiet, tranquillity and begging whichever higher spirit who would listen, to save her from ending up in a police station, a hospital or a crack den this time. She had spent her entire life getting Lara out of scrapes. It was exhausting sometimes, but it was worth it. Tash suspected that even when she was old and grey she would still be fiercely protecting her magical best friend with a mixture of pride, loyalty, anxiety and, yes, just a hint of jealousy.

  Lara’s suitcase continued to be a problem on the bus, when it fell off the luggage wrack and almost knocked an elderly gentleman unconscious. (Not that he complained once Lara started fussing over him with her bountiful apologies and generous offers of mint humbugs and sherbet lemons from her sweetie stash in her handbag. ‘They’ll stop my ears popping on the plane.’) Five younger men then almost got into a fight as they clambered to help Lara deal with her wayward luggage. By the time they got to Bristol airport, Lara’s suitcase was really getting on Tash’s nerves.

  ‘Look at the check-in queue,’ she complained. ‘Why couldn’t you bring carry-on luggage like me? We could have gone straight through to duty free.’

  ‘Because I like this case,’ explained Lara. ‘It’s Louis Vuitton.’

  Tash sniggered. ‘It’s plastic, Honey,’ she reminded her friend. ‘And you got it for ten quid in Bangkok.’

  ‘I know that, Lovely,’ smiled Lara. ‘But from a distance it might be mistaken for the real thing and I want to look sophisticated in the South of France. It’s that sort of place. Anyway, the queue’s not too bad.’

  Tash eyed the mile-long line of impatient travellers sceptically. This was going to take hours.

  ‘I’ll buy you a drink in the departures lounge to make up for the wait,’ offered Lara. ‘A glass of bubbly in the Champagne Bar.’

  ‘That’s very generous, my love, but I doubt we’ll have time for a drink,’ replied Tash a little tersely. ‘We only have two hours until the flight leaves.’

  But Lara didn’t seem to hear her, her eyes had glazed over and she was staring out over Tash’s head at nothing at all, her mind already far away in the Cote d’Azure, no doubt sipping champagne on a yacht. Tash melted. God, she loved her best friend. And with a little pang, she found herself wishing that Lara wouldn’t slip out of her reach once she was settled down and married. Life without Lara would be as grey and soulless as the leaden sky outside.

  *

  Jack watched Eve change her outfit for the seventh time and tried not to show his frustration. The taxi had been waiting in the drive for over half an hour now, and although Eve had no respect for either money or other people’s time, Jack did. He glanced out of the window, saw the driver check his watch, and felt a familiar wave of embarrassment. Sometimes his girlfriend could be downright rude. Not to mention selfish. Whatever the circumstance, it was always all about Eve. And Jack hated the thought that he would be tarred with the same brush. OK, so maybe he’d started to morph into a male version of Eve. He wore the same designer labels, drove the same flash cars, drank the same expensive fine wines and no longer blanched at hotel rooms that cost four figures for one night. But he was not the same as her inside. No way! He bit his tongue purple, and clenched his fists, as she threw another dress onto the chaise longue in the centre of the dressing room, but eventually, as outfit number nine was deemed unworthy, Jack opened his mouth.

  ‘Eve, baby,’ he said tentatively, through clenched teeth, determined not to waste time having a fight when they were already running so late. ‘You looked stunning in the red dress. Why don’t you wear that? You do know the flight leaves at seven, don’t you?’

  It was the truth. She had looked stunning in the red dress. And the blue one. And in her white designer jeans and cashmere sweater. And even in the ‘on
trend’ dungarees and crop top she’d tried and discarded with a disgusted toss of her (surgically enhanced) button nose.

  ‘What was I thinking when I bought these?’ she’d complained, tossing them into the corner. ‘You can take them to the charity shop for me when we get back. But don’t take them to that place in the village. Take them to Bath where they’ll be appreciated.’

  Jack could plainly see that the labels were still attached to the clothes.

  ‘Why don’t you give them to Penny for her daughter?’ he’d suggested.

  Eve had looked at him with such disdain that you’d have thought he’d just murdered her favourite miniature schnauzer.

  ‘I am not giving my clothes to the cleaner’s daughter,’ she’d replied angrily. ‘Like I just said, I want them to be appreciated, not wasted on some country bumpkin who wouldn’t know her D&G from her M&S.’

  The greatly ‘appreciated’ outfit was soon being kept company by several other brand new garments also deemed unworthy of keeping (but too good for Penny’s daughter).

  ‘You look great in it all,’ Jack muttered. ‘Just choose something quickly for God’s sake.’

  It was true. Eve looked great in everything. You don’t spend your entire life in health spas and juice bars, or at spinning classes and pilates, and you don’t have the personal shopper at Harvey Nics on speed-dial, without looking a million dollars. And Eve, as she was always reminding Jack, was worth a hell of a lot more than a million dollars. Or, at least, her Daddy was. And as far as Eve was concerned, that was the same thing. The enormous, state-of-the-art, architect-designed house in the Cotswolds, where the couple lived, belonged to Eve’s father, as did the Ferrari and the Range Rover Sport in the garage. And the thoroughbred horses in the stable (that only Jack rode). And the apartment in Chelsea (where Eve stayed when she did her “modelling” work). And the house in Juan Les Pins where they were supposed to be heading… Jack checked his watch again… Almost an hour ago!

  ‘I have nothing to wear!’ shrieked Eve angrily, throwing open one of her five wardrobes to reveal dozens of more dresses. ‘I look horrible in all of it. My stomach looks fat!’

  Jack surveyed his girlfriend, standing before him in her underwear. She was anything but fat. In fact, in Jack’s opinion, she had slipped to the wrong side of thin recently. When they’d first met two years ago, she’d been perfect – tall and slim but still pleasingly soft and curvy. Now she was decidedly skinny. Her hip bones jutted out angrily and the sight of her rib cage, beneath the skin on her bare back, made him wince. Her bottom had disappeared altogether and when he held her, he felt as if she might snap. It was a ridiculous worry, of course, however thin she was, there was nothing remotely fragile about Eve. She was about as vulnerable as a tiger in a cage full of bunny rabbits.

  ‘The taxi driver’s been waiting for three quarters of an hour now,’ Jack reminded her.

  ‘Yeah, whatever, his metre’s running,’ scoffed Eve, pulling out a loudly patterned Pucci maxi-dress. ‘This is ancient but I think it might look alright.’

  Jack distinctly remembered buying Eve the ‘ancient’ Pucci dress in Rome for her birthday only two months ago but decided to keep quiet.

  ‘We’re going to miss the flight. We’re supposed to check in an hour before departure,’ he said, still swallowing the anger.

  He’d cancelled an important meeting for this: a pitch to a big advertising agency in London. But as always Eve’s whims had come before his career. Why did he even need to keep working so hard when she had so much money, she kept whining. Because Jack had to keep hold of some semblance of independence and self-respect in this skewed relationship! It was difficult being with a woman who had so much more than him. He often felt emasculated and powerless, and sometimes wondered if his increasing frustration with his girlfriend had more to do with his hurt pride than her faults. It had been fun at first; driving the fast cars and wearing the flash clothes, but now he often felt like nothing more significant than one of Eve’s accessories: something attractive to hang off her arm. But the problem was, Eve went off handbags at an alarming rate, even the ones she’d sworn she couldn’t live without before she’d bought them. She bored easily. She discarded handbags – and people – at an alarming rate. When everything came so easily, it was hard for her to value anything at all.

  Recently Jack had found himself (guiltily!) daydreaming about girlfriends past. Less vain, but equally pretty girls, who’d shared kebabs in bedsits at 2am, or tents in muddy fields at Glastonbury, who’d ridden bikes along the canal, and who’d happily gone to the supermarket without their make-up on, and who hadn’t had to check their reflection in the mirror during sex! She’d been quite sweet and attentive for the first year or so – and incredibly generous. But since they’d moved in together, Jack felt more like one of Eve’s minions than her partner. Take this weekend: Eve had declared herself ‘deeply depressed’ by the rainy weather and had insisted she needed to go to the house in France for the weekend for the sake of her mental health, despite Jack’s important meeting. And like a fool, he’d called the agency, feigned illness, and postponed the meeting until next week. For what? They weren’t even going to get to Juan Les Pins at this rate. They were going to miss the bloody flight!

  ‘We’re VIP,’ retorted Eve, pulling on the dress. ‘We don’t have to be early like the ordinary people.’

  The ordinary people? Jack’s mouth fell open in disbelief. She was such a snob! Had she forgotten that he was one of the ‘ordinary people’? A perfectly normal, grammar school boy, who’d been brought up in a very modest little semi in the Bristol suburbs.

  ‘Just because we’re travelling first class, doesn’t mean the pilot will sit on the runway waiting for you to decide which shoes match your lipstick, darling,’ he replied. ‘I’m going outside for a cigarette. I’ll take your case down and see you in the cab.’

  Eve ignored him until he was halfway down the sweeping spiral staircase, and then she hollered, ‘Brush your teeth after you’ve had one of those disgusting cancer sticks or I won’t kiss you ever again!’

  Jack already knew he wouldn’t do as he was told. He didn’t enjoy kissing Eve nearly as much as he used to anyway. When Eve eventually got into the taxi, twenty minutes later, she sniffed Jack’s neck, made an ‘Urgh’ noise and shuffled as far away from his as possible.

  ‘Put your foot down for crying out loud!’ she snapped at the driver as he carefully negotiated the narrow country lanes. ‘You’re going to make us miss our flight!’

  At the airport, Eve got out of the car and strutted towards the departure gates, leaving Jack behind to pay the driver (he gave the poor man a ridiculously generous tip by way of an apology) and lug her heavy suitcase into the building. While most taxi drivers would say, ‘have a good holiday’, this driver said, ‘Good luck, mate’ with a pitying glance at Jack as he drove away. Jack cringed. He found Eve smiling smugly beneath the departures screen.

  ‘The flight’s been delayed,’ she told him cheerfully. ‘So all your nagging was for nothing.’

  They walked past ‘the ordinary people’, queuing to check-in and made their way swiftly through the First Class gate.

  ‘Did you pack your bags yourself,’ asked the girl behind the counter.

  ‘Of course I did,’ snapped Eve.

  This was a lie. She had thrown her chosen clothes, shoes, bags, make-up, toiletries and jewellery in a heap on the floor this morning and ordered Penny to pack for her while she went off to Bath for a Mani Pedi and a full wax.

  ‘And roll don’t fold this time!’ she’d demanded. ‘Everything was so creased when I went to St Lucia that I had to buy a new dress for dinner when I arrived.’

  Jack overcompensated for Eve’s rudeness by being super-nice to the poor check-in girl which, in turn, got him a further ear bashing from Eve, for ‘flirting with fat, ugly girls’. The girl had neither been fat or ugly. And nor had Jack been flirting. By the time they’d installed themselves in the airport’s Champagne
and Oyster Bar, he was fighting the urge to turn back round and run screaming from the airport. Eve was huffing about the check-in girl. Jack knew this because her pout was even poutier than usual, she had gone completely mute, and she was staring at the table, trying to make herself cry. He was supposed to feel guilty and apologise now. But Jack wasn’t in the mood to apologise for something he hadn’t done.

  He found himself watching the two girls sitting at the next table. The blonde one in the strappy white dress had her back to him but he couldn’t help noticing that she had incredibly beautiful bare shoulders. Unlike Eve’s poker straight, salon dyed and blow-dried do, this blonde hair was very long and tousled and looked like it hadn’t been brushed in days. The girl kept tossing her wild mane from one shoulder to the other and when it caught the light it turned from blonde to gold. Everything about the girl’s body language was sexy, carefree and undone. She seemed so comfortable in her gorgeous, smooth skin and totally unaware of the fairy dust that sparkled around her. Jack found himself willing her to turn round so he could see her face. He already knew she had a beautiful face. He could sense it. Her friend, an attractive brunette with a slightly serious but kind face, was hanging off the blonde’s every word as she gesticulated wildly and threw her head back, every now and then, to laugh a contagious, tinkling laugh. He caught little snippets of their conversation and learnt that the brunette was about to get married while the blonde was still searching for her ‘one’.

  ‘Big Love,’ he heard her say. ‘I’m hanging out for Big Love. I don’t want a so-so love. You know my biggest fear – I don’t want to have a little life. I’d rather be Elizabeth Taylor and spend my whole life tearing myself apart over my Richard Burton than end up trapped in a marriage with someone boring who I don’t have any passion for.’

  ‘You’re a risk-taker,’ her friend said.

  ‘I’m a romantic,’ the blonde replied. ‘And I will never give up on my dreams. I’ll find my one some day, or I’ll die trying!’