SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories)

by Belinda Jones

  ‘Ah. Thanks. I can’t pronounce any of these words. My Spanish is… Well, nonexistent, really.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Jay. ‘Though we’re actually in Catalonia. So technically, we should be speaking Catalan.’

  ‘Do you? Speak Catalan, I mean?’

  ‘No. But I speak a little Spanish, so I understand a bit.’ He nodded towards the building. ‘Though when something’s as breathtaking as Mr. Gaudi’s masterpiece over there, words can’t really do it justice, whatever language you use.’

  ‘Shame about all the cranes, though,’ said Alison, turning her attention back to the cathedral. ‘Are they repairing something?’

  Jay smiled. ‘Still building it, would you believe? Started in 1882, or thereabouts, and it’s due to be completed in 2026. Or 2028. They’re not sure. Even after a hundred and thirty years, they’re reluctant to give a finish date.’

  Alison frowned. ‘Sounds like they’re using the same builders who did my bathroom,’ she joked, and Jay laughed.

  ‘They’re just taking their time. When something’s worth doing, and all that, I suppose…’ He sat back on the bench, stretched out his legs, and laced his fingers behind his head. ‘You know, I live here, and I’ve never actually just sat and looked at this thing, even though I walk past it pretty much every day.’

  Alison hoped he couldn’t see her watching him out of the corner of her eye. ‘That’s usually the way. Sometimes, you just don’t appreciate what’s right in front of…’ She stopped talking. That had been the line Michael had used when he’d finished with her, possibly to try and make her feel better, but it had had the opposite effect, and now, as then, she swallowed so hard it made a sound.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m just feeling a little weak. I haven’t eaten any lunch,’ Alison said quickly, though the truth was, she hadn’t had any breakfast either - the hotel had been full of couples, and when she’d appeared in the dining room that morning and seen every other table occupied by two people and realised she’d been the only single (in both senses of the word) diner, she’d decided to skip what every diet she’d ever been on had insisted was the most important meal of the day and make an early start on Barcelona instead, and since then, she’d been too busy taking in the city’s majestic architecture to think about stopping for food. She looked at her watch, and realised it was nearly dinner time. ‘So, you live here?’

  ‘Yeah. Coming up to two years now.’

  ‘You lucky thing,’ said Alison, genuinely. She’d only been here two days, and she already loved the city.

  ‘Aren’t I? I mean, it was a bit of a wrench leaving England. But sometimes in life you find yourself standing in front of a door, and unless you go through it, you’ll never know where it’ll lead.’

  ‘That’s good advice,’ said Alison, though the only door she’d seen recently was the one Michael had shown her. ‘What do you do, if I can ask?’

  ‘I’m a teacher. In the international school just round the corner.’

  ‘Teaching…?’

  ‘Kids.’

  ‘No, I mean what sub… Alright. You got me again.’

  ‘D’you need me to get you some more tissues?’

  ‘Ha ha!’

  Jay grinned. ‘Maths.’

  ‘What brought you here in the first place? And please don’t say ‘Easyjet’.’

  Jay made a wistful face. ‘Amor.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Amor,’ he said, enunciating carefully, elongating the ‘o’, then rolling the ‘r’ like an ecstatic cat. ‘Love.’

  Alison felt a sensation she was surprised to recognise as disappointment. ‘Ah.’

  ‘But as of…’ He looked at his watch. ‘A month ago, me and her are no more.’

  He’d said the last two words in the same way, and Alison laughed. ‘Very good. As is your accent.’

  Jay shrugged. ‘I sound better than I am – especially to someone who doesn’t speak it.’

  ‘Are you fluent?’

  ‘Restaurant fluent, maybe. But get me onto something that’s unfamiliar territory…’

  ‘Like?’

  He smiled. ‘Anything apart from restaurants, really.’

  At the thought of food, Alison felt her stomach rumble, and hoped Jay hadn’t heard it. ‘Well, seeing as you’re the restaurant expert, can you recommend somewhere good where I can get some tapas?’

  ‘Not around here,’ Jay said, with a quick gesture at the local bars. ‘These are more for tourists who don’t know any better.’

  ‘Like me, you mean?’

  ‘Touché,’ said Jay. ‘Though for good tapas, you really need to go where the locals… Ah. You don’t speak any Spanish.’

  ‘Er… What’s the opposite of ‘si’?’ asked Alison.

  ‘No,’ said Jay.

  ‘In that case, no.’

  ‘Shame, because there’s this place I know near where I live – it’s my favourite, actually, but unless you know what you’re ordering, it can be a bit daunting.’ He thought for a moment. ‘There are a couple of others that are… Well, they’ve got pictures on the menu, but…’

  Alison pulled her map out of her handbag and unfolded it. ‘Where’s that first place? Your favourite?’

  ‘It’s in Plaza De Sant Augusti Vell. In the barri gotic… Sorry – the gothic quarter.’

  ‘Okay. So, that was Plaza…’ Alison stared blankly at the map, unable to decipher the maze of exotically-named streets, then (though she didn’t know what came over her) she had an idea. ‘Listen, I’d love to try somewhere good on my last night here, but I don’t speak Spanish. You do - and I’d like to say thank you…’

  ‘Gracias.’

  ‘Grassy, um, arse - for you being so brave and rescuing my phone, so perhaps I could, you know, buy you dinner? That’s if you haven’t eaten yet. I mean, if you have plans, I’ll understand, and you might not want to spend your evening with some silly tourist who… No, what am I thinking? I’ve already taken up too much of your time…’ She stood up, embarrassed, and began to pack her map away, then saw Jay was grinning.

  ‘I’d love to,’ he said. ‘Though we’ll go Dutch.’

  ‘I thought tapas was Spanish?’

  Jay laughed. ‘I see what you did there,’ he said, giving her a smile that melted her inside.

  He flagged down a taxi, and soon they were whizzing down wide, tree-lined boulevards, past grand fountains, then through narrower, almost mediaeval streets, eventually arriving in a tiny, sun-drenched square, where Jay passed the driver a handful of Euros, waved away Alison’s attempt to pay, then led her into a cheerful-looking restaurant on the corner.

  Suddenly, Alison felt she’d stepped a hundred years back in time. The place was quite dark, but once her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she made out the old, brick-vaulted ceilings, the dusty, brightly-coloured posters advertising old bullfights, a framed, autographed Barcelona football shirt above the bar (which she made a mental note to photograph, for Michael’s benefit), and a row of antique wooden barrels lining the far wall. As Jay shook hands with the old man behind the bar (and said something that could have been Chinese for all she knew), she hauled herself up onto the nearest stool.

  ‘So, what’s good here?’

  ‘Everything.’ Jay grinned. ‘Is there anything you don’t like?’

  Not so far, she thought, looking him up and down surreptitiously. ‘Nope. I’m in your hands,’ she said, colouring slightly. ‘I mean, whatever you recommend.’

  ‘Right.’ Jay cracked his knuckles theatrically. ‘Para empezar, una botella de Codorniu,’ he said to the old man, before rattling off their order, and Alison watched him, impressed. Then her eyes fell on a large, waxy object (with what looked like a hoof on one end) on a rack at the end of the bar. She nudged Jay, then pointed at the thing.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That, my young tapas innocent, is jamon Serrano. Cured ham.’

  Alison didn’t like to ask what it had been
cured of. ‘So it’s a… Pig?’

  ‘That’s right. Well, it was. A pig’s leg, at least.’

  ‘Crikey,’ she said, then wondered who in the world said ‘crikey’ any more. Jay was making her act a little… Well, differently to normal. And she liked it. ‘Who on earth eats that?’

  ‘Everyone,’ he said, then he noticed her look of horror. ‘You don’t eat it all at once. It’s a delicacy. You slice small, thin bits off it, and eat them with pan con tomate – sorry, tomato bread, rubbed with garlic, and drizzled with a little olive oil…’ Jay was almost salivating as he described it, and Alison felt her stomach rumble again.

  ‘I hope you’ve ordered some?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘But what happens to rest of the animal?’ she said, giggling as she pictured three legged pigs walking (or rather, tottering) around a farmyard somewhere.

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ said Jay, tapping a finger against the glass cabinet on top of the bar in front of them, where several unidentifiable meat products were sitting in a metal dish. ‘But let’s just say there’s not a lot of poor old Pinky and Perky that won’t get eaten.’

  Alison decided not to ask. Michael had been a vegetarian (and so, by default, for year they’d been together, had she), and frankly, there’d been only so much Chilli Non Carne or Fakon she could eat, and she realised it would be good to get some meat inside her…

  She fought not to blush at her own double-entendre, and couldn’t meet Jay’s eyes, but fortunately the old man chose that moment to deposit a bottle of something sparkling down on the bar in front of them, along with a pair of what looked suspiciously like champagne flutes.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Alison, hoping she had enough Euros left in her purse.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s not champagne,’ Jay said, as if reading her mind. ‘It’s Cava. They produce it near here.’ He filled up their glasses and handed her one. ‘Try it.’

  Alison clinked her glass against his. ‘Here’s to good Samaritans. Or knights in shining armour,’ she said, taking a sip.

  ‘And to not being alone in Catalonia – for one evening, at least,’ said Jay, then it was his turn to look away. He cleared his throat, then raised both eyebrows. ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s delicious. And the difference between this and Champagne is?’

  ‘About twenty Euros a bottle,’ he said. ‘Seriously, you’d have to ask the French. I’ve never been able to tell the difference. And I bet most of them couldn’t either.’

  The food began to arrive; croquetas, chorizo, berenjenas con miel con queso de cabra (which Alison decided was possibly the most heavenly thing she’d ever eaten), jamon, a plate of patatas bravas so spicy they made the top of her head prickle, and some sort of fish that she didn’t really care for, but Jay explained was pickled (which, after much more of this Cava, Alison thought, might be a good description of her). As they ate and ate, they talked and talked, and although Jay had to explain his joke about ‘Spanish Tortilla’ being a good name for a language school, by the time they’d finished their Cava, it was as if they’d known each other for years.

  The old man reappeared and began to clear their plates, and Alison patted her stomach and exhaled loudly. ‘Delicious,’ she said.

  ‘What was your least favourite?’

  ‘The fish.’

  Jay speared the last piece with his fork and popped it into his mouth. ‘That’s the beauty of tapas. You can try loads of different things, and if there’s something you don’t like, there’s still plenty more to eat. Whereas in a normal restaurant, you only get the one main course, so if you don’t like what you’ve ordered, you’re stuffed.’

  ‘Or not,’ suggested Alison, and Jay laughed.

  She waited until he went to the gents, then sneakily paid the bill (asking for it using the universal ‘sign something in the sky’ gesture), then smiled at his indignant expression when he returned.

  ‘That was naughty,’ Jay said, as they stepped out into the balmy evening.

  Alison bit her tongue as they made their way through the square. You ain’t seen nothing yet had been the first response that had popped into her head, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t the Cava talking. ‘Like I said – my treat. For what you did earlier.’

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  ‘No – thank you.’

  ‘So…’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Would you like me to walk you back to your hotel?’

  ‘That’s OK,’ said Alison. ‘In fact, I’ll walk you home,’ she added, then wondered why Jay had stopped by a graffiti-covered door.

  ‘You already have,’ he said, fishing his keys from his pocket. ‘This is me.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Well, in that case…’

  ‘Listen, I don’t normally do this kind of thing, but…’

  They’d spoken simultaneously, so Alison held her breath, not daring to think about what might happen next.

  ‘But?’

  Would you like to come up?’

  ‘Jay, I…’ She swallowed hard. The truth was, she would, more than anything, but he lived in Barcelona and she lived in London, plus they were both just out of relationships, and maybe a little drunk, and besides, she had an early flight…

  As he gazed down at her, Alison realised she was (quite literally) standing in front of one of those ‘doors’ that Jay had mentioned earlier. And to her surprise, though it was possibly the most impulsive whim she’d ever had, she decided to follow his advice.

  About the Author

  Matt Dunn has written 8 (and counting) novels about life, love, and relationships, as well as numerous pieces on those subjects for the likes of The Times, Guardian, Glamour, Cosmopolitan, Company, Elle, and The Sun.

  His second novel, the best-selling THE EX-BOYFRIEND'S HANDBOOK, was shortlisted for both the Romantic Novel of the Year award, as well as the Melissa Nathan award for Comedy Romance (though it won neither), and his seventh book, A DAY AT THE OFFICE, was an Amazon top ten bestseller (topping the Women’s Popular Fiction, Romantic Comedy, and Humour charts), and was named as one of Amazon’s Editor Picks for 2013.

  When he's not writing, Matt worries that he should be.

  Matt's latest novel, WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN, is out now.

  Website: www.mattdunn.co.uk

  Twitter: @mattdunnwrites

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/mattdunnwrites

  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!

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  Days of Miracle and Wonder

  ***

  Ella Fairlie

  DESTINATION: South Africa

  Saturday morning, 6 am. Cassie Walker was not supposed to be here. She should have been hidden under a duvet in her Putney flat, instead of in the middle of the South African bushveld, about to have a life-or-death showdown with a hungry lion (probably). Not to mention feeling pale, pasty and hungover as hell, as she gazed into the merry brown eyes of a ranger who looked far too much like Ryan Gosling for anyone’s good. He smiled, all dimples, offering a hand to help her into the open safari vehicle, while she tried desperately to look even a little bit graceful as she stepped up unsteadily. Mission unsuccessful.

  ‘Kip in an anthill, did you, Cass?’ asked Richard cheerfully, as she tottered and landed next to him and his petite wife Emma, obviously referring to the mess of hair piled into an unkempt knot on top of her head. Emma’s glossy waves were blow-dried to sleek Kate Middleton-like perfection, of course, and glancing around the jeep, Cassie could see that the rest of the wives and girlfriends also looked like they’d stepped out of a Ralph Lauren safari catalogue. Who has time to sort themselves out this early?

  Of course, the WAGs had all gone to bed before midnight, leaving her and Gemma to drink on into the early hours with the boys, a throwback to their days as housemates at uni. After fourteen hours of travel and a night
of student-style drinking in the bar at their lodge (including something rich and dangerous called Amarula that was now playing havoc with her insides), Cassie could have done without the dawn game drive, but she’d bet the boys she’d make the early wakeup call, even if she did look like she’d been run over by a herd of elephants. Gemma, of course, was nowhere to be seen, no doubt sleeping off her headache in the arms of the lovely Marcus, fiancé extraordinaire.

  Still, despite feeling rough as a warthog’s arse, she couldn’t help but experience a little thrill of excitement as the engine shuddered into life and they drove out of the camp into the waking bush, the hot ranger (named Luke, apparently) at the wheel with his tracker, Maatla, beside him. This was the first proper day of The Great African Adventure, starting with Simon’s wedding this afternoon at their Kruger Park game lodge, then taking in Cape Town and the Winelands, and driving down the Garden Route. She’d always wanted to visit South Africa, although she’d imagined it might be on her own exotic honeymoon instead of someone else’s. Si and Liesl were the ones who’d come up with the idea of a ‘buddymoon’ and she’d gone along with it, but if she was totally honest, she wasn’t looking forward to spending the next fortnight with five loved-up couples.

  Not that Cassie could really complain. Her friends weren’t exactly smug marrieds. Nobody asked her why she was still single, or told her not-to-worry-love-will-find-you-when-you-least-expect-it, or set her up on awkward blind dates with their colleagues, or failed to invite her to their dinner parties because she’d make the numbers uneven.

  It was just that she’d always assumed that by the time they were out of their twenties, the numbers wouldn’t be uneven. That, when her last relationship ended in disaster, she’d have some time on her own and then, when the moment was right, fall in love again. That she wouldn’t be the last of three sisters to marry, even though she was the eldest. That being an unabashed romantic and optimist all her life would pay off if she just held on. That if she believed love would find her, one day she’d step out of the front door and her life would change forever.