SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories)

by Belinda Jones

  Of course, in the old days, they used to put the number of the room on the key. But I suppose they have to be more careful now. Just as I should have been more careful with Mike.

  Room 364. That was the room they put us in the following year. Rome, it was. Or was it Venice? That’s the problem with me. Or at least, that’s what Mike used to say. I remember the unimportant things like the colours of the hills or the sky but not the things that mattered. Come to think of it, it was Rome because I remember queuing for hours outside the Vatican museum. I’d wanted an ice cream to while away the wait but Mike said they were a ridiculous price.

  It was quite a nice room with a view over the terracotta rooftops, although Mike complained about the air conditioning. ‘It’s always noisy,’ I told him, ‘in these kinds of hotels.’ But he complained so we were moved to…

  Room 237. It was only for the remaining five days of our holiday and frankly, I didn’t think it was worth the hassle of packing up and then unpacking again on the floor below. The view wasn’t so good this time – over the hotel kitchen with all the bins! Still, I always think there’s a purpose in life for everything, especially since that’s where I met Carlos. Carlos was the deputy hotel manager whom Mike had complained to. I could see in his handsome, olive Italian face that he thought Mike was making a fuss but, of course, he couldn’t say so.

  So when Mike went out again (threatening to complain to our travel agent back home) and Carlos offered me a complimentary cocktail in the bar to apologise for the noisy air conditioning, I found myself in…

  Room 890. ‘Wow! This is high up, isn’t it?’ I exclaimed as I took in the view. Just look at all those creamy domes and churches and shops! Way below me, like tiny ants on the ground, I could see couples holding hands; women walking jauntily with handbags swinging at their sides and little dogs on leads. And – goodness! – wasn’t that Mike on his mobile, head bent the way he did when he was having a serious conversation? Odd. I thought he said he was going out to change some money. Perhaps it was an urgent work call.

  This room wasn’t as nice as the others with its stark single bed and cool square tiles instead of carpet. It was one of the staff rooms, Carlos explained, but when he tried to give me a tour, I suddenly got cold feet. What was I doing here with a strange man? So that’s how, the following year, I found myself in…

  Room 5. You can see that I had to take a drop in my lifestyle. No more pricey high-rise smart hotels now I was on my own. Still, it was my choice, because when I’d opened Mike’s mobile phone bill on our return I’d discovered those calls hadn’t been work-related at all. Funnily enough, it was almost a relief because it explained why we’d been one of those couples who never talked to each other on holiday but just lay on adjacent beds, with a bottle of suntan cream and a wide pit of silence between them.

  In fact, I really liked Room 5. It was on the ground floor of a small Greek taverna with a pool that only took a few strokes to get from one side to the other. But it was clean with a nice double bed (which I didn’t actually need) and there was a lovely pink plant clambering up the outside wall, which wafted its scent in through the window. Without Mike to worry about, I spent my time lying by the pool with a pile of books, soaking up the sun.

  I liked it so much that the following year, I tried to go back. But it was full. So then I ended up with the girls in…

  Room 77. I knew this was a good sign because ‘7’ is my lucky number and I’d always wanted to go to Romania. So I wasn’t very surprised when a smiley tall dark stranger invited me to have a drink with him at the bar. I declined on account of the wedding ring on his left hand but it cheered me up. As Anna, the girl at our travel agents, kept telling me, holidays are a great place to meet people.

  Maybe it was the girls that discouraged would-be suitors. I use the term ‘girls’ somewhat loosely because we’re all over thirty-five and everyone else, apart from me, is married. But my best friend Fiona said she fancied a week in the sun while her other half was on a golfing holiday and somehow it snowballed. Still, it was fun and I came back with a great tan.

  Room 323. There’s no way I can afford two holidays a year, but something amazing happened! I actually won a competition. All I’d done was fill in a form at the local supermarket and suddenly, out of the blue, a letter arrived to say I’d won a holiday for two in Las Vegas. I could have asked Simon from work who’d taken me out a couple of times, but to be honest there wasn’t much of a spark. So I asked my sister.

  ‘Vegas!’ she gasped. ‘Are you kidding?! With all those shows and celebrities on every corner! Let’s pack!’

  I could hardly believe my luck when I walked into 323. There was a bed the size of my kitchen and a shower which was so big, I could almost have put a sofa in it. In fact, I was so bowled over that when I came back from the swimming pool that afternoon, I suddenly couldn’t remember my room number. This had never happened to me before! And the more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t remember. Was it 323 or 232 or 333 or 322 or…

  There was only one thing for it. I’d have to go back to reception and explain my dilemma. Except that the lift didn’t appear to be working and I couldn’t find the stairs.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I swivelled round to find myself face to face with a strikingly familiar tall, dark, Italian-looking stranger with the word ‘Manager’ affixed to his lapel.

  ‘Carlos?’

  He looked equally surprised. ‘Julie? I mean, Mrs Greene?’

  ‘Actually, ‘I said, wrapping my towel around me and wishing I’d put on the beach wrap which my sister had pinched, ‘I’m not married any more.’

  ‘And I,’ he said, puffing out his chest, ‘have been promoted to this resort as manager.’

  It was just at that precise moment that I heard the distinct sound of a lift bell (so it was working again!) and who should come round the corner but my sister Annie. Carlos took one look at her and I suddenly realised it was time to go back to the sunbed. Alone. Which brings me back to…

  Room 125 (and 126). It was Will’s idea. Will is Annie’s boss at the travel agency and he’d been sent to Cyprus to test out a new resort, and he suggested I went with him. It had been three years since my sister’s wedding to Carlos and it seemed like a good idea.

  ‘Nice room,’ I said, admiring the lovely double in 125, not to mention the gorgeous pool outside, overlooking the bay.

  ‘Do you think so?’ he said, pulling me onto his knee.

  Perhaps I ought to explain something here.

  It turned out that Will had had other ideas when he’d instructed Annie to e-mail me with special holiday offers. Apparently, he’d fancied me from the minute I first stepped through the door of his travel agency, all those years ago. Isn’t that romantic?

  Room 126, which adjoined 125, was just as nice. Two rooms, I hear you asking? That’s right. One for the twins and one for us. We both proved to be fast workers in order to make up for lost time. (Just as well there’s a babysitting service here.) And if you can’t quite see our room number, that’s because it’s hidden by the notice below:

  PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB!

  About the Author

  Janey Fraser is the pen name for journalist Jane Bidder who also writes as Sophie King. Her newest Janey Fraser novel is After The Honeymoon, published by Arrow.

  For many years, Jane was a journalist on women’s magazines and until recently, edited the family page of Woman. Now she writes ‘mum lit’ novels about the ups and downs of family life. She has plenty of experience with her own three children – remind her to tell you, one day, about the time that her youngest gave his friend a pudding-basin haircut while her back was turned for three minutes, or when her eldest bashed her on the head with an empty lemonade bottle while driving because of an over-heated car game.

  Website: www.janeyfraser.co.uk

  Twitter: www.twitter.com/janey_fraser

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/janeyfraserauthor

  Visit www.sunloungerstories.com to discove
r 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.

  Artistic Flair

  ***

  Sophie Hart

  DESTINATION: Provence

  ‘Beautiful, Barbara. C’est vraiment belle.’

  She felt the touch of his hand upon her shoulder – only lightly, but enough to send a frisson of excitement through her body and bring her skin out in goose bumps despite the warm Provencal sunshine. His hand rested there for just a moment, before he removed it and moved on to the rest of the group.

  Barbara Harrison gazed out at the view in front of her: row upon row of purple lavender, stretching as far as the eye could see over the gently sloping hills of the French countryside. Ancient plane trees punctuated the skyline, with the occasional rogue juniper bush dotted across the fields. Barbara looked back at the canvas in front of her. Yes, she’d captured it well, she thought, quietly pleased with herself.

  Jean-Michel had called the painting beautiful. He’d called her beautiful. Barbara Harrison was fifty-three years old, and it was a long time since she’d been called beautiful, or even made to feel that way. Out here she seemed to be opening up, like a vibrant yellow sunflower beneath the cloudless azure skies.

  Under the guise of stretching her shoulders, Barbara subtly moved her head. She could see Jean-Michel, their painting teacher, standing beside Mary and commenting on the composition of her work, but some instinct made him look up. He caught Barbara’s gaze and smiled, ever so slightly, causing her cheeks to blaze scarlet, her stomach churning like a giddy teenager on a fairground ride.

  She knew it was ridiculous. She didn’t know what was happening to her these days. Perhaps she was losing her mind, or experiencing a midlife crisis, but right now her semi-detached house in Peterborough and the uneventful life she shared with her husband, Derek, seemed very far away. Jean-Michel, however, was very much here and handsome and muscular and—

  Barbara bit her lip to stop such thoughts and turned back to the canvas.

  She’d taken a fortnight’s leave from her job as a receptionist in a doctor’s surgery to come to France. Recently, both of her children had left home for good, leaving her with an empty nest and a lot of free time on her hands. Over the years, her life had become dull and monotonous and, if she was being honest, Barbara worried that she had become dull and monotonous.

  Flicking through a magazine one day she saw an advert for a painting course in Provence, and at once felt a longing deep in her belly. That same day, she filled out the form and wrote a cheque for the deposit. She expected Derek to kick up more of a fuss when she revealed her plans, but it turned out he was looking forward to a fortnight’s solitude, watching whatever he chose on television and generally pleasing himself. Barbara batch-cooked before she left, filling the freezer with easy-to-defrost meals and leaving clear instructions on how to operate the microwave.

  Derek dropped her at the airport and kissed her goodbye. Then Barbara took the aeroplane by herself and arrived at Marseille airport where she made her way to the minibus that was to take her deep into the heart of the French countryside. Onboard, she met Mary from Hartlepool, Carol from Nuneaton, Linda from Hemel Hempstead, and half a dozen more women dreaming of art and excitement beneath the Gallic skies.

  The house they were staying in was glorious, built from honey-coloured stone and surrounded by umbrella pines, with a rectangular swimming pool in the rear courtyard. A housekeeper laundered their washing and provided their meals: rustic and simple dishes of bread, cheese and meat for lunch, with hearty bowls of bouillabaisse or ratatouille in the evenings, all washed down with plenty of local wine.

  The day after their arrival, the group were introduced to their painting instructor, Jean-Michel. His hair was greying and his face was craggy, but there was undoubtedly something about him. His body was muscular, his forearms surprisingly brutish considering the delicate work they performed at the easel. His dark eyes twinkled – more so, Barbara imagined, when they were looking at her. She was instantly overcome with a schoolgirl-like crush.

  Jean-Michel lived in a small cottage in the grounds of the main house. When, on the third day, he took her aside and whispered in that oh-so-seductive accent, ‘Come meet me tonight. I want to paint you’, Barbara was unable to resist.

  After dinner, on the pretext of having a headache, Barbara declared that she was going to bed early and said goodnight to the group. Instead, she slipped out of the side door and ran down to Jean-Michel’s cottage, excited as a child. She’d selected her nicest dress, and pushed all thoughts of her husband to the back of her mind as she applied a brazen slick of red lipstick.

  Barbara’s heart was hammering as she knocked on the door; she gasped as it swung open to reveal a shirtless Jean-Michel. Silver-grey hairs ran across his chest, tapering at his stomach and disappearing beneath the waistband of his paint-splattered jeans. Barbara couldn’t help but contrast his firm body and tanned skin with Derek’s greying pallor and pot belly, then immediately felt guilty at such thoughts.

  Jean-Michel was holding a glass of Pinot Noir, swirling it invitingly.

  ‘Would you like some?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Barbara accepted, gulping it down nervously.

  ‘I’m so very glad you came here tonight,’ Jean-Michel growled. ‘I knew as soon as I saw you that I must paint you… naked.’

  Barbara almost choked on her wine. ‘N…naked?’ she stuttered.

  ‘What’s the matter? Are you afraid?’ Jean-Michel’s eyes were teasing. He moved closer, dropping a kiss on each of her shoulders. Barbara felt his warm lips against her bare skin and thought she’d died and gone to heaven. When he slowly unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor, she was lost. When he unhooked the Marks and Spencer’s bra that had seen better days, no words of protest passed her lips.

  She lay down on the couch and all she could think about was how liberating it felt: the balmy night air wrapping itself around her naked body; no sound except the brush over canvas as Jean-Michel worked his magic. It was intoxicating.

  Barbara wondered if he would make love to her. She hadn’t kissed another man in thirty years, but if Jean-Michel tried she might just acquiesce.

  Perhaps he would beg her not to go back to England. Barbara thought about it and decided she would stay. She could be a muse to this man – cook his meals and clean his cottage and make love to him beneath the stars at night. She would not resent washing his underwear the way she resented washing Derek’s faded Y-fronts.

  The hours ticked by. Barbara watched the sunset and the moonrise through the window, as Jean-Michel silently refilled her wine glass and smiled alluringly. The whole scenario was deeply erotic. Barbara lay back wantonly, not caring about the lines on her face or the stretch marks on her hips. She didn’t feel like a haggard wife, or a past-her-prime mother-of-two. Right now, Barbara felt more beautiful than she ever had in her whole life.

  ‘Voila. C’est fini. Et c’est parfait.’

  Jean-Michel stepped out from behind the easel, helping Barbara up from the sofa and back into her clothes.

  ‘May I see?’ she asked shyly, indicating the painting.

  ‘Not tonight, ma chérie,’ he told her, his eyes dancing as he plucked the wine glass from her hand and ushered her to the door. ‘You will see it at the exhibition. You will be the star!’

  ‘The exhibition?’ Barbara repeated hesitantly.

  ‘Yes, next week I have a showing at the town hall. And all eyes will be on you,’ Jean-Michel declared, planting a kiss on both cheeks before closing the door behind her.

  Barbara crept back through the darkness to the main house, almost breaking her ankle as she stumbled in a hidden dip. The evening air was chilly and she shivered as she slipped in through the side door and crept upstairs to bed, crawling between the sheets as exhaustion overcame her.

  *

  It had be
en a week of stolen glances and secret, shared looks. There had been no more invitations from Jean-Michel for clandestine late-night rendezvous, but Barbara felt sure that she hadn’t imagined the smouldering glances, or the hands that lingered just that little bit too long on hers as he demonstrated a brush stroke. There was still time before she left for Jean-Michel to break down and beg her to stay, but he was cutting it fine.

  This morning, the group were taking the mini bus to the town hall for the opening of Jean-Michel’s exhibition. The other women were chattering excitedly, but Barbara’s heart was thumping. She wondered how she would feel, seeing herself up there in the altogether. What would the others think? Would she cause a scandal in this small, French town? Although weren’t the Europeans remarkably laid back about that kind of thing?

  Barbara was still fretting as the bus pulled up in the cobbled market square. The little town was charming, and the local church was tolling midday. Jean-Michel was stood on the steps of the town hall, wearing smart grey trousers and a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and half the buttons undone. Barbara’s heart leapt as she saw him.

  A small crowd had gathered, and Jean-Michel gave a short speech, firstly in French and then in English.

  ‘To these beautiful ladies – my inspiration,’ he finished, saluting the group and causing another outbreak of giggling. Barbara thought it was nice of him to include all the women, rather than singling her out.

  The mayor cut a red ribbon and everyone clapped, as two local women handed out glasses of champagne. Barbara drank hers quickly, steeling her nerves.