‘Fine,’ she capitulated, sitting down on the sofa and crossing her long legs.
Nathan fixed them both vodka sodas with fresh lime then sat down beside her, stretching his arm out along the back of the sofa. Emily sipped at her drink, all too aware of the electricity crackling between them.
‘So did you like any of the houses we looked at today?’ she asked, in an attempt to break the awkward silence.
‘Emily, Emily, you’re always thinking about work,’ Nathan chastised. He reached over, brushing a stray wisp of hair out of her eyes. ‘Don’t you ever switch off?’
‘What can I say?’ she tried to joke. ‘I’m dedicated to my career.’
Nathan frowned, a flicker of unhappiness crossing his eyes. ‘Is this important to you, making this sale? Am I just another client?’
‘Nathan…’ she began, shifting awkwardly in her seat. ‘I don’t—’
But whatever she was about to say was cut off as Nathan leant across and kissed her, taking her breath away. His lips were soft, his mouth warm and inviting, and all Emily knew was that it felt incredible. It didn’t matter that he was a client, or a famous movie star – right here, right now, he was everything she wanted.
Finally, Nathan pulled away, gazing at her adoringly. ‘I’ve been longing to do that since the first moment I saw you. But there’s something I have to say. Something I need to tell you.’
Emily could still taste him on her lips, her whole body tingling from that earth-shattering kiss. She looked up at him now, gorgeous and troubled, and wondered what on earth was going on.
‘Nathan,’ she began nervously. ‘What is it?’
Nathan hesitated, picking up his glass and swirling the clear liquid around anxiously, working up the courage to speak. Finally, he let out a long sigh. ‘I’m broke.’
Emily stared at him in confusion. ‘Broke? What do you mean?’
Nathan drained his glass and got up to fix himself another, his back to her as he crossed the room. ‘What I said. I’m broke. I don’t have any money.’
‘But… I don’t understand. How can you not have any money?’
‘She took it,’ Nathan shrugged, his voice taking on a bitter note. ‘Ashley. In the divorce. Well, she took what was left of my money, anyway. You may have read about my… vices,’ he continued, looking somewhat ashamed of himself as he returned to the sofa. ‘I gambled a lot, loved to spend money on extravagant gestures – fast cars, private jets, the best hotel suites,’ he added, gesturing around the palatial room. ‘Not to mention the drugs, the parties, the rehab fees…’
‘But you’re talking movie star broke, not broke broke?’ Emily queried, struggling to wrap her head around Nathan’s revelations. ‘You still have a few million in the bank, stashed away in some offshore tax haven, right?’
‘Nope,’ Nathan shook his head.
‘But you must have something,’ Emily pressed, unwilling to believe what he was telling her. ‘What about your apartment in New York?’
‘Mortgaged to the hilt.’
‘The flat in Knightsbridge?’
‘I need to sell that just to pay the lawyers’ fees. God, it feels good to get this stuff off my chest,’ Nathan exclaimed, throwing back his head and exhaling deeply. ‘Hey, you wanna hear something funny? I can’t even afford this room we’re sitting in. And I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to pay the bill for that private jet we flew over on.’
‘But… you’re Nathan Scott,’ Emily reminded him. ‘Can’t you just do another movie?’
Nathan laughed hollowly. ‘It’s not that easy anymore. My agent’s trying but… what can I say? I’m getting too old to play an action hero now. I’m no longer any director’s pick for a romantic lead. This town is vicious. There are always younger guys, hotter guys, more talented guys coming up behind you. You’re not flavour of the month for very long in Hollywood.’
Emily sat in stunned silence, taking in what she’d just heard.
‘So what was all this about?’ she asked finally. ‘Flying me out here, looking around properties?’
Nathan smiled sadly. ‘A bit of fun, I suppose. I thought it’d be a great idea – one last blow-out before I’m forced to file for bankruptcy and spend the rest of my career appearing on increasingly humiliating reality TV shows. Besides, Charles Maloney gave you a credit card, right? Told you to keep me happy? You’d be amazed what lengths people go to when they think you’ve got money.’
Realisation dawned on Emily, as she recalled the way she’d paid for everything on this trip – and all on Charles’ credit card. She remembered how Nathan would disappear to the bathroom just before the check arrived, the way he kept forgetting his wallet, or never having change to tip.
‘But why me?’ Emily blurted out.
Nathan grinned. ‘I liked the look of you. You looked like you’d be fun. A hell of a lot more fun than that arsehole, Charles.’
‘Charles is an arsehole,’ Emily agreed, with feeling.
‘And it turned out to be a very good decision.’ Nathan was looking at her as though he wanted to eat her alive, his eyes sparkling devilishly. He leaned over and kissed her once again, more passionately this time. She could feel his rough stubble against her skin, taste the alcohol on his tongue.
‘So you’ve got no money?’ Emily questioned breathlessly, when they finally came up for air. ‘No money at all?’
‘Nothing. Nada. In fact,’ Nathan looked sheepish. ‘I was rather hoping you’d put this room on Charles’ credit card.’
Emily frowned. She looked round the luxurious suite, at Nathan Scott sprawling languidly on the sofa beside her, all lazy smile and movie-star good looks. Then she thought of Charles Maloney, with his braying voice and shiny red face, of all the times he’d slid those greasy fat fingers over her bottom when he thought no one was looking, all the times he’d put her down and tried to make her look like an idiot in front of her colleagues.
Suddenly, Emily threw back her head and burst out laughing, a long, hard belly laugh that caused her to fall backwards onto the sofa, shaking until her stomach hurt.
Nathan watched her in amusement. ‘Emily, darling, you’re crazy, you know that?’
‘What time is it?’ she demanded, her eyes alive with excitement.
‘Just gone three am. Why?’
Emily grabbed the room service menu, flicking through it eagerly. ‘Perfect time for a late night snack, don’t you think? Now, I’m going to order lobster for starter, followed by steak with string fries, and then a chocolate soufflé, all washed down with a bottle of the finest Dom Perignon. You?’
Nathan realised what she was doing, and burst out laughing. ‘I think I’ll join you in that. I’ll have the filet mignon, and a bottle of Château Lafite to accompany it.’
‘And you know what we’re going to do tomorrow?’ Emily continued, pulling out her iPad. ‘Look – this is Brad and Angie’s place. It’s just come onto the market. I thought it was out of your price range, but now I realise it doesn’t matter,’ she giggled. ‘So we’re going over there first thing, and we’re going to skinny dip in their pool.’
‘Skinny dip? Really?’ Nathan raised his eyebrows, thrilled at the suggestion.
‘Absolutely. And then we’re going to Hilary Swank’s place – she’s selling her ranch in Calabasas – and I’m taking a selfie with her Oscar.’
‘How about we swing by Spago after that? Treat ourselves to a long, leisurely lunch, with a nice bottle of champagne.’
‘Perfect. I’ll see if we can get a viewing slot for Pharell’s house in the afternoon – his hot tub’s supposed to be out of this world.’
‘You’re really getting the hang of this,’ Nathan grinned, softly kissing her lips. ‘I knew there was a reason I picked you, Emily Elton.’
‘Believe me, you’re not going to regret it,’ Emily replied, as she melted into his arms and kissed him right back.
About the Author
Carrie Duffy grew up in Selby, North Yorkshire, before mo
ving to Paris at the age of eighteen. She went on to study Philosophy, Politics and Economics at Oxford University before training as an actress. Her novels IDOL and DIVA were published by HarperCollins, and are glamorous bonkbusters set in the worlds of music and fashion. Carrie lives in west London and is currently working on her third novel.
Website: www.carrieduffy.com
Twitter: www.twitter.com/cazduffy
Facebook: www.facebook.com/pages/Carrie-Duffy/206886522702389
Visit www.sunloungerstories.com to discover more about the authors and their story destinations.
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Alone in Catalonia
***
Matt Dunn
DESTINATION: Barcelona
‘I take?’
The man had spoken in heavily-accented English, and Alison looked up with a start. He was stocky, olive-skinned, dressed in an FC Barcelona tracksuit, and more than a little sweaty, although the late afternoon sun was hot, and after a day of sightseeing, Alison was sure she wasn’t smelling quite like a rose herself.
‘I’m okay, thanks.’
She repositioned herself, trying desperately to get the whole of the stunning Sagrada Familia in the background, but when you were just over five feet tall (and had arms the corresponding length), selfies weren’t always that easy to take, especially when you were trying to include something as impressively large as Spain’s most famous cathedral while simultaneously attempting to block out the cranes towering above it. But this was the last stop on her Barcelona weekend, and Alison was determined to have at least one photo that included her to prove she’d actually been here, and not just uploaded a random selection of other people’s Instagram photos to her Facebook page.
‘I take,’ insisted the man, kneeling down to tighten the laces on his Nike trainers. ‘Then you have photo of two beautiful things. Not half of one.’
Alison blushed. As cheesy as it was, the compliment was welcome after what had been a harrowing couple of days (assuming it was a compliment, and not just something lost - or rather, something she’d desperately been trying to find - in translation).
‘Well… Yes, then. Thank you.’ She handed the man her iPhone, and pointed to the button on the screen. ‘Here. You just have to…’
‘Is okay,’ said the man. ‘I know where to touch.’
I’ll bet you do, thought Alison, noticing the glint in his eye. But, she reminded herself, she was only here for the weekend, and a holiday fling was the last thing she was after - especially with someone whose everyday wardrobe evidently came from whatever the Spanish equivalent of J D Sports was.
‘Is new iPhone, si?’ he continued, examining her phone, and Alison smiled politely. She’d only just got it, from the Apple store round the corner from her office in Covent Garden, though she’d nearly taken it back when she’d realised it cost more than this whole weekend in Barcelona had.
‘Right. I mean, ‘si’.’ Alison nodded, wishing he’d just get on with taking the photo, then she felt a little ungrateful. The man was doing her a favour, after all, and besides, this was the most conversation she’d had since stepping off the plane the previous day, and she supposed it was better than nothing.
‘Okay,’ said the man. ‘You go back a little…’
‘Here?’ asked Alison, taking a step closer to the cathedral.
‘More,’ said the man, moving a yard backwards himself, and she did as she was told.
‘Here?’
‘More,’ he said, checking the traffic, then stepping backwards off the kerb.
Alison frowned. ‘I just want me and the building, not me and the whole city,’ she said, wondering why the man was edging further away from her.
And slipping her phone into the pocket of his tracksuit top.
Then turning round, and making a run for it…
‘Stop!’ she shouted. ‘Thief!’
A nearby group of Japanese tourists began babbling excitedly (a few of them even taking photos of her instead of the cathedral) as she cursed her stupidity and began to give chase, though she stopped almost immediately. She’d never catch him, especially wearing the powder blue Minorcan sandals she’d treated herself to from a shop on Las Ramblas that morning, which had looked so trendy when she’d tried them on, but after a day marching from one glorious sight to another, were starting to chafe quite painfully.
She stood helplessly on the kerb as the thief glanced back over his shoulder to check whether she was chasing him, then he gave her a disdainful sneer and slowed down to a casual jog. Then someone flashed past her, a blur of pumping arms and heavily-muscled legs, and within moments, the man – she’d caught a whiff of his Lynx body spray as he’d passed – had caught the thief up, grabbing him by his tracksuit collar just as he’d leapt onto the back of a waiting motorbike. Alison hurried across the road, narrowly avoiding an open-top tour bus, but by the time she reached the opposite pavement, the thief was nowhere to be seen.
‘My phone!’ she wailed, and the man turned to acknowledge her, his face a little flushed from the chase. He was good looking, a foot taller than she was, and had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, and (she realised, once she’d finally stopped checking him out) appeared to be holding the thief’s tracksuit top.
‘Ta-da!’ he said, slightly out of breath, as he reached into one of the tracksuit’s pockets and retrieved her phone. ‘Did he snatch it from your bag? Is anything else missing?’
‘No, I…’ Alison stopped talking, not wanting to admit she’d handed her phone over willingly, or that answering ‘yes’ to the thief’s ‘I take?’ had been virtually giving him permission to steal it. ‘That was amazing. How can I ever thank you?’
‘Hey – I’m hardly Sherlock Holmes. I heard you shout, then saw him running.’ He handed the phone back to her, then threw the tracksuit into a nearby bin. ‘And no need.’
‘I feel so stupid.’
‘Don’t. These people are professionals. They know tourists get distracted by the buildings, so they… Are you OK?’
Alison realised she’d grabbed his arm - her knees had suddenly felt weak as the adrenalin had worn off. ‘Yes. Just a little… I think I need to sit down.’
‘Come on.’ The man gently steered her to a nearby bench. ‘My name’s Jay, by the way.’
‘Alison.’
‘It’s definitely Jay. I’ve seen my birth certificate.’
‘No, I’m Alison…’
She realised he was joking, then felt her lower lip begin to tremble, and to her surprise, Alison burst into tears.
‘Hey,’ Jay said. ‘My joke wasn’t that bad, surely?’
‘No,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s just… Sorry. I’m being silly.’
‘I understand.’ He smiled sympathetically. ‘You’ve just been robbed. It must have been quite a shock,’ he said, and Alison nodded, though in actual fact, she wasn’t crying about being robbed. She was crying about how she wouldn’t have been robbed if her original plans had worked out, and she’d been here with her boyfriend – or rather, she reminded herself, ex-boyfriend - Michael, on what she’d booked for his birthday as a surprise mini-break. Because then he’d have been the one taking the photo (and not some sad Billy-no-mates selfie of her slightly-out-of-focus face with a partly-obscured cathedral behind her, either), so she wouldn’t have had to hand her phone to someone dressed (now she thought about it) for running away, rather than just running. But the day before yesterday, when she’d told Michael about her plans for this weekend, he’d told her he didn’t like where they were going, and while she’d assumed he’d meant Barcelona (perhaps, Alison had initially, naively believed because they’d just knocked his beloved Manchester City out of the Champions League), it had turned out he’d meant with their relationship. She was too set in her ways, apparently. Not impulsive enough. Which she found shocking and ironic: Shocking that this had come from a man who planned his (and therefore their)
weekends around the premier league fixtures list; and ironic how it had taken her booking a surprise trip to somewhere she’d never been before for him to decide to tell her that.
After the ensuing argument (and break-up), an angry Alison had decided to come anyway – and not just because she couldn’t get a refund on the tickets. She’d show him she could be impulsive by coming on her own – and though she’d shed a silent tear or two over the empty seat where Michael should have been sitting on the plane coming over, the first thing she’d done was take the metro to Barcelona’s football stadium to take a photo to WhatsApp him, and from the moment she’d pressed ‘send’ (followed hastily by ‘block’) she’d surprised herself by having a good time. Until about two minutes ago, that was.
‘Hold on…’ Jay hauled himself up from the bench and walked across to a nearby café, helping himself to a handful of serviettes from the dispenser on a vacant table. ‘Here,’ he said, handing them to her as he sat back down.
‘Thanks.’ Alison blew her nose loudly, then took a few breaths to calm herself as they sat staring at the cathedral.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Jay, after a moment or two.
‘It is,’ said Alison, gawping at the intricate carvings on the towering spires, the ornate stonework above the doorway, the way the sculptures almost seemed alive (though that was because the one she’d been marvelling at was in fact a street performer with his face painted stone-grey, she realised, to her embarrassment). ‘Gaudy,’ she said, reaching into her bag for her guidebook. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Well, it’s perhaps a little OTT for some people,’ said Jay, then he laughed. ‘Oh, you mean the architect. His name’s Gaudi. G-A-U-D-I. Rhymes with ‘howdy’.’
SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories) Page 22