SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories)

by Belinda Jones

  ‘My best friends…’ said Gi. ‘Ellie, don’t be angry, but…’

  ‘Why should I be angry?’

  ‘Please could you go and get it, Grace?’

  Grace left the room and came back with something on a padded hanger draped in muslin.

  ‘We pinched one of your dresses,’ she explained.

  ‘We took your measurements,’ Georgina said.

  ‘Then we put your dress back,’ added Grace. ‘So you wouldn’t know what we had done.’

  The bridesmaid’s gown was absolutely lovely. I was touched. But there was no way that I could take it, wear it. ‘Gi, I’m really sorry,’ I began. ‘But I can’t pay for this, so I—’

  ‘I don’t bloody want you to bloody pay for it!’ Then Giselle rose up, a fury in cloud of silk and lace. ‘I want you to be my bridesmaid, Ellie! I can’t do this without the three of you! The money doesn’t matter!’

  Then I saw the expression in Gi’s eyes and finally I understood. Oh God, I thought, I’d been so selfish. What was it Will had said? If you don’t go – these people are your friends, they’ll be upset.

  Will had been so right.

  ‘Ellie, please do this for Gi?’ Georgina asked me quietly. ‘Give her the gift she really wants?’

  As tears welled up into my eyes and as I flushed with shame, I nodded. ‘I’d absolutely love to, Gi,’ I said.

  ‘Come on, then – sit down.’ Grace was already pulling off my jacket. ‘We’ve only got about ten minutes and we need to do your hair and makeup. Georgina, get the straighteners – hurry, hurry!’

  The wedding was magnificent and the ceremony lasted hours. By the time Roberto and Giselle were finally, officially hitched, it seemed like we’d been in the church for days and days.

  ‘God, I need a drink,’ Georgina said as we came out.

  ‘I must sit down,’ said Grace. ‘My flipping feet are killing me. George, did you remember to bring scissors? Gi’s looking very pale. I think we might need to cut the laces on her bodice…’

  We had a quiet wedding, Will and I. We married two years later in a tiny church in Prato he’d attended off and on since he was small.

  The Gorgeous Girls Gang were all bridesmaids and they made the day the best for me. Of course they gave us presents, loads of presents, an embarrassment of presents.

  But they’d already given me the best gift in the world. They’d taught me something hugely valuable.

  It’s not so difficult to give.

  It’s so much harder to receive.

  But, when you do, amazing things can happen.

  About the Author

  Margaret James is a British writer of historical and contemporary fiction. She is also a journalist working for the UK’s Writing Magazine and teaches creative writing for the London School of Journalism. Margaret was born in Hereford but now lives in Devon at the seaside, which is great because it means when she is stuck for a plot she can always go for a walk along the beach and be inspired!

  Margaret is part of the CreativeWritingMatters team which organises the Exeter Novel Prize: www.creativewritingmatters.co.uk.

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/margaret.james.5268

  Twitter: www.twitter.com/majanovelist

  Website: www.margaretjamesblog.blogspot.com

  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!

  Return to the contents list.

  You Don’t Bring Me Flowers

  ***

  Milly Johnson

  DESTINATION: Venice

  Billy didn’t buy flowers. He refused point blank to line the pockets of greedy commercialists who charged trumped up prices for ‘glorified weeds’ that would be dead in a week. He didn’t buy cards either. Did Jen realise how much profit a card manufacture made from something that she would only throw in the bin the day after her birthday? Romance was a clever marketing tool designed to con money out of people, he pontificated at every available opportunity. If Jen was daft enough to buy him big padded cards then more fool her.

  Even here, sitting at a café table under the Accademia Bridge in Venice on a beautiful balmy evening, the romance of it all was flying straight over his head. Jen had insisted they be there for her fortieth birthday but he wasn’t happy about it. They could more than afford not only to come here but to stay in one of the hotels just off St Mark’s Square and not raise their eyebrows too much at the restaurant prices. Billy knew how much she had wanted to come to Venice. He had probably guessed that she was hoping he might propose here too. They had been together for eight years and the subject of marriage had only ever arisen once, around a dinner table with friends five years ago.

  ‘If it isn’t broken, why fix it?’ had been his answer when their friend Sam had asked why they hadn’t tied the knot yet. Jen had laughed along with the others but inside she felt as if he had punched her heart.

  Billy was tall and handsome, he had his own successful business and worked hard, and she trusted him implicitly. They had it all really: a lovely home together and plenty of money and he bought her jewellery. Jewellery was an acceptable present because it was likely to increase in value. Jen was wearing the bracelet she had received from him for Christmas. It was beautiful and exactly to her taste – then again it would be because she had bought it herself from the money Billy had given her for it.

  ‘Well, I don’t know what you like,’ was his usual line. ‘It’s best if you pick something.’

  Billy was drinking his coffee and wrinkling up his nose.

  ‘Smelly here isn’t it? Can’t we move to another table?’ he said.

  Jen hadn’t been aware of any smell until Billy mentioned it. Not that she cared. The least important thing about the scents and colours and sounds bombarding her senses was the faint-drain smell drifting from the canal. Billy made a move to grab the next table but an old couple had just reached it. He was wearing a beige hat to protect him from the sun; she walked unsteadily with a stick. Jen watched as the old man held the chair for her and then tucked her under the table when she was safely seated. He then handed her a menu before taking one himself.

  ‘Bloody expensive here,’ said Billy, taking thirty euros out of his wallet ready to pay the bill. ‘I hope they aren’t expecting a tip.’

  Jen tilted her head to the sun. ‘Isn’t it glorious?’ she said.

  ‘It’d be better if there was a beach,’ huffed Billy. ‘It’s not Marbella, is it?’

  No, said Jen to herself. And that’s why I like it so much.

  The old couple were reading a brochure together now. They must have been to the nearby Guggenheim museum. Jen had taken Billy there the previous day – or rather dragged.

  ‘What the hell is that supposed to be?’ he asked, pointing to a Mondrian. ‘I could draw that myself.’

  He had spoilt it for her, generally exuding an air of boredom like a small child who wanted to be out of there and back to something he preferred to do. Except there wasn’t much Billy wanted to do in Venice except moan. He didn’t see Venice through the same eyes as Jen did. He didn’t want to even try to see Venice through the same eyes as Jen did.

  A flower man was visiting the tables carrying long-stemmed red roses with beautiful plump heads. Billy, as expected, waved him away but the old man on the next table paid two euros to buy one for his lady and presented it to her with a smile. She lifted it to her nose and pulled in the scent, then reached over and placed her hand on his cheek. The old man probably thought it was as big a rip-off as Billy did, but he bought one because his lady liked flowers.

  ‘Anyway, there’s something I wanted to say,’ said Billy, clearing his throat.

  He bought one because his lady liked flowers.

  Jen gasped. It was just as if she had been wearing blinkers and they had suddenly been torn from her eyes. Every year they had been to Marbella for their holidays and every year Jen had wished they could go
somewhere else but Billy enjoyed it there, so she had made the best of it, for him. When you loved someone, it was all about making them happy.

  ‘We’re in Venice, for your birthday. Just as you wanted,’ Billy went on in the background.

  Jen always spent weeks sourcing his Christmas and birthday presents. Billy threw a handful of cash at her and told her to go and get something that she wanted. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to get for her, he just couldn’t be bothered finding out what she liked.

  ‘We’ve been together for seven years, or is it eight?’

  He didn’t buy her flowers because it was much more important to defend his principles than it was to please her.

  ‘Or is it nine? Anyway – it’s a long time.’

  It was her fortieth birthday and he knew that she loved flowers. She bought them for herself from a stall in the market every week.

  ‘I thought we should get married.’

  Jen snapped to attention. Billy was holding out a heart-shaped red velvet box. Jen started to shake. Roses and old people were temporarily forgotten. She reached over and took the box and then, with trembling hands, she opened it.

  It was empty.

  ‘I didn’t know what you’d like so you can pick it yourself. I’ll go up to seven thousand pounds. ‘So what do you say? Makes sense. Better to have things legal now we’re getting older.’ Then he chuckled. ‘Don’t really know why I’m asking. Of course you’re going to say yes.’

  Jen was in Venice, the most romantic place in the world, with her lover and he had just proposed on her fortieth birthday under the beautiful Accademia Bridge. It was all she had dreamed of. She glanced over at the old lady holding the two Euro rose which the old man had bought for her, then she turned back to Billy.

  ‘Do you know, love, I think I just might just pass,’ she said.

  When she strolled off, she didn’t need to look behind her to know that Billy was frozen to the chair with shock. She was sure she could find an early flight home but she would be back – next time with a lover who melted into Venice rather than resisted it.

  The flower man was standing on the other side of the bridge. Jen pulled out two euros and bought herself the biggest rose from his bunch.

  About the Author

  Milly Johnson is a Sunday Times bestselling author of ten books and two novellas, professional joke-writer, newspaper columnist, after-dinner speaker, poet, winner of Come Dine With Me and winner of the 2014 Romantic Comedy of the Year award. She is half-Glaswegian, half-Yorkshire and lives in Barnsley.

  Her books are mostly set in Yorkshire and always feature Yorkshire women. She writes about love, friendship, betrayal, rather nice food and a little bit of that magic in life that sometimes visits the unsuspecting.

  She likes big ships and carrot cake. She does not like lamb chops or marzipan.

  Website: www.millyjohnson.co.uk

  Twitter: www.twitter.com/millyjohnson

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/milly.johnson1

  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!

  Return to the contents list.

  Capri Blue

  ***

  Belinda Jones

  DESTINATION: Capri, Italy

  I look at my hand in the Capri sunshine – where once was flashing, sparkling diamonds, dancing and winking in the light, there is an empty space. My pale skin looks so plain and bare… My wedding rings are gone. He is gone. Not gone, gone. No tragic accidents or missions to Mars, just gone from my life. I sigh and avert my eyes, trying to find something else to focus on. For a moment I watch a bird dipping into the edge of the pool, frisking and spritzing its feathers in the aquamarine waters. And then I notice the woman two velvety-orange sunloungers along from me performing some strange ritual with the gold-toggled string from her bikini –carefully wrapping it around the base of her ring finger then reaching for her can of Factor 50 and giving the surrounding area a vigorous spray.

  She catches me staring and pulls a face: ‘Seventeen years of marriage and all I’ve got to show for it is an ugly tan line.’

  I look back at my hand. ‘I’ve just got a dent,’ I observe. The lower part of my finger looking like it’s been wearing a little platinum corset for the past three years.

  ‘Lucky you!’ The woman chips, and then grimaces. ‘Of course I’m sure you feel anything but.’

  ‘Anything but,’ I concur. ‘Well, except for being here!’ I motion to the vine-clad hotel before us, fronted with lemon trees, backed by verdant mountains. I’ve been in a tug of war between location-heaven and emotion-hell since I arrived yesterday. ‘It really is stunning isn’t it?’ I decide to focus on the positive.

  ‘I couldn’t think of a better spot in all Italia to roast myself.’ She looks back at her hand. ‘In fact, I wonder if I applied a little slick of olive oil here-’

  ‘I might have something better!’ I reach into my bag and pull out an assortment of sun creams with built in self-tanning properties.

  She squints over but looks unconvinced.

  ‘I haven’t applied any of them to me yet, if you’re wondering about their effectiveness.’ I shift closer and set the tubes in a row. ‘Now most of these will take a while to develop but this one,’ I hold up a glass vial, ‘you can just paint it on and you’re good to go!’

  She reaches eagerly for it. ‘Some supposed friend of mine said it’s going to take me about as long to get over the divorce as my hand takes to get an even tan but if you’re offering an instant fix…’

  ‘You just brush it on like nail varnish.’

  ‘Would you be so kind?’ She looks hopeful.

  ‘I’d be delighted.’

  I set to work feeling like her personal manicurist.

  ‘Is this your first time here?’ she asks me.

  I nod. ‘I actually just read a book set here and I liked the idea of following in the heroine’s footsteps,’ I look up. ‘I thought it might help to have a purpose to the trip, you know, if I was having a wobble.’

  She gives me an empathetic smile. ‘What a nice idea. Where have you been so far?’

  ‘Well,’ I hesitate, remembering my failed pilgrimage to Arco Naturale yesterday. At first it was a dream, all sun-parched pine needles and skittish lizards, but then I inadvertently diverted up a set of steps so steep I had heart palpitations and sweated so much I looked like I’d taken a quick dip in the Blue Grotto. Instead I choose to tell her about my blissful strawberry bellini on the terrace of the Luna hotel, overlooking the legendary Faraglioni rocks.

  ‘And the Capri Palace is in the book as well?’

  ‘Yes, the heroine just has dinner here but when I saw the pictures on the website – I decided to treat myself, just for one night. What about you?’

  ‘Oh I’ve been dozens of times. This is my favourite spa in all Europe.’ She leans back, holding her hand up to the sun to help the tint dry. ‘I think when you’ve been rejected or abandoned or passed over for a younger model it is very comforting to have caring hands laid upon you. Of course yesterday I turned into a sobbing wreck midway through my sugar peel but it’s all part of the process.’ She shrugs. ‘You follow up any treatment with the world’s most charming waiters and there’s a cure for a broken heart right there.’

  ‘They are very attentive…’ I smile, recalling my dinner from last night – I was just at a casual trattoria across the way but my plate of spaghetti came with a cherry tomato carved into a perfect rosebud with a flair of rocket leaves. ‘A flower for you, signora!’

  Before I came away I thought I was going to find the famous Italian flirtations intimidating but last night I experienced the waiter’s attention as kindness – as if he wanted nothing more than the pleasure of my returned gaze.

  ‘If you say so!’ Adele chuckles. That’s her name. Adele from Atlanta. ‘Personally I like the naughty ones. They’re actually a little too
professional here. I was thinking of having a wander around town this afternoon, to see what else is on offer…’ She raises an invitational brow.

  ‘I couldn’t tempt you up Monte Solaro could I?’ I venture. ‘There’s a café-bar up there and the views are meant to be spectacular…’

  The truth is I’ve been struggling with getting up the nerve to take the chairlift that creaks you to the top – a small plank of wood hanging from a coat hanger, or so it seems to me. I went yesterday but had a vision of me slipping off, tumbling down the mountain and never being seen again. Now at least I could have a witness when I fall…

  ‘Let’s go right now!’ Adele is more than game.

  The only thing that slows us up is my ogling of the sandals she is slipping onto her sheeny, bronzed feet. The base is pinky-nude leather, the straps polished gold and there is a glittering trail of crystals from her toes to her ankles.

  ‘All Swarovski,’ she says as she sees me blinking at the bling. ‘I got them right here, let me show you…’

  She leads me flip-flopping down the path and into the hotel’s artisan store where two young, golden Italians are crafting leather and jewels into custom footwear.

  It’s like the Elves and the Shoemaker meets Versace.

  ‘So you start with a basic base and then choose your laces,’ she points to row upon row of narrow leather strips in a mix of rainbow hues and metallics, ‘and then add your embellishments. I’m getting them for all my friends for Christmas. Actually I need to send a few more pictures of the T-bar options to my sister.’