SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories)

by Belinda Jones

  ‘When was the last time you put sun-tan lotion on, baby? This mid-morning heat can be fierce. Here, let me do it for you.’

  Before Sophie could answer, she heard Sean swing his feet onto the floor and rummage inside their beach bag. She heard the click of the bottle lid and the squelch of cream, and then a few seconds silence during which she could visualise him rubbing it between his hands to acclimatise its temperature. And then she felt his hands on her back, the circular movements working in unison over her shoulder blades first and then downwards, towards the pliable flesh around her waist, and then down further still, two fingers slipping under the top of her bikini bottoms, smoothing cream fractionally beyond the border of where it needed to be.

  Sophie willed herself to un-tense her body. It was involuntary, this tightness, as though the very pores of her skin were closing against his touch. She wondered whether today it was due to embarrassment, whether her acute self-consciousness was exacerbated by the presence of the fractionally thinner, fractionally blonder, significantly more beautiful stranger on the other side of the pool.

  That wasn’t it, and a part of her knew it.

  Sean’s hands moved down further still, one hand on the back of each leg, massaging the cream into her skin, his thumbs slipping under the rim of her briefs and into the crease of flesh where her buttocks met her thigh.

  Sophie stared straight ahead behind the safety of her shades and tried to imagine enjoying the feeling of his hands so close to her groin. It was an endeavour that accompanied every sexual encounter of theirs, an endeavour in which she invariably failed. It wasn’t him, she knew that. She’d seen enough films, read enough books, talked to enough girlfriends to know that there was nothing wrong with what Sean was doing. It was her. It was all her.

  She’d wondered, early on, back in her late teens, when sex had proved disappointing time and again, whether she might be frigid. It was a hateful word, a word she balked at instinctively even when it existed only in the safe confines of her private thoughts. It was a word that had plagued her for years. She remembered how her friends had overcome the initial disenchantment of their first few sexual liaisons to settle into a joy, a pleasure, an excitement Sophie was sure wasn’t simply false bravura. She’d waited for the same to happen to her, waited for an experience which would corroborate others’ claims, waited for someone who might help her understand what all the fuss was about. But even when Sean had come into her life – Sean whom she loved deeply and profoundly, there was no question in her mind about that – he hadn’t brought with him the revelation she’d been hoping for. She still didn’t enjoy it in the way she felt she ought to, still avoided it whenever she possibly could, still found herself during the midst of it somewhere else entirely, in her head, at least. Not always somewhere she wanted to be.

  ‘Right, you, you’re well and truly protected. Another twenty minutes and then shall we head on in?’

  Sophie nodded, her face still averted from his. She didn’t really want to head inside but it had become as habitual these past eleven days as having a swim before breakfast or a five o’clock cocktail or washing off the day’s salt, sand and suncream with an early evening shower. And there wasn’t any reason to refuse. None that she could articulate anyway, to herself or to him.

  She wasn’t frigid, though, she’d been sure of that for as long as she’d substituted sexual pleasure from a third party with pleasure she could perfectly well achieve on her own. She seemed to masturbate now as furiously and as furtively – when Sean was on lates or when he was in the shower or whenever, quite frankly, she had the bedroom to herself – as she had as a teenager. Sometimes, occasionally, more often than she’d like, images would arrive unannounced in her head during these secret assignations with herself, images she’d try to squeeze out of her mind by scrunching her eyes tightly shut. But they weren’t always so easily evicted.

  Sophie tilted her head towards the woman again just as the woman turned to face her and smiled in her direction. Sophie felt her face begin to burn with heat she was sure hadn’t come from the sun. How did she even know Sophie was watching her when her eyes were deliberately concealed?

  Before she had a chance to resolve the question, she found the corners of her mouth curve up as she returned the woman’s smile. She watched as the woman grinned in response, shrugged her shoulders as though to communicate something Sophie didn’t feel equipped to decipher, and then turn back to face the ocean.

  Sophie felt an almost unbearable need to fidget but she daren’t in case she attracted Sean’s attention. She wondered what he was doing, where he was looking, whether he’d witnessed it. Whether he’d be able to sense her agitation even if she managed not to move a muscle.

  She stared at the woman, who was now lying with her head tipped back, eyes closed, as if daring the sun to make a move on her.

  It was Emily, of course. Sophie had known it the second the woman had stepped onto the side of the pool. The woman reminded her of Emily. As soon as Sophie had seen her, she’d been transported back to that time, those sounds, that smell, those feelings: the radiator they weren’t supposed to sit on in the sixth-form common room but always did because it was the only place to keep warm during winter; the burger bar they decamped to en masse every lunchtime to feast on nothing more than Diet Cokes and gossip; the evenings spent holed up in their bedrooms under the guise of homework but in reality under the spell of text messaging; the night of the leavers prom, curled up in Emily’s enviable double bed, giggling about misjudged outfits and mistimed dance routines before it happened, just that one time, brief enough for her to believe it may have been just a dream, tipsy enough for her to convince herself that it had been the most temporary of aberrations, unnerving enough for neither of them ever to mention it again despite it building an invisible wall between them over those final summer months at home before they departed for separate universities and separate lives and their gradual drifting apart could be housed inside a legitimate excuse.

  Powerful enough for her still to remember every transformative detail of it a decade later in spite of all the effort she’d expended on trying to forget.

  Sophie turned round again onto her back, affording herself one more brief glimpse of the other woman on her way. She glanced sideways at Sean, half-hoping that an invisible switch would flick inside her, deleting the thoughts that for years had been unthinkable and yet now, suddenly, seemed inescapable.

  She’d have to tell him. She’d have to tell him something, although she didn’t know quite what and she didn’t know exactly when.

  She looked ahead, to where the sand met the water and the water met the sky. And then she closed her eyes and allowed herself to begin to see all that she’d concealed for as long as she could remember.

  About the Author

  Hannah Beckerman is an author and journalist. Her debut novel, THE DEAD WIFE’S HANDBOOK was published by Penguin in the UK in 2014 with international editions in the USA, Italy, Germany and Turkey to follow. She’s a freelance writer for the Financial Times Weekend Magazine as well as a blogger for The Huffington Post. Before turning her hand to writing, Hannah spent fifteen years in television as a Commissioning Editor for Arts, History and Science documentaries at the BBC, Channel 4 and the Discovery Channel.

  Hannah lives in London with her husband and their incredibly lively toddler. She is currently working on her second novel.

  Website: www.hannahbeckerman.com

  Twitter: www.twitter.com/hannahbeckerman

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/HannahBeckermanAuthor

  Visit www.sunloungerstories.com to discover more about the authors and their story destinations.

  We have everything you need to make this your Best Summer Ever!

  Return to the contents list.

  A Singapore Fling

  ***

  Rosie Blake

  DESTINATION: Singapore

  He was there again.

  I had the super shades on – sunglasses so larg
e I looked like Human Fly meets Posh Spice. They were completely perfect for my purpose. Ogling.

  He was rubbing oil into his limbs again. I loved it when he rubbed the oil in. Soon he would get up and lean over to rearrange his towel and wipe his hands on the cotton. I loved it when he leaned. I would get to see his arse, all sculpted and peachy, AND appreciate his slightly pernickety approach to cleanliness. He shifted to work the oil down his legs. His thighs tensed as he reached his feet. This was my third favourite bit. I could almost feel the dribble fall out of the side of my mouth. I pressed my lips together and watched, reaching without looking for my lemonade, sucking slowly and pretending to look left when really I WAS STILL LOOKING AT HIM.

  He went to lie down, slowly lowering himself back, a towel propped under his head, rays of sunshine giving his whole chest a sheen. I could count the ripples of his rib cage, appreciate the flat belly, the line of hair down to his trunks, the tantalising hint of…

  ‘Do you ever read that book?’ came a voice from behind me. My head whipped round to reply. The voice belonged to a man standing over me blocking out the sun. I squinted, just making out a silhouette of hair, curling up at the end, thick arms, broad shoulders.

  ‘I'm sorry,’ I spluttered.

  ‘Do you ever read that book?’ he repeated, with the hint of a Scottish accent. ‘It's just every time I see you, you're still on page seventy-nine. Do you have learning difficulties?’

  I made a noise between a huh and a WTF. It sounded like, ‘HwhAthefu.’

  ‘Short-sighted?’ he continued, cocking his head to one side. He had a dimple in his chin and his eyes were creased in amusement.

  I shifted on my towel, lifting my nose in the air a fraction. ‘Slow reader,’ I sniffed.

  ‘How terrible for you,’ he said, scooting over to sit, legs apart, on the vacant sunlounger next to me. ‘You should consider seeing someone about that.’

  Up ahead the Oiled Love God glanced our way. Noooo, I swore silently, we are not together Oiled Love God, I am yours. Why was this guy sticking around? I ignored him, moodily attempting to concentrate on page 80.

  I had NO idea what this book was about. Who was Clare? Oh yes, I think Clare was the protagonist. Or her best friend. I read on. Clare was her sister. I had been close.

  ‘Is it any good?’ He was lying on his back now, sunglasses on, hands propping up his head like he was about to do a sit-up. If his voice wasn't quite so I'm-Going-To-Inherit-A-Castle-a-La-Monarch-of-the-Glen I would probably have done a better job of ignoring him.

  ‘Hmm…’ I mumbled, ‘S'OK.’

  ‘Let's hope you aren't a member of a book club,’ he chuckled.

  Page 81 swam before me. How dare he assume that I am just some brainless woman who can't read good and can't talk meaningfully on the subject of literature.

  ‘It's a piece of crossover literary fiction that critics have called a ground-breaking piece of writing that challenges our very understanding of the word “love”,’ I read surreptitiously off the back cover.

  ‘Yes I know, I've read it. So did you think the tree is a metaphor for a world beyond or simply a symbol of their eternal feelings for one another rooted in the earth of their good fortune?’

  ‘I… I…’ I turned the page, pondering a reply, but another of his irritating low chuckles stopped me in my tracks.

  ‘Joking.’ He took off his sunglasses, lay back and closed his eyes. The sun was right overhead. ‘I'm Pete by the way.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Pete,’ I bristled.

  ‘Name?’ he asked, eyes still closed, face slanted towards the sun.

  ‘Chloe,’ I gave up.

  ‘Well Chloe, I will leave you to your reading.’

  ‘That's very good of you.’

  How presumptuous of him to assume things about me, he doesn't know me. I love to read. I am an excellent reader. A lover of quality literature. I looked at the page, then up ahead at Oiled Love God who had started to sweat. I licked my lips. In the distance a plane streaked across the sky leaving a white trail in its wake. Beneath it the ocean stretched effortlessly beyond, the sun glittering on its surface, speckling the water with pools of light.

  Pete rolled to face me, ‘So Chloe…’

  Oiled Love God had got up and was heading away, towards the bar in the corner.

  ‘I'm going for a swim,’ I said, rearing up off my towel and padding over to the pool. The turquoise water of the infinity pool was the most fantastic sight. I stepped in, gasping as the cool water hit my skin. The sun was a quivering ball above me. Wading out, I took in this incredible weather up on the roof terrace of the Marine Bay Sands Hotel. I hadn't believed it when I had arrived, entering the lift and hitting the button for floor 54, stepping out onto the terrace, seeing the whole world beneath me.

  The Singapore skyline seemed almost insignificant from this height. The jumble of skyscrapers, the boats resting in the harbour, the dotted swimming-pool bars and the mill of people released from a month of smog enjoying moving freely through the city once more. From up here, perched at the edge of the infinity pool, it seemed that I was Queen of the City. I smiled to myself, the warmth pressing down on my head, the droplets of water sparkling on my skin.

  ‘What's so funny?’ The water lapped over the edge disturbing my calm. I closed my eyes.

  Pete splashed his way next to me, propping his arms up over the side and looking out at the sprawling mass of buildings in the distance. The water tumbled over the edges and then settled around us. He exhaled slowly, his chin propped up on the lip of the pool.

  ‘We're bloody lucky, aren't we?’ he commented, a change in his voice as he gazed straight ahead. The city seemed to spread out forever, the buildings on the horizon a shimmer meeting the sky.

  ‘I was actually thinking just that,’ I admitted, turning my body a fraction towards his.

  ‘Oh I bet your mind was focused on far loftier thoughts,’ he said, a sideways glance at me.

  I smiled, ‘Well in between Tolstoy and Doffstoyesky a girl has to fill her thoughts somehow.’

  ‘Quite, and I think you mean Dostoevsky.’

  I flicked water at him, a surprised laugh escaping.

  ‘Hey!’ he cried, hands up in surrender, ‘I wouldn't want you to embarrass yourself in front of any fans of Russian classical literature.’

  ‘You are thoughtful,’ I smirked.

  ‘A truce, a truce.’ He settled himself. ‘So how have you ended up here?’

  There was nothing else in his voice, just a simple question. I found myself wanting to answer him.

  ‘I'm travelling home from staying with a friend, it was a treat I'd been saving for. Ever since this place opened I’ve wanted to visit. You know they do cocktails in coconuts? And my room has floor-to-ceiling glass windows. It's gorgeous.’ His rolling laugh in response made me grin. ‘How about you?’ I asked.

  ‘My business are putting me up. I can't believe my luck.’ He threw a hand out towards the city, ‘I feel like a total rock star.’

  We faded into silence, watching the slow progress of a boat in the harbour below, the people dotted at tables on a sun terrace of an old hotel, the white columns reflecting the light, the curve of the road which I'd seen on the TV, the track for the Grand Prix where the tarmac always seemed to steam in the heat of the city.

  I noticed the water shift and Pete turned to look at me. His eyes, a startling greeny-brown now that I looked closely, darkened a fraction. He opened his mouth to speak and then his face changed as he looked over my shoulder. I turned. Oiled Love God was breaststroking our way.

  His neck was craned, the veins in it protruding as he strained to keep his head out of the water. I momentarily pictured my Great Aunt Alison who swam in much the same way lest her curls get wet. His black hair, the colour of dark chocolate, glistened. He was here, like all my staring had actually managed to summon him. I sucked in my breath and blinked quickly, as if he might suddenly disappear in a puff of oil and sex appeal. When I twisted back arou
nd Pete had left, moved away, the water washing in gentle waves. I felt momentarily alone. My skin broke out in goosebumps despite the heat of the day.

  Oiled Love God took up a spot on the side a couple of metres away. His back was against the wall of the infinity pool, away from the skyline. He was looking at the back of his hand, turning it one way and the next, picked something out of a nail. When I glanced up at his face he looked slowly back at me, a smile lifting one side of his mouth, his lips plump. I swallowed.

  ‘I come here often and see you, beautiful girl in the bikini. You come here before.’ He took a step towards me, the water lapping over my bikini top. He'd noticed me. I high-fived myself in my head.

  ‘I think I have never seen more pretty,’ he took another step closer. The oil made him look slippery, like a tanned seal. The image made me giggle.

  Oiled Love God's mouth turned down, ‘What is funny?’ His forehead didn't crease, face frozen as he waited for me.

  ‘Oh a silly thought… about seals.’ Way to go Chloe, act cool. Don't talk about seals again.

  ‘You see I think of you, alone, and I wonder to myself, what is she thinking.’

  ‘About Djostovket mostly,’ I laughed. A look flashed across Oiled Love God's face and I found myself muttering a quick, ‘Sorry.’

  A couple were sitting at the pool-side bar near us: the girl, her blonde hair in a ponytail, threw back her head and let out a loud bark of laughter, while he clutched her arm in shared mirth. I smiled at their shared amusement; the whole place seemed to have an atmosphere of fun.