SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories)

by Belinda Jones

  Alex, blimey! I felt a flutter of panic. I held my sunglasses in place to safeguard anonymity. Alex? I’d assumed it was Edward because Edward had called about five times to make sure that I’d gotten over the trauma of having lived in the wild, which annoyingly he thought hilarious.

  ‘Oh! Alex, hi, sorry, I thought, um…’ I cleared my throat. ‘I thought I saw Edward’s name on my caller ID, but erm…’

  I wasn’t fully in control here, because as far as Alex knows I’m still living in purgatory. In fact, as far as everyone knows I’m still living in purgatory.

  I rally.

  ‘But it’s you, and hi again. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. You have network? I didn’t expect you to pick up, I was going to leave a voicemail,’ he explained. ‘I’ve been worried about you.’

  Worried?

  I felt a pinprick of guilt… Only a pinprick.

  ‘Network comes and goes, and there’s no need to worry I’m… coping.’ I said.

  I like that word, ‘coping’, it’s a generic fact, because I am coping.

  ‘Coping? Are you with aunt Maddy and uncle Paios?’

  ‘Of course I’m with them, where else would I be? I’m looking at them right now,’ I said, telling the truth… truthfully.

  ‘And how are the goat and the donkey?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Fine,’ I told him, because I’m sure that they were fine.

  ‘Sophie,’ he began with a sigh. ‘Come home, come home tomorrow. Or even better, come home tonight if I can get you on a flight.’

  I shot my phone an appalled glance, plucked my glass from the table and took a greedy gulp. I stuck my leg out and peered at it. I wasn’t nearly tanned enough to go home. My skin tone is just turning from golden to toffee; I want to be chocolate.

  ‘I was under pressure when you rang the other day, and a part of me resented you for wanting to go to Corfu without me. Stupid I know, but there you are. Anyway you’ve been gone long enough, it’s time you came home,’ he said decisively.

  I tossed the remains of my drink down my throat and signalled to a passing beach waiter for another margarita.

  ‘And Sophie, I don’t want to sleep alone, I can’t settle unless you’re in bed with me. I miss you,’ he said, his voice a little strangled.

  I’m half listening; after all he had been prepared to leave me high and dry in the desert heat stranded up a mountain. Maddy and Paios shook out their beach towels and settled on the sun beds next to me.

  ‘It feels as though you’ve been gone for weeks,’ he continued.

  Paios orders two margaritas. I’m surprised because I’m sure Maddy doesn’t like Tequila. Still, I’ll drink her cocktail if she doesn’t want it.

  ‘I’ll go online and book you a flight,’ Alex stated firmly, ‘and I’ll get right back to you with your flight details.’

  A flight? I’m back in the conversation.

  ‘Alex! Hang on a minute. I’m doing really well with the language, I think I need to… soldier on,’ I said gallantly.

  ‘Any Greek you want to learn, you can learn from me. I want you home,’ he shot back.

  Oh my God, listen to that deep rumbly voice of his. I gave a wry smile. I love Alex’s voice.

  ‘You don’t teach me Greek, you’re too busy teaching me… other things,’ I said seductively.

  He gave a throaty chuckle.

  I love Alex’s chuckle, it’s sexy and always gives me a lustful twinge. The heat rushed to my face. I hugged my knees to my chest, allowing myself a moment of sentimental nostalgia.

  ‘It’s time you came home, Sophie.’

  As much as I missed him, and I did miss him lots, I was in no hurry to leave paradise.

  The beach waiter handed me a drink and I mouthed a ‘thank you’.

  ‘I’ll come home in a couple of days,’ I said in a businesslike manner.

  ‘A couple of days? Am I missing something? You phoned me crying and begging to be air lifted off the island, and now you want to stay another couple of days. I thought you would jump at the chance to come home.’

  I smiled at the sun through my seven euro sunglasses and kept my voice light.

  ‘I’ve settled in, that’s all. You said I had to make the most of it, and that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’ve only been here six days. I can’t learn a language in six days,’ I said reasonably. ‘I’ll stay at least ten days.’

  ‘Ten days! You won’t learn a language in ten days. I want you home.’

  ‘As difficult as this is, I feel strongly that I must see it through to the end.’

  ‘You don’t! I know you, and not having your home comforts must be killing you. I hate to think of you struggling to keep up appearances when you’re secretly miserable.’

  The waiter re-appeared. I gave him a grateful smile and accepted the lunch menu from his outstretched hand (the service here really was excellent).

  ‘Alex,’ I said softly, running a lacquered nail down the open-sandwich selection. ‘I love you, and I miss you. This is really hard for me,’ I told him, and it was hard choosing lunch, because the choices were mouth watering. ‘But, I… I have a job to do here.’

  ‘Sophie—’ he began pleadingly.

  ‘You said that it would be rude to come home early. And you were absolutely right.’

  There was a loaded pause of indecisiveness, because Alex loves being absolutely right. The silence stretched.

  ‘I don’t like the thought of you being uncomfortable,’ Alex said at last.

  I felt a shimmer of guilt for not telling him that I’m staying in a magnificent hotel, but it’s no big deal, is it? In any relationship you should keep a part of yourself to yourself, everyone knows that. And it’s not as though I’m harbouring an earth-shattering secret. It’s not as though I’m having an affair, or spying for the Russians. And Alex had more or less forced me into this situation, hadn’t he? I gestured to the barman to prepare a table for lunch; I had decided on a chicken salad sandwich. But I was missing him, really missing him.

  ‘Alex, talk dirty,’ I whispered impulsively. ‘It’s been ages since, since…’

  ‘No, I’d rather wait until I see you.’

  ‘Oh! Go on! Say something filthy. We’ve never had telephone sex, have we? And I won’t see you for a few days yet. I’m working really hard on my Greek,’ which is true – I can order every cocktail on the wine list, ‘and well, I don’t get a minute to myself, and I could do with a bit of fun.’

  ‘Not a minute?’

  ‘Well, OK, I might snatch the odd half hour,’ I conceded, ‘but not much more than that. So! Go on… you first, and then I’ll keep it going… Really dirty, smuttyfied even.’

  ‘I’m not sure…’

  A fuse blew in my head.

  ‘I’m prostituting myself to you. The very least you can do is appreciate it, some men pay for smutty phone calls!’

  ‘Do they? I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘They do!’

  He gave a resigned sigh.

  ‘OK,’ he said at last.

  I drummed a tattoo on the sun bed with my heels. Bloody hell I was excited. There was a party going on inside of me. I felt a huge leap of adrenalin. What was keeping him? I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head and closed my eyes, the sun shone pink and warm through my eyelids.

  ‘Alex, make my heart race,’ I said. ‘Shock me.’

  ‘Oh, I think I can shock you.’

  He paused, building tension. I sat straight.

  ‘Really shock me!’ I told him impatiently.

  ‘I’ll shock you all right, if you’ll let me get started.’

  My stomach shattered into tingly spasms. Why hadn’t I thought to do this before?

  ‘Alex, do you have a sexual fantasy that you’ve never admitted to?’

  ‘I might have.’

  Oh my God, I’ve never been so turned on. I’ve got heartburn with anticipation.

  ‘What? What is your fantasy? Tell me.’

  I pressed the pho
ne to my ear and reached blindly for my glass. What is his fantasy? What? My nostrils flared. I could almost smell him. I’m on heat. The primal scent of a stud filled my head, swelling my womb. I gave a sharp sniff. Actually… I really can smell him. Bloody hell, my imagination is in freefall.

  ‘Aaaaaaaagggggggggh!’

  Two iron forearms clamped my waist, hauled me up and swung me off the sun bed.

  ‘LET GO OF ME!’

  I windmilled my arms.

  ‘HELP!’

  I’m being abducted! In broad daylight!

  ‘You don’t need help! Though well you might! I haven’t decided yet!’ Alex warned, his voice strong, sharp and hot in my ear.

  ALEX??

  He set me on my feet with a thud and turned me to face him. I gazed up in astonished delight at Alex’s handsome face. He jammed his phone in his back pocket and stood legs apart, shoulders back. His brow was knitted in a tempered frown. I wasn’t sure I liked his expression. He looked quite angry, but anger apart, he looked amazing in cut-off jeans, a white polo shirt and deck shoes. He was six-foot-two inches of absolute gorgeousness.

  ‘Pleased to see me, Sophie?’ he asked, head tilted in question.

  My eyes darted over his chiselled jaw, glossy black hair and dark brown eyes framed with long, feathery lashes. I threw myself at him and circled my arms around his back, breathing in the lemony, spicey, sexy scent of him.

  ‘Oh Alex, I am pleased to see you, I’m really pleased to see you. This is a fantastic surprise.’

  He buried his hands in my hair, bent his head and pressed his mouth over mine. His kiss was deep and long… very long. I shivered as the tips of his fingers travelled the length of my spine and pressed my oily body into him.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure I would be pleased to see me if I were you,’ he said through a kiss.

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ I said.

  I took a step back. His lips curved into a slow smile.

  ‘No, you’re right, I don’t,’ he admitted, eyeing the lapping ocean.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to rescue you,’ he said.

  ‘You came to rescue me, from the donkey and the goat?’

  It took him about a week to reply.

  ‘No, I came to rescue you from the life of a single girl,’ he said at last.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look who is here,’ he said, gesturing to the beach bar.

  My sister, Jodie, Delia, Bella, mum and dad, Alex’s parents and the whole motley crew stood toasting champagne and waving so hard it was a wonder that they didn’t all fall over.

  I’m sucker-punched by surprise.

  ‘What are they doing here?’ I asked, astonished.

  ‘They’re here for our wedding, and so I suggest you get off the beach and join us.’

  Our wedding?

  ‘Everything is arranged, the dress, your bouquet, the photographer, I’ve left nothing out.’ He told me swelling with the adrenaline of his own importance and achievement.

  I’m delighted.

  I’m over the moon.

  I’m the luckiest girl alive.

  Hang- on- a- minute!

  Alex has arranged a wedding?

  My Alex?

  Dress, bouquet, photographer.

  What dress? Is it a copy of the Alexander McQueen bridesmaid dress worn by Pippa Middleton? Because that’s what I want, and nothing else will do. Or is it that baked Alaska explosion of dirty netting that Alex pointed out in a Charity shop window three weeks ago? He loved it for god’s sake. He even suggested that I try it on. I’d hit him with my handbag. The cheek of him. I want my own creation for my big day. Bouquet? Is it Calla Lilies with beargrass, sprinkled with crystals and hand tied with ivory foam and a vanilla satin ribbon? Or is it a bunch of orange chrysanthemums from Aldi, as Alex had proposed? He even suggested that we have orange chrysanthemums for our pedestal church arrangement and our top table centre piece, he asked a shop assistant in Aldi if there was any chance she could arrange it. I’d walked out on him. And to add insult to injury and because Aldi don’t do wedding planning he searched Amazon and Ebay for plastic wedding flowers. He didn’t find any. ‘It will save a couple of quid and we’ll be able to take the flowers home and keep them for years,’ he’d said. Photographer? Is it a professional wedding and portrait photographer, experienced in the art of capturing precious moments with creative flair? Or is the photographer Alex’s grandad who had offered to do our wedding pictures on his new Nokia phone? Alex had thought that a wonderful idea, and had offered to pay the difference should his grandad go over his monthly contract rate. (His grandad hasn’t even mastered the art of texting or listening to voicemails yet). My margarita started to travel up my gullet, I swallowed it down. I think I’m going to be sick. This is a nightmare. I wouldn’t want to be a guest at a wedding Alex had arranged, never mind the bride. When I’d told him my choice of menu was gravlax with black pepper crème fraiche and herb blini, followed by seared breast of chicken, creamed mushrooms and braised gems, and for dessert white chocolate delice; raspberries and champagne ice cream. Alex had said that was too rich, and that it would give him wind, he asked if we could have a burger van. My heart had skipped a beat and I’d nearly swallowed my own tongue. A burger van? Obviously someone that thinks a burger van is a good idea for a wedding breakfast doesn’t have the requisite brain cells to arrange a monkey’s tea party. Never mind a wedding. My wedding.

  I’m frantic.

  My scalp is shrinking.

  I don’t have any saliva left in my mouth.

  I look at Alex’s face; I’m waiting for him to say ‘gotcha, or joking,’

  He doesn’t.

  He’s staring at me with studied casualness.

  Time freezes.

  Alex smiles, his smile is enormous, his smile is wrapped right around his head.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said.

  I bet he doesn’t, I bet he has no idea what I’m thinking; because I’m thinking I want to kill him.

  ‘You’re worried that I might have messed up, and that you haven’t got your Alexander McQueen dress, or your bouquet of Calla lilies, or your smoked salmon and champagne ice cream. Well you would be wrong, because you have all of those things. The only sticky wicket was getting you to Corfu, but hey presto; you solved that problem for me all by yourself. And babe I’ve been pulling your leg for months. I hate burger vans and chrysanthemums. And not only do you have all the trappings that your heart desired, there’s more, much more.’

  More?

  He pressed his palms on my shoulders and turned me to face the beach bar.

  ‘Look to the right and you’ll see a film crew, you have the leading role in Get Her To The Church, the new Channel 6 reality show,’ he told me, trailing his fingertips along the length of my arm. ‘Today is your wedding day, and everything will be exactly as you wanted it. So come on, get out of that bikini and get your Pippa Middleton wedding dress on,’ he told me in a happy-ever-after way.

  I am on cloud ninety nine.

  Five Years Later…

  And for Alex and Sophie it was indeed happy-ever-after, in a four-bedroom semi-detached house in Surrey with a gorgeous set of triplets and a baby on the way.

  * Authors Note: There are no vultures on Corfu, I was only joking!!!

  About the Author

  Molly Hopkins’ books offer a fantastic cocktail of hilarity, sex, fun and romance set against an ever-changing backdrop of exotic destinations. Her fourth novel is a work in progress and is the raciest to date. Molly lives in Surrey and has two teenage children, two smelly big dogs and a smelly little dog. She is addicted to housework and worships whoever invented white wine.

  Website: www.mollyhopkins.co.uk

  Twitter: @Molly_Hopkins

  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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  The Star Man

  ***

  Tony Horkins

  DESTINATION: Los Angeles

  This hasn’t gone quite as well as it should have. On the one hand, here I am, Luke Saunders from glamorous downtown Watford, smack bang in the middle of Hollywood, at the gates of the world-famous Paramount Studios on Melrose Avenue. This is the place that gave us Footloose and Top Gun and Titanic and Star Trek and, er…Dinner for Schmucks. OK, well, we can all have an off day.

  So I’m staring at the giant cream-coloured arches that have welcomed Tom Cruise and Denzel Washington and Robert Downey Jr and that woman whose name I can’t remember that played the creepy lady in Paranormal Activity. On paper, this is an excellent turn of events; in reality, however, not so much.

  In short, I’m on the outside looking in. Worse than that, I’m one of those pariahs that’s making Paramount’s normally gregarious welcome committee squint angrily in my general direction as I guide a tour bus through the city’s streets while its camera-flashing occupants take a lengthy gawp. I’m wearing a polyester shirt and tie in 90-degree heat and my hat has ‘The Star Man’ embroidered on the front. And I’m not even wearing it ironically.

  Two years of classes at the Central School of Speech and Drama in North London, pretending to be everything from a king to a bloody tree, wasn’t supposed to lead to this. ‘Stupendous,’ they said of my Oak (though they were admittedly less impressed with my Eucalyptus), while my King Lear got a solid B+ from Mr Robertson in the final term. ‘Things that love night, love not such nights as these,’ I emoted. And they applauded. And I moved to Hollywood. And silence fell.

  By now my Hollywood adventure was supposed to have led to a stencilled parking spot at Paramount and a trailer with Evian hard-wired to the taps. My masseuse, whose name was surely Tiffany, would be booked for Mondays and Fridays, and on her days off my kinesiologist would use all of his skills to make me the emotionally and physically fittest I’ve ever been.