SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories)

by Belinda Jones

  Kat does something dodgy in a strip club in Soho – she goes there after every gig and frequently returns wired out of her mind on heaven knows what cocktail of substances. She’s seriously sexy, with her long black hair, even longer legs and feline green eyes. Zoe’s the sweet one, working at a Montessori nursery school every morning before coming home to collapse on our battered old sofa, lids drooping over her big blue eyes as she tells us something cute that little Max or Amy said that day.

  I guess I’m the one in the middle. I’d never really had a plan for what to do with my diploma from the Royal College of Music, and reckon I’ve struck a pretty good compromise: when not jamming with the girls, I teach piano to the spoilt children of Croesus-like parents in Hampstead, Chelsea and Notting Hill. All of which are a hike from Dalston, but worth the journey for the amount they’re willing to fork out for an hour or two’s work.

  Anyway, back to Christian. He looks like a model, with his high cheekbones, perfect teeth, crystal blue eyes and phenomenal physique. He’s Australian, and when we first started chatting, I had the idea that we’d be hanging out with his mates in Earls Court, downing pint after testosterone-fuelled pint of Fosters. But no.

  As a personal trainer, Christian’s very serious about his food regime. Carbs are verboten and sugar, of course, is ‘poison’. Even the sugar in fruit. Call me old fashioned, but surely any diet that bans nature’s best bounty is bloody ridiculous? How can chemically produced protein powders be better for you? Really?

  Kat can’t stand Christian and refers to him as ‘that vain twat’. Zoe’s nicer. ‘Come on, Kat,’ she said, one afternoon when we all happened to be in the flat at the same time. ‘He’s gorgeous, and Georgie loves him.’

  ‘Do you?’ Kat asked me through narrowed eyes. ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I laughed. ‘You’re just a jealous sex-starved cow.’

  ‘Jealous? Sex starved?’ Kat’s husky voice had risen by a few octaves. ‘You must be fucking joking.’

  The two of them are currently lapping up the sun in a villa with some mutual friends, down on the Amalfi coast. Right now, I can’t tell you how much I wish I was with them. We’re planning to meet in Siena – if I make it in one piece.

  *

  At long last we turn off the main road, down a white rubbly track flanked by greeny-gold vineyards on one side, silvery olive groves on the other, punctuated by almost military rows of tall, dark green cypresses. It’s stunning, and without the scary killer cars and upward trajectory, I’m starting to enjoy myself again – although my arse is killing me. Christian gave me a pair of padded cycling shorts as a romantic pre-holiday gift, but, having tried them on, I abandoned them on the perfectly reasonable grounds that they made my bum and thighs look grotesque.

  I round another corner and catch my breath as the ancient, ivy-clad stone building comes into view. Pink and white roses climb one of the dappled walls and a wrought iron staircase leads to a small balcony on the first floor, from which a smiling middle-aged woman is waving. The setting sun casts the cream-painted shutters in a rosy glow, and the multi-hued foliage in the grounds is so lush it feels like looking into the Garden of Eden.

  ‘Welcome to Fattoria Tregole,’ says the friendly woman. ‘Georgina and Christian, yes?’

  ‘Yup, that’s us,’ I grin.

  I found all our accommodation, as the last time I left it up to Christian to book a hotel, for a gig in Manchester, we ended up on an industrial estate on the city outskirts. Soul-destroying doesn’t come close. All the pretty pensiones I spent hours researching online have beautiful views and pools, and Christian’s delighted to be able to swim 50 lengths every morning before breakfast.

  *

  ‘Are you sure you want that?’ asks Christian, as I help myself to one of the glasses of wine laid out on the fattoria’s terrace.

  ‘Um – yeah? We’re on holiday.’ We’re sitting under vines, the pain in my muscles is starting to ease and the view of hills of fifty shades of green is mind-blowingly gorgeous. It’s much better looking at them than pushing your bike up them.

  ‘Because we’ll probably have some wine with our meal, later.’ His eyes crinkle, handsomely. ‘Fast track to type two diabetes!’

  I was happy to let Christian take on the onerous task of whipping me into shape when we first met. The vodka-fuelled late nights in smoky bars that go hand in hand with singing in a band were starting to take their toll, and I reckoned some kind of balance could only be A Good Thing. He rustled up healthy meals involving quinoa, fish and plenty of green vegetables and gave me free personal training sessions – which usually culminated in fantastic, acrobatic sex; I’d never known my limbs could move in so many directions.

  The novelty’s starting to pall.

  ‘I’m willing to take the risk,’ I say now and down the glass in one. Christian looks pained.

  At one of the tables behind him, a bespectacled, unshaven Italian chap laughs and raises his glass to me.

  *

  'Wake up sleepyhead!’ Christian shakes me by the shoulder and I open a blurry eye.

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask as he comes into focus. His blond hair is wet against his perfectly shaped head, his muscular physique shown off to perfection in pale blue Bond shorts. Lust starts squirming in my belly.

  ‘Nearly eight am! I’ve done my lengths, now it’s time to hit the road.’ Way to quash the lust.

  ‘Jesus, give it a rest.’ I put my face back down on the pillow. ‘I’m still knackered from yesterday.’

  ‘You’ll be fine once you get going.’ He smiles encouragingly, back in personal trainer mode. ‘No such word as can’t, Georgie.’

  ‘Any such word as won’t?’

  His smile fades and I realize I sound like a stroppy teenager. Trying not to be such a bitch, I sit up and put my arms around him. ‘Sorry babe, but I really do need a day off. You go off and explore those hills – it’ll be much more fun without me moaning and holding you back.’

  Is that a glimmer of relief in his eyes?

  ‘Well, if you’re sure… But what are you going to do all day?’

  I laugh and gesture through the window at the tempting turquoise pool just visible at the bottom of the luscious garden, shimmering against the verdant Tuscan scenery.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’ve got a sunlounger and a book…’

  ‘You and your books,’ says Christian, who only reads Men’s Health. ‘OK then. See you later babe.’ He kisses me and puts on his cycling shorts.

  Seconds later, I fall back into a lovely, dreamy sleep.

  *

  Eventually I get up, shower and put on a loose cornflower blue mini-dress – a relief after the denim cut-offs that Christian likes me in, and which have been starting to chafe with all the cycling. I tie up my hair and race down to make the most of the breakfast buffet on the terrace. I’m starving, as last night Christian steered me away from all the yummy-looking things on the menu in favour of salted cod – not the best choice, as we’re right in the centre of Italy, far from any coast – but the only fish available. He insisted that we drank lots of water to counteract the salt (despite the salt, I woke up three times in the night to pee).

  The food is being taken away as I get there. Bugger, I’ve missed breakfast, which I was hoping would get me through the day if I ate enough of it. The fattoria doesn’t serve lunch.

  ‘Looks like we’ve both missed it,’ says a lazy, amused voice.

  I turn around to see the tall Italian chap who raised his glass at me last night. But he doesn’t sound Italian. More English… more – West Country?

  ‘Hi,’ he continues. ‘I’m Lucas.’ Definitely West Country. A gentle burr, not unattractive.

  ‘Hi Lucas,’ I smile. ‘I thought you were Italian.’

  ‘I’m from Devon – the swarthy good looks are a direct result of the Spanish Armada landing in Bristol a few hundred years ago. The sailors were quite a hit with the local ladies.’

  I laugh. ‘I’m from Lo
ndon.’

  He looks me up and down through his heavy-rimmed specs. ‘So what’s your name, pretty blonde London girl?’

  ‘Georgie,’ I say, enjoying the compliment.

  ‘Georgie,’ he repeats. ‘I like it.’

  He continues to hold my gaze, which is slightly unnerving.

  ‘So is that horribly handsome man I saw cycling up the hills this morning your husband?’

  ‘My boyfriend.’

  He pauses for a second, then smiles.

  ‘Well, as there’s nothing to eat here, shall we go and find some lunch? There’s a great place in the nearest village.’

  My stomach rumbles and we both laugh.

  ‘I guess that’s your answer,’ I say. Well, Christian wouldn’t want me to starve – he bangs on enough about regular meals and the importance of breakfast. ‘But isn’t it a bit early for lunch?’

  ‘Not by the time we’ve cycled there.’

  ‘Oh no, not more cycling, please? Don’t say you’re on a cycling holiday too?’

  ‘No. I’m working, but I can borrow a bike from Francesca, and it’s downhill all the way. No terrifying traffic either.’

  ‘OK, you’re on,’ I grin. ‘And thanks.’

  Cycling down another white rubbly track, this one bordered by a highly scented pine forest, is sublime. The wind is in my hair, the sun warm on my face, and it’s much more comfortable without thick denim rubbing my thighs raw. The incline is gentle, but it suddenly occurs to me that our return journey is going to be pretty tough going. The track winds and winds and winds downhill.

  ‘Don’t worry about getting back,’ Lucas says over his shoulder, surprising me with his ability to read my mind. ‘It’ll be fine. Trust me.’

  The terrace outside the restaurant is even more idyllic than the one at the fattoria. More vines shelter us from the now searing sun, and the landscape behind Lucas looks like a painting. Patchwork hills, vineyards (again), cypresses (again), cliché upon magnificent cliché, all bathed in glorious golden sunshine.

  ‘So what do you fancy?’ he asks me, as I peruse the menu.

  You, I think, surprising myself. What? He’s nothing like as handsome as Christian and has to be a good ten years older than me. He is very tall though, and attractive in a rumpled, decadent kind of way.

  ‘Ravioli with pear and pecorino sounds good.’

  ‘It’s great.’ He smiles, teeth flashing white against his tan and lived-in stubble.

  ‘How come you know this place so well?’

  ‘I’m a travel writer.’

  ‘Cool! I—’

  I am interrupted by an enormous man, bellowing ‘Lucas!’ as he waddles over to our table.

  ‘Hi Giacomo.’ Lucas stands up and accepts the man’s effusive embrace. They talk in Italian for a bit, Giacomo’s gesticulations a pleasing contrast to Lucas’s amused, laid-back stance.

  ‘Sorry, I’m forgetting my manners,’ he says. ‘Giacomo, Georgie. Georgie, this is Giacomo.’

  ‘Que bella,’ says Giacomo as he kisses my hand. ‘Georgie, welcome. I am the proprietor here. I hope we can accommodate your every desire!’

  I glance over at Lucas, who winks.

  ‘You old dog,’ he laughs, turning to Giacomo. ‘But sadly she’s taken.’

  ‘I am only offering you my hospitality,’ says Giacomo, mock-offended, his eyes merry. ‘This is the man of whom to be wary.’

  ‘OK, enough of that.’ Lucas seems less amused now. ‘Could we have a bottle of Orvieto, please? Is that OK with you, Georgie? It goes well with the ravioli, and we can move on to red, if you prefer, for the main course…’

  The ravioli is exquisitely delicate, three morsels of gossamer-fine pasta filled with sweet fruit and salty cheese, its only accompaniments melted butter, wafer-thin slivers of fresh pear and more grated pecorino.

  ‘God this is delicious,’ I say, trying not to speak with my mouth full. ‘So I’m guessing you’ve reviewed this place?’

  ‘Excellent powers of deduction,’ he says in his lazy way. ‘I hope you like it?’

  He leans forward across the table, and the laziness is replaced by a kind of magnetic intensity. I am mesmerized by his dark eyes behind the specs.

  ‘Didn’t I just say so?’ I laugh, trying to break the moment yet unable to tear my gaze away from his as I realize, close up, just how long his thick black eyelashes are.

  He stares back some more, then pulls himself away, abruptly.

  ‘So what do you do, Georgie?’ He’s languid again, leaning back in his chair, his long fingers playing against his moisture-beaded glass of white. ‘Something artistic, I bet.’

  I smile.

  ‘I sing and play piano in a band.’

  ‘Better and better.’ A slow smile creeps across his face. ‘I’d love to see you perform.’

  And he tops up my glass again.

  Our main course is even more mouth-watering than the first, if that’s possible. Lucas recommended tagliata, a local delicacy: rare chargrilled beef, thinly sliced on a bed of peppery rocket leaves, with shavings of heady, bosky white truffle. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten such tender, tasty meat. We share a side dish of sauté potatoes, crispy and aromatic with garlic and rosemary.

  ‘Mmmm, this is heaven on a plate,’ I say, washing it down with a glug of full-bodied Chianti.

  ‘Glad to see you enjoying it. I get the opinion you haven’t been having much of a gastronomic tour of the region.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I’m not even allowed orange juice with my breakfast. Do you know how much sugar there is in a glass of OJ?’ I mimic Christian’s Australian accent, then stop, feeling guilty. I change the subject. ‘So how did you get into travel writing?’

  Lucas tells me how he went to live in Athens straight from university, using his degree in English to get jobs teaching it as a foreign language – which he kept losing, as he liked to party on the islands at weekends and invariably had so much fun that he’d miss the Monday classes.

  Sitting outside a little café in Plaka one day, in the shadow of the Parthenon, he started to compose short accounts of Greek life as it unfolded around him. He sent them off to various publications in the UK, and soon had his first few pieces published. They were spotted by the travel editor of a glossy lifestyle magazine, who gave him a monthly column.

  ‘Wow, you must be an amazing writer,’ I gush, over-effusive with wine and afternoon sunshine.

  ‘Oh I don’t know, it’s all subjective,’ he laughs. ‘But I suppose there was something in my style that appealed to that particular editor.’

  And to many more, it seems. He’s now written for all the major broadsheets, several style magazines and numerous in-flight publications. He’s travelled the world, and enthralls me with tales of Swedish skiing in the midnight sun, swimming with giant turtles off the Galapagos Islands, road trips across the States, mad bohemian nightlife in Berlin… Leaving, I imagine, many a broken heart in his wake.

  He listens as much as he talks though, asking me about my music, family, life with the girls in Dalston, and my opinions on everything. He’s laughing at my description of one of the trophy wives whose children I teach, when Giacomo approaches our table with two coffees, a bottle of Limoncello and the news that the restaurant will be packing up in fifteen minutes’ time.

  ‘The Limoncello is on the house.’ Smiling, he picks up two small glasses from the next table and puts them on ours. ‘Prego, help yourself.’

  ‘Grazie mille,’ says Lucas, and they banter some more in Italian, heartily slapping backs.

  ‘Well, thanks for a lovely lunch,’ I say, raising my glass of syrupy yellow liquid to him. ‘I’ve had a fantastic time.’

  ‘So have I, Georgie.’ Something in the way he says my name, holding my gaze with those seen-everything eyes, makes my heart start going like the clappers.

  Giacomo gives us a lift back up the hill in his jeep, our bikes stored safely in the back. He puts on a CD of Dean Martin singing ‘Volare’ and we sing tipsily
along in the scorching sun.

  ‘This is wonderful!’ As the song comes to an end, I throw my arms up to the deep blue sky. ‘I love Italy, I love food, I love sunshine, I love Dean, I love…’ I stop, realizing that both men are staring at me. ‘Sorry,’ I giggle, slightly embarrassed. ‘I think I might have got a bit carried away.’

  ‘You are very charming,’ says Giacomo. Lucas just smiles, shaking his head ever so slightly.

  Back at the Fattoria, I make my way unsteadily up to our room to change into my bikini. A swim should sober me up, I think, trying to ignore the prickling of my conscience. It was fair enough to have lunch with Lucas when the only other option was starving. Spending the rest of the day with him, half naked? Hmmm. But then if Christian doesn’t want to do any of the things I like to do on holiday, what’s the alternative? I can hardly ask Lucas not to use the pool.

  Outside, the sun seems hotter and brighter than ever as, towel and book in hand, I weave my way down a stone path that has been laid into the lawn, past golden honeysuckle, creamy white roses, scarlet geraniums, lipstick pink oleander, scented lavender and heavily laden fig trees. The pool glitters like a tourmaline at the edge of the hill.

  Lucas is standing with his back to me the other side of it, looking out over fields of unfeasibly tall sunflowers. I try not to gawp at his tall, broad-shouldered physique in baggy navy blue surf shorts. He turns around, and I see, to my relief, that he’s not nearly as perfect as Christian, the extra flesh around his middle hinting at a lifetime of lunches like the one we’ve just had.

  He smiles and waves as I approach.

  ‘Doesn’t the water look heavenly?’ he says.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘How gentlemanly. Wait no longer!’ I take a running jump into the pool. Oh, the bliss of cool, clean water against my overheated limbs.