SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories)

by Belinda Jones

  ‘You really are shallow, Charlie. Dare I even ask what was wrong with Justin?’

  ‘You may, because this reason is valid: he chewed with his mouth open. It was completely disgusting.’

  ‘They’re not reasons, they’re excuses. Do you think I liked everything about Chris when I first met him?’ Rachel pauses and waits for a reply despite there being no actual need to respond to her evidently rhetorical question. As the silence threatens to become awkward, I offer a nonchalant shrug to placate her. Sated, she continues. ‘But now I love those flaws. They make him who he is.’

  I roll my eyes unintentionally as my little sister revels in the profundity of her lecture.

  ‘My point is,’ she continues with a sigh, ‘is that if you’d seen the dates through to completion, you might have discovered that at least one of those men – for all their trivial flaws – was actually a great guy.’

  I don’t respond and instead start searching through a clump of my mousy locks for a split end I can tear in two.

  ‘Admit it Charlie, you simply don’t want to move on. You don’t want to let Max go. You’re punishing yourself.’

  I’m back to staring into my cup with a blank expression when Rachel pulls out her copy of Glamour magazine and starts flicking through the pages with a manic ferocity.

  ‘Haha,’ she beams. ‘Virgo… Your life is coming to a standstill and threatens to stall…but things don’t have to be as complex as you’re making them. Banish the drama from your life and listen to well-meaning friends to get yourself moving in the right direction.’

  ‘Shut up. It does not say that.’ I reach for the magazine like a child reaching for a spoon they weren’t quite finished with, but the way Rachel recoils confirms my suspicion that she was indeed talking a load of bollocks. I narrow my eyes into dark piercing slits.

  ‘OK, so maybe it doesn’t say that exactly but I still think you need to listen to what your friends are telling you. You need to listen to what I’m telling you.’

  I heave a hyperbolic sigh and throw my head back; regretting it instantly as an electric current shoots through my muscles. I wince and start rubbing the aching spot. ‘And what are you telling me?’

  ‘I’m telling you to surrender some of your meticulous control over every aspect of your life – not just your love life – and put your fate in someone else’s hands. If you weren’t so uptight then your future could be very different. Just… go with the flow for a while.’

  ‘Only dead fish go with the flow, Rach,’ I snap, sounding exactly like our father. ‘And I will never put my fate in someone else’s hands.’ I shake my head rapidly to accentuate my refusal. ‘No, I’d rather decide my fate by the toss of a coin rather than listen to you or anyone else. Even with my best interests at heart, your decisions are all subjective.’ My words cause Rachel’s eyes to double in size. ‘What is it?’ I ask cautiously.

  Without answering, Rachel disappears under the table, like a Sesame Street character disappearing behind a wall, and starts rifling through her shopping bags. ‘Rach?’ I ask desperately, willing her to return despite her recent know-it-all attitude.

  ‘You’re completely right,’ a muffled voice says. ‘You need a non-sentient being to make your decisions for you.’ Slamming a cardboard cube on the café table, she sits upright all pink-cheeked and flustered. ‘This is it Charlie, the key to a possible future of happiness.’

  ‘A box?’ I reply with disdain. Rachel spins it around to reveal a black ball with a large number eight on the front. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A Magic Eight Ball.’

  ‘A magic-what-ball?’

  ‘A Magic Eight Ball. It’s a fortune-telling device and answers all your questions.’

  ‘It’s a child’s toy,’ I reply dryly.

  ‘True, but now I think it could be used for a higher purpose.’ Unwrapping it hungrily, Rachel starts rattling the black sphere like a monkey shaking a coconut. Then holding it before her, she gasps sharply before glaring at me like she’d just discovered the meaning of life. ‘You see,’ she whispers with a beam that reveals her two deep-set dimples, which I’d always been jealous of growing up because they always made her look so bloody cute. ‘It says, It is decidedly so.’

  ‘But what did you ask it?’

  She clears her throat and lifts her chin knowingly. ‘I asked if the Magic Eight Ball could help you find eternal happiness. Evidently it’s up for the challenge…if you are?’

  ‘What challenge?’

  ‘A trip.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Bruges.’

  ‘Bruges?’ I parrot loudly. ‘Why Bruges of all places?’

  ‘Because Chris and I had booked a sans-les-enfant getaway, but now he’s gone and got a touch of manflu. He’ll be unbearable for two consecutive hours let alone two consecutive days.’

  I can’t help but mirror her smile. ‘What happened to loving his flaws?’

  Rachel waves her hand flippantly. ‘Let me love them in the comfort of my own home where they’ll be supressed slightly from the distraction of back-to-back re-runs of Top Gear.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be coming with me?’ I ask.

  Rachel snorts inelegantly. ‘The children would look like Dickensian orphans by the time we got back. No, you go and enjoy the spacious double bed to yourself and think of me camping out on the sofa while Chris recovers from his manfluenza.’

  I picture this possible future briefly, before shaking my head. ‘That’s really lovely of you but I can’t.’

  ‘Why not? Why can’t I treat my big sister to a mini-break? Besides, you’re always saying how you’ve never explored anywhere within a twenty-mile radius of home so why don’t you become a tourist for the weekend?’

  My right eyebrow twitches with suspicion. ‘Which weekend are we talking about?’

  Rachel clears her throat and starts rolling the Magic Eight Ball in her palms, focusing on the white painted number like a soothsayer on a palm. ‘This weekend,’ she mumbles eventually.

  ‘This weekend? Are you joking?’ I shake my head. ‘I can’t Rach, I have so much work to do and—’

  I freeze as she looks up with a disappointed glint in her green eyes. ‘Are you seriously contemplating turning down a free holiday?’

  ‘It’s not a free holiday though is it? It’s an experiment.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she grins, ‘but an experiment in a fairy-tale city where you just might find a happily-ever-after of your own.’

  I snatch the toy from her and begin shaking it furiously. ‘Is my sister a meddling cow? Is my sister a meddling cow?’ I turn the toy upside down and wait for the letters to appear in the window of blue liquid. ‘It is certain,’ I read aloud before grinning childishly. ‘Well would you look at that? Perhaps it works after all.’

  After rattling my way down Bruges’ myriad medieval cobbled lanes and past the wistful canal with my oversized case, I decide it’s better to locate my hotel and check in and avoid the stern stares of disdain from tourists whose picturesque photos I’ve photobombed.

  The hotel wasn’t particularly difficult to find, but it had involved me walking past countless tea rooms where the scent of coffee and sugar pervaded the air, causing my stomach to argue about whether we should sit and eat or proceed to our destination. My stomach lost.

  ‘Mrs Haydon?’ the stunningly beautiful blonde receptionist dressed all in black reads off the booking confirmation, which I’ve passed her. I can see through the mirror behind her that my speed march here has done nothing for my appearance. I’m all pink cheeked and bleary-eyed and I sweep my fingers through my web of hair to make myself seem moderately presentable, only to get them hopelessly tangled.

  ‘Erm no, the booking should have been changed to Miss Neilson. Just Miss Neilson.’ I manage to tear my digits out of my tresses just as a golden-haired man invades my personal space, his suitcase knocking into the back of my legs. I scowl but say nothing.

  ‘Ah yes, here you are,’ the receptionist trills, r
eaching into the drawer for a keycard. ‘Room eight. Straight through the doors and right.’

  Unable to delight at the irony of my room number, I turn without making eye contact with the irritating masculine mass behind me and march towards my room, desperate to seek an answer from the mini-medium stowed away in my luggage.

  ‘Was this a ridiculous idea? Should I have said no to this nightmare?’ I probe with a breathless tone as I shake the Magic Eight 8 Ball once the door has shut behind me.

  ‘Well just who are your bloody sources?’ I ask, rattling it violently now until more letters swim out of the dark blue liquid and into view.

  I growl animalistically and abandon the source of my frustration on the archaic-looking wooden dresser beside me and stroll across to the windows, which are obscured by swathes of white voile. Pushing them aside, my chest expands with surprise at the view which greets me. The soft, golden light of the afternoon sun reflects off the canal’s calmly flowing waters below making it appear as if all the jewels of Arabia have been flung into it. Further up, the water is so still that the charming surrounds are duplicated on its surface and I find myself entranced by the doppelgängers of the Rapunzel-esque towers, alabaster buildings and the gothic cottages rather than the real things. Eventually my eyes graze up a willow’s branches whose new leaves are just starting to erupt from the spindly digits. Sprouting from the top of the tree is the city’s belfry, which stands proudly in the distance against the cloud-smattered sky. As its bells begin to toll, I silently thank man’s inability to defeat the common cold without morphine and round-the-clock care because this place is truly stunning; a real fairy-tale setting.

  I collapse onto the four-poster bed covered with an overly floral bedspread, crinkling the collection of leaflets some unappreciated soul has lovingly laid out for me: Charlotte Neilson, the tourist, the holiday maker, the person who came here to relax and stop stressing about failed relationships, bad hair and catastrophic dates.

  With that in mind, I retrieve the tourist paraphernalia from under my backside and flick through the pages, scanning through a variety of distractions which include the Market Square, the Basilica, museums, countless cafés and restaurants, canal trips and horse-and-carriage rides. Making a plan in my mind of where to go first, I stand and rewrap my light scarf about my neck to stave off the dying winter’s chill. But suddenly something else chokes me; the realisation that I must consult the ball.

  The sloshing of liquid commences as I begin a now familiar ritual. ‘Shall I go to the Basilica?’ I open my eyes nervously and read the answer. ‘My reply is no. Fine, then shall I go to the market place and get something to eat? Outlook not so good.’ I feel the frustration starting to build and wonder how long before this thing ends up in the canal. ‘Shall I go sightseeing at all? Concentrate and ask again. Shall I, Charlotte Neilson, go sightseeing right this minute? Shall I leave the hotel? My sources say no.’ I drop my arms as I wonder just what the hell I’m meant to do, only to turn the ball to read ‘Reply hazy, try again.’ Suddenly, my subconscious flashes back to a sign on the reception advertising the newly refurbished pool and steam room. I only bought my bikini along because Rachel insisted; I never contemplated having to wear it and the prospect is not appealing.

  Summoning all my courage, I shake the ball one last time. ‘Shall I go to the steam room?’ The ball spins in the orbit of my palms before the triangle of my destiny appears.

  Less than fifteen minutes later I walk into the pool room, trying to inconspicuously retrieve my bikini bottoms from between my bum cheeks. They have automatically tensed up after seeing other human forms in the vicinity.The jacuzzi looks to contain the United Nation’s council hotly discussing the latest humanitarian crisis – the pool is dominated by old men with hairy backs who seem to think wearing every single piece of gold jewellery they own is conducive to swimming.

  ‘Steam room it is,’ I say to myself just as the golden-haired stranger from reception saunters by. I catch him glancing back at me; a glance that causes my buttocks to tense just that little bit more. He’s completely not my type – not in any way – but I still want to look as pert as possible.

  I follow on, expecting him to perform an eccentric swan dive into the pool that would have allowed him to flex his back muscles, only for my stomach to drop as I realise he’s heading towards the steam room too; a fact he’s clearly realised too because the corners of his mouth are twitching as I follow in his wake. He disappears into the hot fog and closes the door behind him without waiting for me. Arsehole.

  I think twice about following, only to remember the Magic Eight Ball’s orders. It wanted me to go into the steam room and so mildly attractive golden-haired man or no mildly attractive golden-haired man, I would see this experiment through to the end.

  I yank the glass door open and suck in my stomach while my eyes trace the indiscernible shapes and faceless bodies that hug the perimeter of the room. Eventually, I spot an adequate space on the marble for me to delicately park my derriere and my muscles twitch to move. However, my brain manages to override the action as the face of the golden-haired man swims into view. He pretends not to notice me and shifts along, closing the gap. But I can’t back down now. Besides, I’ve already started in his direction and there’s still enough space. I can’t let him believe I’m that easily intimidated so instead I stroll as brazenly as I can across to where he’s now slouching with his arms folded.

  I sit down slowly so my thighs don’t make a farting sound as they meet the warm, wet marble. Then I roll my shoulders back and sigh softly. My eyelids drop like a Viennese blind and I start to listen to the conversations happening around me. There are French voices, a few Italian and one German conversation happening in the corner. My ears seek out anything I can understand and when they find it, they’re not disappointed.

  ‘What do you mean your parents are spending your inheritance? That’s so completely selfish,’ a young woman says to her friend in the far right corner.

  ‘I know right? And I’m doing so much for charity right now. They should be proud of me, not punishing me.’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘I mean think of the all those children whose lives I’ve changed, Millie.Think of how they’d suffer if I have to go and get a real job.’

  The girl’s friend makes a disgusted sound but their voices fade as I hone in on the silken voice of an older woman discussing her affair with the new junior at her husband’s accountancy firm.

  ‘I’m not a cougar though, Diane. I’m not old enough and he’s not young enough. Perhaps I’m an ocelot?’ Her friends giggle and I open my eyes to glance at the three women who are all aging fantastically well. There’s not a wrinkle in sight; in fact there’s no sign of any expression at all. ‘Besides, a cougar is someone who wets themselves if they do too many star jumps and I’ll have you know that I could crack nuts with my pelvic floor.’

  My peripheral vision catches a smirk from the golden-haired man beside me and for some reason beyond my physical control, I turn to mirror his expression. He has steel blue eyes and a wolfish grin comprising a set of almost porcelain white teeth. Stop looking at his eyes and his mouth, Charlie. My face drops at the silent reprimand and I turn back to the cougar conversation.

  ‘Have you got the time at all?’ asks the soft voice with a South-American lilt a la Matthew McConaughey in everything he’s ever starred in.

  I turn back to glare into the pair of steel blue eyes. Of course he’d be an American. His teeth are too insanely bright to belong to any other nationality. ‘I’m sorry?’ I reply with a croak. I clear my throat, which only makes me sound nervous.

  ‘Do you have the time?’ he asks.

  I look down at the three separate triangles covering my body and wonder where on earth he thinks I’m smuggling a watch. ‘No,’ I reply curtly.

  Undeterred by my brusqueness, he ventures with another conversation opener. ‘I suppose you don’t really want to be clock-watching in a place like this anyway. It de
feats the point of relaxing, right?’

  ‘Precisely,’ I say, wondering when he’ll realise that a conversation with a complete stranger when you’re nearly naked also defeats the object of relaxing.

  But despite closing my eyes and turning away, his voice reverberates through the steam once again. ‘I’m Ryan by the way,’ he says, clearly not getting the hint.

  ‘Charlie,’ I nod without drawing up my eyelids.

  ‘You’re English, right Charlie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And so you’re here for business? A holiday?’ he probes.

  I shake my head, still refusing to meet his blue gaze. ‘A break.’

  ‘Me too,’ he says excitedly, finally delighted to have something in common. ‘I came for a wedding actually but decided to spend the rest of my time doing a bit of sight-seeing.’

  I make a noise that translates as ‘that’s nice,’ before relaxing back into silence.

  Moments later, he tries again. ‘You English girls are real talkers aren’t you?’

  The gibe does its job and I’m back to glaring into his steel blue eyes. ‘It’s not that,’ I protest, ‘it’s just I don’t tend to talk to strangers in saunas, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m Ryan Armstrong from America, you’re Charlie Something-Or-Other from somewhere in the UK who’s staying in room eight.’ He takes my hand and I gawp at his audacity as he shakes it. ‘Pleased to meet you. Now we’re not strangers.’

  ‘But hardly friends,’ I add, annoyed at the fact he’d announced my room number to the entire sauna.

  ‘That’s true.’ He takes a deep breath, a movement which draws my eyes down to his pectorals, which are shining under the ethereal lights embedded in the ceiling. ‘So how about I meet you in reception in say one hour and we go for some lunch and a bit of sight-seeing together? The food in the hotel is not that great but there are tons of great cafés in and around the Market Square. The architecture is absoultely amazing everywhere you go in this city. You’ll love it.’