SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories)

by Belinda Jones

  ‘Heavenly is exactly the word!’ I say, coming up for breath and grinning stupidly at Lucas, who jumped in as soon as I did. ‘This is how holidays should be!’

  ‘It’s been a great day,’ he says, treading water and looking at me in that unnerving way again. Droplets of water are dripping off his eyelashes, and now he’s not wearing his glasses I see that his eyes are the same dark green as the ubiquitous cypresses.

  ‘I didn’t realise your eyes were green.’

  ‘Most people don’t.’

  We smile at one another some more. I’m so aware of his broad shoulders, above the water, and long legs, below it, that it’s all I can do not to reach out and touch him. I swim back under and away from him, and we spend ten minutes or so splashing about, each avoiding the other’s gaze.

  ‘Siesta time,’ says Lucas, swimming to the edge of the pool. I follow him, the booze, sunshine, enormous sunflowers and scented garden making me feel like I’m in some kind of surreal fairy tale.

  Lucas lies down, prone, on a sunlounger and seems to fall asleep immediately. I collapse on an adjacent one and try to read my book for a bit. Moments later, I’m asleep too.

  *

  ‘What the hell did you think you were playing at?’ Christian rants, pacing up and down the room.

  ‘I had no alternative,’ I say wearily. My head is pounding from drinking at lunchtime, my skin stinging from falling asleep in the sun, and I just wish he’d shut up so I could read another chapter of my book before dinner.

  ‘If you’d got up in time for breakfast, none of this would have happened!’

  ‘None of what? You’re making a ridiculous mountain out of a molehill. I had lunch and a swim. So what?’ I face him defiantly, surprised that he minds so much.

  ‘Drinking at lunchtime? Pasta…’ he pronounces it ‘parsta’, ‘…and potatoes? Do you know what such a carb overload is going to do to your blood sugar levels?’

  ‘Christian…’

  ‘And then you have to fall asleep in the sun and add skin cancer to your list of potential health problems?’

  It’s gradually dawning on me that he’s not all that bothered about me spending the day with Lucas – it’s just all the ‘unhealthy’ (aka normal, holiday) things I’ve done behind his back.

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, you’re not my bloody father. And for your information today’s been the most fun I’ve had all week.’

  I regret the words as soon as they’ve left my mouth, and our row turns into a full-on shouting match that can probably be heard by every other guest at the fattoria.

  Dinner is endured in awkward silence. I follow Christian’s suggestion of a plain omelette with salad, and, still dehydrated from lunchtime, am happy to knock back the water. Wistfully I listen to the happy chatter coming from our fellow diners on the terrace. Lucas is nowhere to be seen.

  Back in our room, Christian brushes, flosses, exfoliates and moisturizes, then gets into bed and lies with his back to me. I go out onto our little wrought iron balcony with my book and gaze out at the warm, fragrant, star-studded sky.

  I try to read but the words don’t sink in, so I take out my phone instead, to see what’s going on in the rest of the world. It beeps twice as I turn it on.

  Oooh – texts from Kat and Zoe. Suddenly missing them terribly, I wonder how they’re getting on in Sorrento.

  I open Kat’s first:

  Hey babes, good holiday? Killed Christian yet? Zoe’s being a right pain, moping about, moaning about fucking everything. Someone needs to give that girl a slap. Can’t wait to see you in Siena. Kx

  I laugh out loud, then open Zoe’s:

  Hi Georgie, I hope you’re having a wonderful time with Christian!! To be honest, I wish I was with you. Kat’s being even more of a bitch than usual and this is turning into the holiday from hell! Zxxx

  Hoping I won’t have to mediate too much when we meet in Siena, I switch my phone off and make my way to bed.

  *

  I’m lying by the pool again, reading and hoping to bump into Lucas. I managed to get up in time for breakfast, shoving a couple of crusty rolls, boiled eggs and luscious, overripe peaches into my handbag for a stolen picnic lunch. I bade Christian a polite farewell as he set off for another day’s uphill cycling. Today’s our last at the fattoria, and as we’ll be biking all the way to Siena tomorrow I’ve insisted on another pool day. Christian didn’t argue too much, except to remind me to wear plenty of factor 30.

  The hours pass in an enjoyably lazy way, but, as other guests come and go around the pool, there’s still no sign of Lucas. I turn back to my book, not wanting to want him so much.

  And then, wonderfully…

  ‘Georgie girl! I was hoping to find you here.’ He approaches my sunlounger from behind, casting a long shadow, and bends over to kiss me on both cheeks.

  ‘Oooh, why’s that?’ I ask, trying not to show how pleased I am to see him.

  ‘Well, after your row last night…’

  ‘Oh bugger, no – you heard it?’

  ‘Georgie, everyone from here to Florence probably heard it.’ He gives me a sympathetic smile and I laugh ruefully.

  ‘… I thought maybe you could do with a bit of cheering up.’

  ‘Just seeing you has cheered me up.’ Shit, did I say that out loud?

  Lucas raises an eyebrow in surprise. ‘Well, that’s a nice thing to say.’

  We smile at each other.

  ‘So what have you got in mind?’

  ‘You know about the communal dinner thing tonight?’

  I nod. Once a week all the guests are invited to eat together at one big table, to get to know each other and our hosts better. After last night, I’m looking forward to having a few new dining companions.

  ‘And that it’s generally the result of cooking lessons given by Francesca?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that…’

  ‘So do you fancy joining me for today’s class? It starts in half an hour’s time, and she’s hardly got any other takers today.’

  I’m not surprised, I think, as I look up at the sky. Why would anyone want to be stuck in a hot kitchen on a day like today? But another couple of hours with Lucas? Now you’re talking.

  ‘Thanks, I’d love to. Do we have time for a quick dip first?’

  There are only two other guests, a lovely fifty-something husband and wife from South Carolina, at Francesca’s cookery class. As we introduce ourselves, the wife says, ‘My, you make the cutest couple.’

  I glance over at Lucas, who’s trying to keep a straight face.

  ‘Thanks Mary-Beth,’ he says. ‘And so do you and Rick.’

  I’m about to put the Americans right, when Francesca interrupts.

  ‘OK, so on with the food!’

  She teaches us how to make pasta from scratch, how to knead the dough, then fold it several times before passing it as finely as you can through the machine. I’m useless at the machine feeding, so Lucas holds my hand on the winding handle with his. We grin at each other with real glee as it comes out looking like proper linguine.

  I’ve never wanted to kiss anybody more in my life.

  ‘OK, so now on with the sauce,’ says Francesca, whose husband Alfredo has just brought in armfuls of burstingly ripe tomatoes from the garden.

  ‘Surely you don’t need to do much with such beautiful fresh produce?’ says Lucas, leaning back against the wall, his hands in his jeans pockets.

  ‘Only garlic, basil and our own cold-pressed olive oil,’ she says, giving him a smile that I can only describe as adoring.

  Jealousy? What jealousy?

  *

  ‘This is just like being in a movie,’ says Mary-Beth sweetly, seated next to me at the candle-lit refectory table, under the trees and stars. ‘So picturesque.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I agree. Our fellow guests include three generations of a family from Northern France – grandparents, two sets of parents and some adorable kids. The youngest, who’s about seven, is rambunctious and autisti
c, and his grandfather has tears in his eyes as he tells me that he’s his favourite grand-child. I watch Lucas playing with the little boy and try not to cry myself.

  Christian, ignoring me, is trying to chat up the boy’s mother – the prettier of the two sisters – but I couldn’t care less.

  ‘What a lovely close family you have,’ I say to the old man, taking a sip of my sweet hazelnut liqueur and blinking back the tears. God knows why I’m so bloody emotional tonight.

  Alfredo, at the head of the table, starts strumming a guitar and gradually the hubbub of chatter fades to nothing. Even before he starts singing, I recognize the opening bars of the Neapolitan folk song ‘Santa Lucia’.

  ‘Sul mare luccica l'astro d'argento…’

  It should, by rights, be cheesier than all the parmesan in Parma, but it’s simply magical and we all smile soppily in the moonlight. I catch Lucas’s eye across the table and my heart starts thumping again.

  Soon Christian gets up, announcing that it’s time for bed as we have to hit the road early tomorrow. Hardly able to bear the thought that after tonight I’ll probably never see Lucas again, I tell him I’ll join him once I’ve finished my drink. He opens his mouth to protest, then shrugs and gives a resigned smile.

  I’m crying under an olive tree when Lucas finds me.

  ‘Georgie girl,’ he says. ‘Now what’s the matter, you beautiful thing? It’s nothing to do with your boyfriend flirting with Claudette, is it?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I sniffle. ‘I just… I wish we weren’t leaving tomorrow… I… will I ever see you again?’

  He lifts up my chin with his right hand and gazes at me through those long-lashed, cypress-green eyes.

  ‘Georgie…’ he starts.

  ‘Please just kiss me?’

  And he does, his tongue gently exploring my mouth, his hands holding my face like he never wants to let me go. It’s even better than I dreamt it would be. We sink onto the stubbly grass and carry on kissing and kissing and kissing as the cicadas chirrup around us and the stars continue to twinkle in the warm night air.

  *

  I’ve got my ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech all prepared as I face Christian across the breakfast table.

  ‘Babe,’ he says, tucking into his egg-white omelette, which Francesca prepared with raised eyebrows and a grimace. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, but… I think you and I should call it a day. There, I’ve said it. It’s not you, it’s—’

  ‘Don’t worry babe,’ I say, wondering if it would be too shitty of me to take the moral high ground. I decide it would. ‘You’re right. It’s me too. This holiday hasn’t really worked out for us, has it? I hope we can still be friends though?’

  He smiles, looking hugely relieved.

  ‘Of course we can. You’re a great girl, Georgie. You’re just a bit too – I don’t know – headstrong for me…’

  I laugh. ‘That’s a polite way of putting it.’

  ‘So what shall we do now? Are we still going to Siena?’

  ‘Well, yes – I’m dying to see Siena. I’m meant to be meeting the girls there too, remember?’

  Something flickers across Christian’s eyes.

  ‘Oh yeah – of course…’

  ‘But I really don’t want to cycle there. I looked at the map and the main road leading into the city looks absolutely terrifying.’

  ‘It’s OK, babe. You make your own way. And you can have the hotel – you booked it after all. I’ll find somewhere else to stay.’

  ‘Thanks Christian. You’re a decent chap.’

  We smile slightly sadly at each other, remembering the good times.

  *

  Lucas and I are eating pizzas and drinking beer at one of the many touristy cafes in the beautiful Piazza del Campo. We spent the morning exploring Siena’s winding medieval backstreets, holding hands and stopping to kiss every few minutes. Utterly nauseating to watch, I imagine.

  Suddenly I catch sight of Kat, every inch the rock chick in black skinnies, stiletto ankle boots, vest top, shades and a trilby perched on top of her long black hair. I stand up, waving madly to catch her attention through the throngs of tourists. She sees me and pushes her way through the crowds.

  ‘Georgie mate, fantastic to see you.’ She gives me a huge bear hug. ‘But where’s Christian? And who’s this?’ She lowers her shades to give Lucas an approving once over.

  ‘Ah… well…’ I say sheepishly. ‘Sit down and have a drink and we’ll tell you all about it.’

  Soon Kat is cackling into her pint, thumping the table with mirth.

  ‘Classic. Just classic. Talk about trading up! Cheers!’ She raises her glass at us and we grin back. I can tell that Lucas loves her already.

  ‘So where’s Zoe?’ I ask.

  ‘God knows.’ Kat shrugs. ‘She’s been so fucking weird all week, constantly texting and moping about like a lovesick teenager. I told her we’d arranged to meet for lunch here and she just said something vague about catching up this afternoon—’

  ‘Oh my God.’ I interrupt her. ‘Look over there. I don’t believe it!’

  Ambling across the Piazza, completely engrossed in one another, are Zoe and Christian. His arm is around her shoulder; she’s gazing up at him through adoring eyes.

  ‘What a bloody slyboots!’ Kat explodes. ‘So that’s who she was texting all holiday! I’m going to give her a piece of my mind.’

  She stands up and I force her to sit down again. ‘Honestly Kat, I couldn’t give a shit. She’s welcome to him.’ I smile at Lucas and he smiles back, squeezing my hand. ‘How funny though – I always thought that if either you or Zoe fancied Christian, it was you – you know, all that talk of not being able to stand him. I thought maybe the lady doth protest too much…’

  ‘Nah – I really do just fucking hate him!’ she splutters, and we all start rocking with uncontrollable, shoulder-heaving laughter.

  About the Author

  Lucy Lord is a novelist and journalist who has written for various publications, including The Times, Guardian, Independent, Evening Standard, Time Out, Marie Claire and Arena. Aside from reading and writing, she enjoys lying in hammocks, long lunches on beaches, music, cooking and throwing parties. She lives in London with her musician husband. Lucy’s books, published by Harper Collins, are: PARTY NIGHT, a ‘filthy-bright, laugh-out-loud funny’ novella which focuses on one eventful New Year’s Eve and is a prequel to REVELRY, described as ‘This Life for the 21st Century’ and ‘Bridget Jones times 10’; ‘Exotic, funny and warm’ VANITY, which follows our heroines from New York to LA, Paris to St Tropez, Ibiza to the Hamptons, and culminates in a road trip across the States that they’ll never forget; and A GIRL CALLED SUMMER, coming out this summer, which is set on the beautiful island of Ibiza.

  Website: www.lucylordauthor.com

  Twitter: www.twitter.com/@lucylord1

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/lucylordauthor

  Visit www.sunloungerstories.com to discover more about the authors and their story destinations.

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  Going Nowhere

  ***

  Chrissie Manby

  DESTINATION: New York

  Melanie was in a hurry. The flight to New York JFK would leave Heathrow at three o’clock that afternoon and at midday, she was still sitting in traffic on the Edgware Road. She texted her best friend, Katy, who texted back immediately to reassure her that no-one needs to be at the airport three hours early anymore, despite what it said on the airline’s website.

  Dissatisfied by the text, Melanie called her best friend for more reassurance.

  ‘You’ve already checked in on-line,’ Katy reasoned. ‘You’ve chosen your seat. You’re travelling with hand-luggage only. All you have to do is flash your passport, go through security and you’re there. Stop stressing.’

  But Melanie couldn’t stop stressing. She had to be in New York that afterno
on. First thing the following morning she had a job interview at the New York office of the law firm she had been working for since she became a trainee. It was a huge step up. She still couldn’t quite believe it. It was an amazing opportunity.

  That was what she kept telling herself anyway. Telling it to herself in a louder and louder inner voice in an attempt to drown out the smaller voice inside her that said, ‘But aren’t you getting a little bit sick of being a lawyer? Of the long hours, the boring work, the back-biting colleagues…’

  ‘Shut up,’ Melanie actually said out loud.

  ‘What?’ said Katy.

  ‘Sorry. Wasn’t talking to you,’ Melanie reassured her.

  ‘Then I sincerely hope you were talking to your driver,’ said Katy. ‘Talking to yourself is one of the signs, you know.’

  Melanie forced a laugh.

  The traffic had started to move again. Katy continued to insist that two hours from check-in to flight would be plenty of time until at last Melanie relaxed a little and ended the phone call so that Katy could get back to her own work.

  ‘But you can call me anytime,’ Katy said as they wound up the call. ‘Whenever you like. I’ve always got time for my best friend.’

  It was true. Katy always had time when it mattered. Perhaps that was because she was her own boss.

  Melanie and Katy had met at law school a decade earlier. They’d bonded instantly at a new student drinks party and had spent the whole year together, keeping each other going when it all seemed just too hard. Afterwards, they’d been delighted to find they’d been offered jobs at the same firm. But Katy quit after just six months there. The long hours and the pressure were just too much for her.