SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories)

by Belinda Jones

  Looking deep into my eyes, he clinks his cup with mine before taking a sip. Danes have a thing about that. At first I thought they were being weirdly intense, but it seems they express the greeting with eye contact. Otherwise it’s an empty gesture. I'm about to say Skål when a pair of feet stop by us, then a loud voice booms, ‘Hej Anders, Hej Hanne.’

  Anders' wince is almost imperceptible. Almost, but not quite. Looking up I see a bloke I’ve never seen before, smiling at me, until he registers my face properly. Then he looks troubled, moving on to embarrassed and he apologises.

  Our group’s conversation has ceased. There is a definite whiff of Awkward in the air. Anders reels something off very quickly in Danish to his friend, who nods briskly, waves to us both and with a ‘Hej, hej’ stalks off. I have the distinct impression that I am not supposed to have understood what was said. It grates.

  ‘So Anders, who’s Hanne?’

  ‘My…’ he sighs and runs his hand through his hair. Considering how fluent his English has proven so far, he now seems tongue-tied. He starts again, ‘Hanne, is, was, but sort of still is, my wife.’

  Instantly I look at the others, his now-suddenly-occupied friends, who must know this and don’t seem bothered about him sitting here with me.

  ‘O-kay,’ I say, getting up. ‘Kan I ha’ en go’ aften,’ I stumble, wishing them all a good evening, like I've heard my colleagues do. Seems I know more words than I thought, now that my brain is kicking back into action.

  ‘Affie—’ Anders starts.

  ‘I remember the way back,’ I say, already walking away, into the crowd. My face must be puce, it feels so hot, and it isn't the heat from the bonfire. God. What an idiot I am. I must be the typical tourist pickup.

  I feel his hand on my shoulder as I reach the far side.

  ‘Affie. Stop.’ He spins me. ‘Wait…’

  ‘Look. I know this wasn’t a date. We were clear about that–’ I might have been losing that resolve a little in my head, but let’s just gloss over that–‘but I don’t appreciate this, Anders.’

  ‘Let me explain,’ he says. He seems genuinely upset, not working up an excuse. My brain however, is back in charge now, my holiday romance goggles safely stowed.

  ‘There is no need Anders, really. Look, I don't want to judge, it isn’t my business, people can have as open a marriage as they like, but it isn’t my thing.’

  ‘But it isn’t like that,’ he cuts in. ‘We don’t live together—’

  ‘You know that I've recently been hurt by infidelity, so why would you think that I would be OK with that?’ I am getting angry now, jabbing my finger at him. A quick glance around tells me that we are being watched, not even subtly. It deflates me.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ I shake my head. What is the point? People will do what they want. ‘Thanks for showing me the bonfire,’ I say, ‘and sharing your dune this afternoon. Go back to your friends, Anders. I’ll get home by myself.’ I don’t look back as I start walking.

  I tell myself I’m doing the right thing. I get all holiday-headed and my judgement is poor. And it could have all happened again. I'm away for one day – one single day – and I'm already mooney-eyed over some guy. How weak am I? I know better. I know where this leads to and the hurt that it brings. What an idiot. Well I caught myself this time. I should think myself lucky.

  ‘Do you always talk to yourself?’

  I almost leap over the white picket fence to my left, which would have been nasty given the marauding wild rose bush on the other side.

  ‘Crap, Anders! Don’t do that.’ I resist the urge to push him off his bike.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,’ he says, grinning. Yes. Grinning. Like we haven’t just had a huge spat.

  ‘Which part of ‘by myself’ did you have difficulty with?’ He isn’t even remotely abashed by my tone, which for the record is set on Cross, with a hint of Embarrassed regarding the talking-to-myself thing.

  ‘So I was thinking that you should hear me out.’

  ‘I was thinking I don’t need to.’

  ‘Yes. You do. If nothing else it is only fair and polite.’

  Oh. That is low. That's like the British Achilles heel, to have one’s manners called into question. It's as if he's suggesting I’ve brought my whole country into disrepute.

  ‘You have thirty seconds,’ I say, tapping my foot in some Countdown fashion. Worryingly, I am feeling a little less steadfast now, because my eyes are telling me that he is still ridiculously cute, and particularly when he has that earnest thing going on.

  ‘I have a wife, or rather, I had a wife. Hanne. We married three years ago. We’ve been here every summer since we were teenagers, so people know us. Last autumn she left me. It’s the first time I’m back. Alone. That’s why Kurt asked and was surprised. That’s why I didn’t mention it – because it is irrelevant.’

  ‘She left you? Isn’t that the oldest line in the book?’ I keep walking. ‘I'm not falling for it.’

  I hear an exasperated sigh, and then he is peddling along beside me again.

  ‘Affie, I promise that it is all finished. She doesn’t want me, the divorce just isn’t through yet. End of story.’

  ‘But why wouldn’t she want you?’ My voice sounds sort of incredulous, when I was attempting Suspicious Disbelief.

  ‘Well, for starters, I am not a woman,’ he shrugs.

  ‘Oh.’ That has me stumped. ‘I don't know what to say.’

  ‘Funny. That was my first reaction too. Just before I went crazy. Hanne met Pia here last summer, realised that she wasn’t living the life she was supposed to and that was it. Quite the Summer of Love,’ he says tersely, ‘only not with me.’

  ‘God, Anders. That sucks.’

  ‘It did. And now we are fine. She is happy.’ He appears to mean it.

  ‘And what about you? Don’t you deserve to be happy?’

  ‘Of course. Only it won’t be with Hanne. I know this.’ His face is open and I don’t see an ounce of bitterness there. How does he do that?

  ‘Well, if nothing else,’ I say, slightly het up, ‘it just goes to prove my point about holiday romances. People don't think straight when they are on holiday. Makes you read people wrong.’

  ‘No more so than anywhere else,’ he replies, shaking his head.

  ‘Must just be me then,’ I grouch, ‘but not again. If I have a blanket ban on holiday relationships, then I won’t get into that predicament again, or suffer the pain. It’s no different from my choosing not to walk under ladders. Eliminating the risk.’

  It dawns on me that we've passed my hotel.

  ‘Um, where are we going?’

  ‘To the marina,’ he says. ‘There is live music at Pakhuset. I thought we could do with a drink.’

  ‘OK, but it’s still not a date,’ I point out. It’s one of the longest days of the year, it is still light and while things seem all over the shop with us, I do not want to go home yet. Staying out feels absolutely the right thing to do. Having a guide is a bonus.

  ‘Not a date,’ he assures me.

  The marina is full of yachts, vibrantly colourful with loosely flapping Norwegian and Swedish flags. To say it is bouncing is an understatement. The old fish-packing houses on the quayside clad with red tongue and groove have been redeveloped to high-class fishmongers or restaurants, one of which is Pakhuset. Its patio area is full to brimming, as an R&B band plays outside. They are good, really good, and the atmosphere is electric.

  Anders locks his bike while I stand watching them. Bobbing along to the music is pure instinct.

  ‘They are seriously talented,’ I murmur, sensing him by my side… and then I feel his hand in mine again, like a long-lost friend. Only a moment later it pulls me, spinning me around to face him and he clasps my other hand. All of a sudden we are dancing. On the quayside.

  ‘Who needs a dance floor?’ he smiles, propelling me away, and then reeling me back to spin me under his arm into a back-to-front hug and then back out ag
ain. It is relaxed and easy and perfect. He leads without being bossy and surrendering to it makes my face break out into a wide goofy smile.

  They switch to a slow one and this time he pulls me in without spinning me back out. I'm slightly giddy, so rest my head on his shoulder.

  ‘How have you got over her, Anders? It’s only been a year, and you seem happy.’

  ‘I don’t know about happy,’ he sighs into my hair. ‘But I can live with it. I cannot go back to what it was. Neither could Hanne. So we move on.’

  ‘Moving on is about the last thing I am doing. I feel like I’m in stasis, hiding from it all, but it is the only way I can protect myself.’

  ‘You can spend years doing that,’ he says ‘and it won’t move you forward. And you already have moved forward. You came away.’

  ‘That was just to hide, to lick my wounds. It wasn’t facing the problem.’

  ‘I disagree. The problem was that he didn’t love you.’

  ‘Yes, all right, Anders. No need to cushion it,’ I wince.

  ‘See, many people they don’t take no for an answer. They hang around hoping to change the other person’s mind. I have done this. It does not work. At best they offer to be your friend, which is pity. You do not want his pity, Affie. Instead, you left. You took yourself away and let him get on with his life. That was brave, and kind.’

  OK, so when he puts it like that it does sound like a forward motion… but I don’t think my motives have been that benevolent.

  ‘And so, the no dating…?’

  ‘One day, but not on a holiday. Too unlucky. We talked about this. That hasn’t changed.’

  ‘Now you are hiding,’ he says. ‘But not from the past. From your future. From potential.’ He cocks his head at me and his smile is suppressed. It’s there in his eyes though; a sparkling challenge.

  ‘I think we'll have to agree to disagree,’ I reply primly, but there’s a niggle of doubt in my head. What if he is right? It would be so easy to look up and kiss him right now. I can feel my resolve waning and—

  ‘Then we will be holiday friends,’ he says decisively and my resolve is slapped back into place. Phew, I tell myself, but I’m not actually sensing much relief.

  He's back in reception when I come down next morning. Like a suitor, which makes me beam. I’m leaving in the afternoon, so I stash my packed suitcase with the concierge, Leila.

  ‘Sleep well?’ he asks, smiling.

  ‘Sooo tired. I dreamt I was dancing on the quayside until dawn.’

  He arches that eyebrow at me. ‘Midsummer Madness. The short nights can do that to you. Ready for a non-date morning of culture, my friend?’ he asks reaching out his hand to me.

  ‘Lead the way, my friend,’ I say, taking it. It feels so natural now. Friends do that all the time, don’t they? Comfortably holding hands without it meaning anything. I’m sure I’ve seen that somewhere. Maybe not the way he rubs my thumb with his, but otherwise completely platonic.

  We spend the morning in the art museum which turns out to be as much a history lesson of the town and its nineteenth-century artist colony. It brings everything about Skagen together for me and I wish I had taken a week. Picture after picture captures the local people, the rugged landscapes, the surrounding coastline, many of them filtered with the famous blue light that seems to merge the sky and the sea.

  One painting of children running naked in the waves catches my eye. It’s pure innocence and exuberance.

  ‘That reminds me of just before we met,’ I say. ‘I may as well have been wearing nothing by the time the waves were done with me. God knows what you thought when I stormed over the dune.’

  He smiles at the memory, and it is quite possible that his thoughts, while exuberant, aren’t pure or innocent.

  ‘You were a vision,’ he says lightly.

  ‘Beer goggles.’

  ‘Not at all. I’d only had one, and besides the light in Skagen makes artists see very clearly.’ He waves his arm around loftily, like he has all the canvases on his side.

  ‘Pfff,’ I snort, derisively. He gets an impish look.

  ‘It was a much wetter, less serene Birth of Venus,’ he insists grandly. Now he is definitely taking the micky and I am compelled to give him a brisk pinch.

  Lunch is at the hotel, the haunt of all the artists back in the day. We both sense that our time is limited and things are a little subdued.

  ‘So, Affie,’ he says, plainly. ‘I will be back in Copenhagen at the end of July. Can I call you?’

  I’ve been worried about this. He is a holiday acquaintance, which makes him off limits. I just cannot get around it.

  ‘It can't be a date,’ it bursts out of me and I know I sound deranged. He looks at me, calm and collected. Waiting. ‘How about I take your number?’ I say carefully. ‘Then I won’t worry about you not calling me.’

  ‘I'll call you,’ he assures me.

  ‘Yes, you say that now but, you know, life gets in the way, or the holiday vibe will wear off, or you might meet someone else next week. Anything can happen, and in the meantime, if you have my number, I might expect you to call.’

  ‘I'll call,’ he repeats.

  ‘Yes, so you say,’ I blather on, ‘but if I know you can’t call me, then I won't expect your call, and if I have your number, then I can just call you instead at the end of July or something…’

  ‘You do know, don’t you,’ he whispers, leaning in slightly, ‘that that is completely crazy thinking?’

  ‘Well yes. Yes I suspect that it might be, but it is what I can get my head around.’

  ‘OK,’ he says patiently and holds out his hand. ‘Your phone?’

  I dig it out from my bag. He logs his number in a matter of seconds before handing it back.

  ‘You have to call me now at the end of July, or I will be watching the phone wondering why you are not calling me.’ I swear there is a little pout there. A.D.O.R.A.B.L.E.

  ‘Of course I’ll call you.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Sure. We are friends, right? And besides Copenhagen is so small we'll bump into each other eventually.’ There is something in his face that tells me that he doesn’t quite believe me. It also tells me that it makes him sad. And if I am honest it makes me sad too, but I need the cooling-off time, and by the end of July, I'll see that this is simply holiday madness. Midsummer madness, like he said.

  I feel his hand on mine and he is drawing me up from my chair.

  ‘Your taxi is here.’ He’s right. There’s a man waiting with my bag.

  ‘So I'll wait for your call,’ he says.

  ‘End of July, my friend,’ I say. It should be a pledge, but it feels like a line.

  And then he kisses me. Long, slow and not remotely matching my understanding of platonic. It leaves me breathless and slightly unhinged.

  I spend the cab ride drumming my finger tips on my lips, the memory of the kiss still dancing on them. Surely I should be feeling a sense of comfort now, a reassurance that I have done the right thing? Digging in my pocket to pay the cabbie I find his 50øre. It is bronze with a small heart embossed on it. On a whim, I flip it in the air and it lands heart-side up. Turning it in my fingers through the terminal at Aalborg I can’t help wondering if I’ve possibly been a muppet. What if, just suppose, that Anders was my third time lucky?

  They have to prompt me through security control as the notion has me utterly confounded.

  Is it nuts that I fantasize the entire flight back to Copenhagen that he might sneakily have hit the call button, when he typed in his number? That he might have logged my number on his phone, so that he might call me?

  Yes. It is.

  Because I know that he will have respected my wishes and not taken my number. That's the kind of guy he is; the guy who doesn’t peek when a transparent dress is drying. The guy who is infinitely patient while a girl deludes herself and passes up the chance of something good.

  Knowing this now, I scowl my way through the terminal, scaring
other passengers. They also give me a wide berth as I berate myself on the Metro journey to my flat. All of that, however, is nothing compared to the knee-buckling sense of misery and grief that I feel when I look for my house keys and realise that my wallet and phone have been nicked from my bag. They are gone.

  So too are any chances of me making that call.

  *

  In the words of Lana del Rey, whose music is as miserable as I have been for the last six weeks, my Midsummer Madness has turned into Summertime Sadness. I have considered all possible ways to reach him, but short of sending an ad plane across Skagen (yes they still use those– I saw one advertising salami), I can’t think how to track him down. Because I want to track him down. I want to see him. He’s all I think about. I can feel his hand on mine. I can remember his beard on my cheek. I am desperate to see what his face looks like without it. I want to go on a bloody date with him. And now I can't. This has to be some kind of punishment.

  If I thought my life was in stasis before, this has proved how wrong I was. This is stasis. Right now I can’t make anything happen. It’s all beginning to feel like it was a dream, that he was a fantasy. He was patient and insightful, neither of which I could say about my exes. He was kind, sensitive and I trusted him. Wasn’t that worth taking a chance on? They say ‘you have to be in it, to win it’, and instead I blew it.

  And just to underline it all, just to put the boot in a little more, every time I flip the coin it ALWAYS lands heart-side up. Every. Single. Time.

  ‘Statistically speaking,’ I kvetch at Helle and Søren, ‘one of you must be related to him. There's fewer people in the whole country than there are in London. You must all know each other.’ Yes, there is a small tinge of hysteria in there. I am aware.