Saturday started for me at 1.30pm, when I finally woke up from a deep, fuggy sleep, dreaming about being chased through the streets by angry Spanish pigs, demanding their balloons back.
If everything had gone to plan, Christina would have been walking down the aisle right now. I feel a brick in my heart and send her a text:
Are you OK, cous? Call me if you want to talk x.
And then I feel extra bad so I send a text to Steve too:
Sorry about everything that’s happened. Hope you’re OK. Call me if you need to talk x.
I mean what I say but I also hope they’re both too churned up to talk – my head is hammering as if someone is fixing nails into the carpet of my furry tongue. Ouch. I need Lucozade. I wonder what that is in Spanish?
As I stagger towards the shower, there’s a note sticking out from underneath the door to my room.
Hey!
You’re snoring too loudly to hear me knock. Wake up and let’s go to the beach.
B x
Even the late afternoon sun is beautifully hot and recharging here. Some of the hard-core tanners are starting to peel off the beach but at 3pm Bill and I are just getting comfy. It’s quite nice to just lie here and bask, not having to talk all that much. The gentle, long curve of the beach has a backbone of shops and cafes, selling beer and wine and all kinds of bad-but-good treats. I stopped at a little grocery place and bought tomatoes, ham and bread for a refuelling hangover lunch. And the tomatoes here are unbelievably good – juicier and plumper and sweeter and tangier than any tomato I have ever had. It might just be holiday bliss kicking in, but every mouthful of my picnic sandwich is like the food of the gods and I have to hold back from groaning in pleasure, in case it sets Bill off on one of his raised-eyebrow-type comments. He is such a tart.
‘We should swim,’ he murmurs from underneath the baseball cap over his face. ‘We’ve been still for too long. We owe it to our mate Tomas to get into every bit of his city.’
I look down at the half-sandwich I’m still slowly savouring. ‘Nah, in a bit. Besides, I need to wait half an hour.’
Bill shakes off the cap and turns onto his stomach to look up at me. ‘That is a convenient lie for a lazy person.’
‘Pah! I’m not lazy. I’ll have you know I ran a 10K once.’
‘When?’
‘Seven years ago.’
‘Aha!’ Just as his smile turns super smug, a dollop of fat rain lands on his nose and I nearly choke on my ham.
I’m gathering up all my stuff on my beach towel while clearing my airway. ‘It’s raining, shit! Quick!’
Bill stuffs his things into his battered rucksack, then stops. He clocks the locals moving slowly off the beach, laughing and joking, mooching at their own place to take refuge under one of the café awnings.
‘We should swim now.’
‘WHAT?!’
‘Well, we’ll get wet either way and – look.’ He points out to the newly deserted sea, its texture dimpled by the raindrops falling from above. ‘It’s all ours. That doesn’t happen often – your own private sea.’
The rolling grey clouds coming in towards us can’t distract from the beauty of the cobalt blue water. The air is still warm, despite the rain dashing down, and despite my better judgment, I am really tempted.
‘Don’t let this be the best thing you never do,’ Bill says confidently, stripping off his T-shirt. Now he’s given me one more good reason.
‘Last one in is buying all of tonight’s wine!’ I yell over my shoulder as I get a three-step head start.
After an hour of swimming, splashing, diving off the floating pontoon and generally mucking about, my sandwich a distant memory. I’m starving.
‘I hope the ice cream here is as good as the hot chocolate. If it is, you might have to roll me back to my room.’ My voice gets muffled as I towel the whole of my head in one shaggy move. Normally I would try to act a bit like I’m more refined around guys but with Bill those things don’t seem to register.
Suddenly the towel whips away from in front of me and I see his flash of a smile. ‘I have a better idea.’
Leading me through the maze of streets, Bill seems to have an inner compass but I’m almost dizzy with how lost I feel. Up here, left there, through what feels like someone’s back garden and finally we stop. It looks vaguely familiar but that might just be because we’ve doubled back on ourselves and Bill doesn’t want to admit it.
A grey steel door near some huge heating vents is propped open.
‘This is not illegal, but just keep your voice down. And don’t leave prints.’ When he sees my eyes widen, he adds, ‘I am obviously joking. Sort of.’
We sneak in through the door and into a big commercial kitchen, gleaming with freshly washed steel surfaces and grills. The one anomaly stands smack bang in front of me: in a world of grey, a huge white tower. Of cake. A wedding cake.
‘Wait. Where are we?’
‘The hotel kitchen.’
I took some convincing to make that first slice. I mean, it was my cousin’s cancelled wedding cake and here I was about to fill my hamster cheeks with it. But when I refused Bill’s first five suggestions that we might as well tuck in, he went and grabbed Tomas and the kitchen staff. They confirmed that yes, this was the wedding cake, already made and paid for before the unfortunate news came in. And they can’t get hold of anyone from the families to make a decision about it. Well, there is one family member who they hoped might take charge…
The head chef looks at me with big puppy dog eyes, less Gordon Ramsey and more Shirley Temple. Tomas helpfully translated the stream of slick Spanish that followed.
‘He said, it is a shame to waste such a labour of love: it took him many hours to create it, with help from all his other chefs. And so it will be thrown away.’
Now I can feel about fifteen pairs of puppy eyes focused on me. And Bill is hamming up his outrage. ‘What a very sad waste indeed, and we haven’t even mentioned the hungry orphans of the world, who would weep if they could see such a waste—’
‘OK!’ I hold my hands up, giving in to both peer pressure and sugar cravings, like my true inner fifteen year old. ‘I will eat it. But only if you guys have two slices each. If there’s no evidence, there’s no crime. Capisce?’
None of the Spanish kitchen team understand this, quite rightly, but a knife being plunged into a huge gorgeous cake is surely International Sign Language for ‘Pop the kettle on.’ They all beam back at me in delight.
Somehow I actually trump them all and manage three slices (carrot cake, not only my favourite but scientifically good for me). Just as Bill and I waddle up the back stairs and into the lobby, heading for the bar, I hear a squawk I instantly recognise.
‘Oh hello, pet!’
‘Auntie Ruth!’ I am enveloped in a squashy, lavender-scented hug. ‘Have you been out enjoying the city? I absolutely love it here.’
‘I can see you do.’ Great Aunt Ruth unashamedly eyes Bill up and down.
He flashes her one of his wolfish grins.
‘Um, this is Bill, Ruthie. He was coming for the wedding too, we met on the flight.’
‘Fancy!’ she coos. ‘And just to think, you used to say you’d rather snog David Cameron than fly on a plane. Looks like you’re sorted in both categories, dear.’
Luckily, in a hot country, you can openly fan yourself to banish flaring pink cheeks and almost get away with it as just a sign of the weather. ‘Um, anyway—’ I’d pay good money to change the subject now, but Ruthie is on a roll. God save us.
‘So you’re from our side then? Cos I definitely recognise you.’ She points a pudgy finger at Bill and I spot the same prawn-pink nail varnish. Christina had thought to secure the nail varnish theme, if not her actual marriage. Nice.
He laughs. ‘Nope, I’m from Stuart’s side.’
‘Steve,’ I interject.
‘Huh?’
‘Christina and Steve, not Stuart. Are you sure you’re related?’ My chuckle goes limp a
s Bill’s eyes widen just a fraction and his smile slips.
Ruthie gives a throat-clearing cackle. ‘William the Wondrous!’
‘Er, what?’ My cheeks are now red not from embarrassment but from stomach-twisting panic. Has Bill hooked up with my great aunt?!
Bill’s trying to shush her, but Ruthie’s not having any of it. ‘I saw you at the Legion! You were ever so good. Tell me, son, where did the rabbits actually go?’
I think I might faint. ‘Um, I’ll just get some… water. Or gin,’ I mumble, turning for the bar.
‘No, wait.’ Bill has a strong tanned hand around my wrist. It’s the first time since I met him that he doesn’t look totally cocksure. In fact, he looks as panicked as I feel. ‘I’m the magician.’ He winces.
Ruthie is still laughing to herself. ‘He’s ever so nifty. Read our Stacey’s mind, and everything. She was thinking about Bradley Walsh. So my girl booked him for the wedding, flew him out to keep us all entertained. But what with young Christina being such a minx, we could do with a trick. Come on William, do us a turn.’
‘Believe me,’ he says gruffly, ‘I’m trying really hard to get the ground to swallow me up right now.’
‘In my humble experience,’ Bill hands me a G&T and leans against the balcony next to me, ‘opening with, “Hey sexy, I’m the hired help AND I can juggle” doesn’t really impress the ladies.’
My heart rate has finally recovered and the disturbing visions of Ruthie getting it on with Bill, with some startled rabbits thrown in, have thankfully subsided. Now it all just feels very funny.
‘There’s nothing wrong with being a magician. Anyway, I thought you were an accountant. It’s kind of a toss-up in the sexy stakes.’
He barges me lightly with his shoulder. ‘Watch it. I’m learning to do my own bookkeeping. Much harder than pulling scarves out of your mouth.’
‘So does it keep you busy, then? Being a magician.’
He rolls his eyes playfully. ‘Busy, yes; rich, not so much. But I like meeting people, making them laugh, mucking about. It’s hardly coal mining. And I get to chat up foxes like Ruthie there.’ He lets out a wolf whistle and a worrying image pops back into my head.
I take a long glug. ‘Hmm. It explains the trick with that little kid, and how you are always so persuasive.’
He shakes his head wistfully. ‘No, that’s just because I’m really attractive,’ he deadpans.
But as I’m groaning, he turns just then, one corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. He inches closer to me, his head dipping down so his lips are just moments from mine. I can smell his lemony aftershave. It’s tastier than any wedding cake.
‘And you’re so gorgeous, I almost forget myself.’
I close my eyes, waiting for the kiss. And it’s like fireworks are going off behind my eyelids.
Wait, he’s not actually kissing me.
But there are actual fireworks! In the sky, absolutely everywhere. Red, blue, green, gold; fizzing, racing, banging, whooshing. And far away we can hear tiny cheers, from the crowds that must have gathered at the beach to watch.
Bill is entranced and the explosions of colour light up in miniature in his eyes. There is something magical about him, like I pulled a rabbit out of a hat by getting on that flight.
‘We have to get down there!’ he yelps, grabbing my hand, pulling me away from the bar’s balcony, out the front doors, down the steps.
Now we’re running, Bill calling out over his shoulder, ‘Tomas said… the fireworks party… on the beach is… epic!’
I’m trying not to feel deflated that the chance to snog me has been passed over for a warm beer on the sand. It doesn’t hurt that I’m getting a great view of Bill’s bum ahead of me as he runs plus the sky is still sprinkled with the most amazing shapes and colours. It’s all an adventure, I suppose, and the fear and obsessing over the flight has been so completely worth it. Even if Bill disappears himself through a vanishing cabinet at the end of my stay, I can always say I had a magic time in San Sebastian.
We turn down one narrow street and then into another. It might be the gin or my sugar-come down, but I feel lost and rather woozy again. Judging by the number of times Bill has pawed at his chin, I’d say he is too.
‘Where is the sodding beach?’ he mutters. Bright red shimmers in the sky give the washing hanging between the buildings the most spectacular backdrop. I bet those pants have never looked so glam.
‘Maybe we should go back to the hotel?’ I venture.
‘No, no,’ Bill says, turning his big brown eyes on me. ‘You’re going to have the best night of your life. William the Wondrous, remember? It might be just a corny name to you but I can’t damage my reputation with Great Aunt Ruthie. We’re getting to that party. Come on.’
And we’re sprinting again, which is jiggling my gin and cake around in an unenjoyable way. Suddenly the turn we take must be putting us on the right track as the narrow lane is crammed with people, cheering, dancing, singing. And then I notice that the noise above us has stopped.
‘The fireworks!’ I yell at Bill over the din. ‘The fireworks have finished!’ I shrug happily. I couldn’t care less. I’ve still had one hell of an adventure.
He looks crestfallen for a moment, then looks around him, over the heads of the revellers. ‘This way!’ he shouts, pulling me to a tiny space between two houses that couldn’t really be called an alley. But it’s dark and quiet and the crowds rush noisily past us as we duck into our hidey hole.
‘What’s down here then?’
‘This.’ Bill’s kiss is deep and warm. And there’s a sparkler going off in the pit of my stomach. His hands move to the base of my spine and I’m pulled gently in against his chest.
When we finally break away, I can’t help but laugh. 'This is the best non-wedding I've ever been to.'
Bill tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. 'I consider myself very lucky that your cousin was a bit of a tramp,' he says.
‘Hey!’ I belt him on my arm. ‘Don’t make me find a pig’s stomach!’
He makes a break for the crowds and I chase after him. All the way back to the hotel.
About the Author
Poppy Dolan self-published her first book, The Bad Boyfriends Bootcamp, in 2012 and was amazed that someone other than her mum bought it. It made the Amazon Top 100 and no former boyfriends have since come forward to sue.
Her second book, There's More to Life than Cupcakes, was published by Novelicious Books in 2013. It's about baking, babies and not knowing when to grow up.
When she's not glued to her laptop, Poppy loves cooking, reading and getting emotional over reality TV. She is in her early thirties and lives just outside London with her husband. She writes in a coffee shop nicknamed Terence and also – when it's not too chilly – in the shed. Currently she’s writing a novel about PE teachers, but nice ones.
You can get in touch with Poppy on Twitter or Facebook. She doesn't bite. Unless you are a muffin.
Twitter: www.twitter.com/PoppyDWriter
Facebook: www.facebook.com/PoppyDolanBooks
Visit www.sunloungerstories.com to discover more about the authors and their story destinations.
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Partners in Crime
***
Carrie Duffy
DESTINATION: Los Angeles
Emily Elton sat back in the dove-grey leather seat of the private jet and wondered whether it would be unprofessional to accept a second glass of perfectly chilled vintage Krug champagne.
‘Thank you, that would be delightful,’ she smiled to the stewardess, deciding, after a very brief deliberation, that it wouldn’t.
Across from her, Nathan Scott smiled in approval, and Emily knew she’d made the right choice.
She held his gaze for just a moment too long, and was gratified to see his smile grow even wider. Oh, but he was delicious! Even better looking than in the movies – and she s
hould know, she’d seen almost every one: Nathan Scott, ripped and rugged as he saved the world from the bad guys; cute and flustered playing the dapper English gent in a rom-com; distant and brooding, repressed passion simmering below the surface in a sweeping period drama.
Right now, he was dressed casually in faded jeans and a grey-marl T-shirt, a smattering of blond stubble peppering his jaw line. His legendary bright blue eyes looked a little bloodshot, but when he trained them on Emily, she was mesmerised.
‘Cheers,’ Nathan toasted, holding up his champagne flute. ‘Here’s to an amazing time in LA.’
‘And to finding the house of your dreams,’ Emily added, as they clinked glasses. She took a sip of the bubbling liquid, hardly able to believe that this was actually happening. That she was actually sitting on a private plane on her way to Los Angeles, sharing a bottle of Krug with Nathan Scott, bonafide A-lister and last year’s winner of People magazine’s ‘Sexiest Man Alive’ title.
Emily worked for Elliott Jones International, an exclusive estate agent based in London’s Mayfair, with a prestigious reputation and a worldwide presence. It was well known for selling some of the most incredible properties on the market, whether you were looking for a luxurious mansion in the Caribbean, or a glamorous ski lodge in Verbier.
For the most part, Emily adored her job. At only twenty-six, she’d worked for Elliott Jones since leaving university, and thrived in the high pressure environment, addicted to the thrill of closing a deal and making a sale. Her line of work afforded her access to some of the richest, most fascinating people on the planet – from Russian oligarchs, to Arab sheikhs, to City slickers out to blow their bonuses – and Emily had an uncanny knack for discovering what made people tick, able to match the right character to the right property with an astonishing success rate. Ambitious, hardworking and utterly dedicated to her career, Emily was already outshining her peers and flying up the corporate ladder, making a name for herself in a competitive industry.
SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories) Page 19