SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories)

by Belinda Jones

  ‘Then he’s an idiot for trusting me! I’ve already told Jeremy I’m writing the story. If I don’t meet his deadline, I’ll get a reputation for being unreliable.’

  ‘You’d rather have a reputation for being a bitch?’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘It is exactly like that. I really don’t understand you, Gaby. I thought you liked him?’ Without waiting to hear her reply, Pris abruptly turned away and headed back up to the bedroom.

  As the hot chocolate slowly congealed in the mug beside her, Gaby stared at the photograph on screen. Her sister was right. She had liked Luca.

  So when had she become such a bitch?

  She didn’t send the email.

  Gaby would have liked to have thought it was because she was working hard on becoming a nicer person. The reality was she fell asleep on the couch while she was still trying to sweet-talk her conscience around to the idea. When she did finally wake up, it was to find Pris’s scowling face inches from hers.

  ‘You’re alive then? Because there was a moment there—’

  ‘Of course I’m alive.’ Gaby sat up – and regretted it instantly as her hangover hit with the force of a sledgehammer. ‘Ow, ow, ow…’ All those beers she’d drunk at Remy’s club… She was certainly paying for it now.

  ‘Is that the sound of your conscience rebooting?’

  ‘Oh, give it a rest for five minutes, please. Why are you so cheerful anyway?’

  ‘I’ve written two posts for my blog – one on cocktails and one on that club Luca took us to last night, along with a load of photos. They’ve already had over one hundred hits and I’ve got twenty new followers.’

  ‘Please tell me you didn’t post any of Luca?’

  ‘No, because that would make me a hypocrite, and one in the family is quite enough—’ Pris broke off and regarded her speculatively. ‘You do have a conscience? Or are you worried I’ve beaten you to your scoop?’

  ‘Stop calling it a scoop, it’s so 70s.’ Then she realised what Pris had said. ‘I’ve known the guy for a matter of hours. Sure, I like him – but I don’t ‘like’ him.’

  Pris shook her head. ‘I’m glad we cleared that up.’

  Gaby attempted to stand. Maybe if she kept her head absolutely still, it would stop pounding. Right now it seemed to be keeping time with the old blues number she’d heard in the club last night. The one where she’d danced with Luca and allowed her head to rest on his shoulder. The one she seemed to now have on permanent repeat in her head.

  ‘Me and my hangover are going to need some alone time,’ she managed between gritted teeth. ‘Why don’t you check that list of yours and come up with someplace for us to have breakfast?’

  ‘I’ve already decided; we’re going to Café du Monde for beignets and coffee.’

  Beignets, as far as Gaby knew, were square, flat doughnuts, liberally dusted with powdered sugar. Her stomach gurgled in protest.

  ‘Who the hell has beignets for breakfast?’

  ‘Everyone,’ said Pris. ‘And after we’ve done that, I thought we could take a ride on a street car, and then maybe a riverboat along the Mississippi.’

  ‘Are you trying to kill me?’ Gaby’s stomach heaved again. ‘Please, if you love me, no riverboat.’

  ‘I’m joking! I’ve booked us onto one of those cemetery tours, to see the last resting place of Marie Laveau, Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. I thought it sounded super scary.’

  ‘Delightful,’ sighed Gaby. ‘And while we’re there, you can find a nice quiet spot and bury me too.’

  She’d stumbled onto the story of a lifetime – and Pris wanted to go for beignets.

  Gaby didn’t even have the time to sweet talk the hotel receptionist into giving her Luca’s room number, because Pris whisked her straight out into the blazing sunshine, where they were almost flattened by a truck spraying the street clean with copious amounts of soap and water.

  ‘Just how early is this?’ Gaby asked her sister.

  ‘We have to arrive early to avoid the worst of the queue.’

  ‘Queue? I’m not going anywhere where I have to queue.’

  Pris didn’t even break her stride. ‘You are such a cow when you don’t get your sleep,’ she muttered.

  ‘Heard that.’

  ‘Bothered,’ snapped back Pris.

  And they walked the rest of the way in silence.

  Despite the early hour, there was a queue outside the Café du Monde; mainly locals on their way to work or doing the school run, but it moved along quickly enough and soon they were sitting at a table beneath the green and white striped awning.

  It was hard making sense of a menu when one had a hangover, but when the waitress turned up Pris ordered chicory coffee and beignets for two before Gaby even had chance to open her mouth.

  ‘Why do I have to have chicory coffee?’ she grumbled, aware she was being totally unreasonable, but quite unable to stop herself.

  ‘You come to the Café du Monde and you order beignets and chicory coffee. It’s a tradition. You see, during the Civil War chicory was added to coffee to make it last longer—’

  ‘Did you read that guide book or swallow it?’

  This time Gaby knew she’d gone too far but Pris, suspiciously, didn’t appear remotely offended. In fact, she didn’t appear to be listening to Gaby at all, her attention was completely focused on something happening behind her. Gaby had a sense of foreboding and then, sure enough—

  ‘Hello, ladies,’ said a familiar voice, and Gaby realised the significance of the third chair when Luca pulled it out and sat in it.

  She could hardly believe her luck. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Luca raised a dark eyebrow and looked at Pris.

  ‘I invited him,’ Pris said, ‘to say ‘thank you’ after he took us to Remy’s last night. I bumped into him in reception while you were having that alone time with your hangover. Be nice,’ she added in an undertone.

  Be nice? Feeling slightly hurt, Gaby took a large bite of beignet.

  Meanwhile, Luca was chatting to Pris, teasing her about her list and asking what she’d got planned for today. When Pris began explaining about the cemetery tour she’d booked them on, Gaby almost groaned aloud.

  Luca also failed to be impressed. ‘Why the hell would you want to visit a cemetery? It’s full of dead people!’

  ‘Did you know there are more people buried in the cemeteries than there are living in New Orleans?’ Pris said.

  ‘How is that even possible?’ Gaby asked.

  ‘Trust me, you don’t want to know,’ Luca murmured, and bit into his beignet.

  Gaby tried not to think about the way his white teeth bit into the soft pastry, how the powdered sugar then liberally sprinkled his T-shirt, and that the reason she was now sitting on her hands was to stop herself from reaching out and dusting it off him.

  Pris, however, was on a roll. ‘According to the guide book, it’s called natural cremation. The coffin is placed inside the tomb which, because of the subtropical climate, acts as an oven, causing the body to decompose. After a year and a day, the remains are swept into the bottom of the tomb and it’s all ready for the next occupant. The tombs can be used over and over again. Isn’t that fascinating?’

  ‘Delightful,’ said Gaby.

  Luca laughed. ‘I did warn you!’ He pushed his plate towards her. ‘Here, have another beignet. I think you’re going to need it.’

  Gaby walked through St Louis Cemetery #1 and fretted. Almost every other person on the tour was English. It was only a matter of time before someone recognised Luca and posted it on the Internet. He hadn’t even made an effort to disguise himself. It was far too hot for the long-sleeved shirt he’d worn yesterday, so today he was wearing a T-shirt. Those famous tattoos, covering both arms from wrists to shoulders in swirls of black, crimson and green, were now in plain sight, along with the flashy silver rings. He’d tied his hair back, his only other concession to the heat, but that brought even more attention to hi
s handsome face. She’d already noticed the other women regarding him appreciatively – some when they thought she wasn’t looking, others quite blatantly. It was only a matter of time and then her scoop – story! – would be dead.

  Meanwhile Pris had buddied up with a girl the same age, who was dressed completely in black and who seemed to know as much about the history of the place as Pris did. As they wandered the avenues of huge, whitewashed tombs, Gaby wondered why either of them had bothered to take the tour. They seemed to spend most of the time trying to top each other’s gruesome stories.

  The four of them fell further behind. She could see the flamboyant guide at the head of their little crocodile, telling his tales, but she could only hear every other word. She knew she should be chatting to Luca, for any other random little nuggets of information about his past, but frankly she no longer cared what he was doing in New Orleans – and she didn’t like to consider why.

  Eventually Luca fell into step beside her and said, ‘For someone called Gaby, you’re remarkably quiet.’

  ‘My name is Gabriella Andersen,’ she said, aware the combination of heat, guilt and lust was making her tetchy.

  It didn’t help that Luca’s next comment was, ‘Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever taken a girl on a date to a cemetery before.’

  ‘I think you’ll find we’re taking you,’ she replied coolly, ‘or maybe kidnapped would be a more accurate description. Do you seriously not have anything better to do?’

  She could hardly have been less tactful, but instead of being offended, he laughed, which made her feel hotter and more flustered than ever.

  Their tour guide had paused in front of a large white tomb. There were scribbled brown crosses all over it and what appeared to be a mound of rubbish at the front. This was the tomb of the famous Marie Laveau, their guide told them, and explained that the crosses were made by visitors hoping Marie would grant their wishes. As the rest of their party drew into a semi-circle to hear Marie’s life story, Gaby and Luca were left standing at back.

  He took her hand in his.

  Now was the time to make her choice.

  ‘So tell me,’ she began, careful to keep her voice low. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Aren’t we on a date?’

  ‘I meant why are you in New Orleans? Why did you walk out on your band in the middle of the tour?’

  His hand slipped from hers. ‘Uh oh,’ he said. ‘Busted.’

  He wasn’t looking at her though, but at Pris and Goth Girl standing directly opposite. Goth Girl had suddenly frozen and was staring at him, her mouth slightly open.

  ‘Oh. My. God…’

  Before Gaby could take any kind of evasive action – which would be what, exactly? – Luca winked and raised one finger to his lips. Goth girl smiled and whispered something to Pris, who muttered something back and rolled her eyes. They both laughed and Gaby felt her cheeks flush. Were they talking about her?

  Luca turned back to Gaby. ‘That was close,’ he said. ‘Now, what were you saying?’

  Was he really that obtuse, or was it all some kind of game to him?

  ‘I was asking why you had come to New Orleans?’

  ‘Well now, Gabriella Andersen. Can you keep a secret?’

  ‘Yes,’ she lied. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Meet me in Jackson Square, outside the cathedral, at 4.00 pm this afternoon.’

  It wasn’t the answer she’d hoped for, but it was a start. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘but—’

  ‘And Gabriella?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Wear something pretty.’

  And then he was gone.

  Pris was suspiciously fine with being abandoned for the afternoon. She told Gaby she’d already arranged to visit Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo shop with Goth Girl, and they had both booked themselves onto a ghost tour. So after lunch, Gaby returned to their hotel with a clear conscience and changed into ‘something pretty’, a pale green dress, which brought out the green in her hazel eyes. She then charged her phone and deleted the recording she’d made last night to make room for a new one.

  Who was she kidding?

  She had no intention of recording any interview. She didn’t give a stuff why he was in New Orleans. The only thing that mattered was that he was soon going to be with her. As soon as she got the opportunity, she was going to delete that story from her laptop and forget she had ever written it.

  At 4.00 pm she waited in Jackson Square, right outside the cathedral as she had been told. There was no sign of Luca. The cathedral itself reminded her of Disney’s Cinderella’s Castle, with its white façade and silvery turrets. There was a jazz band playing in the square. She recognised the song and found herself humming along – so much for her not liking jazz!

  There was a wedding going on. The cathedral doors were open and she saw the bride emerge first, tall and slim, in a gown of elegantly draped gold lace. Her dark hair was swept up and fastened with a single rosebud. Gaby had never seen a happier, more beautiful bride – and then she realised it was Naomi.

  The other guests spilled out of the cathedral. There were the bridesmaids teasing the groomsman, and ushers attempting to keep back the tourists so the photographer could get his shot. And then there was the groom himself, towering over everyone in a dark blue suit, his long black hair tied neatly back, the snowy white cuffs of his shirt hiding any evidence of his tattoos. As he leaned forward to kiss his bride on her cheek, he looked up, saw Gaby and froze.

  As though on autopilot, Gaby raised her camera phone and took a photograph.

  Then she turned and walked back to the hotel.

  Never had there been a bigger fool – and she had no one to blame but herself.

  Luca hadn’t attempted to kiss her or even hit on her, apart from making jokes about dates in cemeteries. Any perceived attraction between the two of them had obviously been solely on her part. At least she now had a worthy story to sell – and photos too: Luca Corbellini Dumps Band for Secret Bride. Jeremy would be thrilled.

  Her phone vibrated in her hand, to signal an incoming message. She checked the screen, in case the message was from Pris. Instead it was from Luca. Pris must have given him her number.

  Where are you? It said. There’s someone I want you to meet.

  Naomi, obviously.

  The girl from the bar.

  His wife.

  Pris arrived back from her ghost tour full of lurid stories. Gaby let her chatter on while she composed another email to Jeremy, and when Pris asked how she’d spent her afternoon, Gaby told her the truth.

  ‘Bastard!’ Pris said, hugging her so hard she thought she might crack a rib. ‘What a complete and utter bastard!’

  Being Pris, she had a lot more to say than that, but Gaby didn’t listen. Instead she closed the lid on her laptop and headed out onto the balcony, telling Pris that she wasn’t hungry and didn’t want dinner.

  The noise and the heat hit her immediately. She leaned against the rail and closed her eyes, allowing her misery to engulf her. She could hear voices on the other side of the door. Pris must have ordered room service. Then there was a click as the door opened and she felt the balcony judder beneath her feet as someone else stepped onto it. She didn’t open her eyes, she didn’t turn her head – she didn’t have to. She knew exactly who was there.

  ‘Gaby?’ he said.

  She kept her eyes firmly closed. If she opened them, he’d realise she had been crying, which was ridiculous – she’d known him for all of twenty-four hours.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have told you the truth. I don’t know why I didn’t. It’s not as though it was some big secret. I suppose I just wanted to tease you a bit. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. Although the longer she kept her eyes closed, the sooner he’d realise she wasn’t fine at all. She concentrated on keeping her voice steady instead. ‘You don’t need to worry about me.’

  ‘OK, so open your eyes and look at me,’
he said.

  ‘I can’t. I have a headache. So if you don’t mind—’

  ‘I do mind, I mind a lot. And you’re a liar, because if you did have a headache this balcony is the last place you’d want to be. I can’t even hear myself think above that racket.’

  ‘Racket?’ She was so surprised she did open her eyes. His own were scowling at her. ‘But you adore jazz!’

  ‘I adore you more,’ he grumbled, and wrapped both arms around her.

  All she could do was stare at him in shock. ‘But Naomi…’ she stammered.

  ‘Didn’t marry me. Naomi is Remy’s widow. I came to New Orleans to give her away because she has no close male relatives. That’s why I’m here, not for any secret wedding of my own, but as a favour for an old friend.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ he said, and bent his head to kiss her.

  ‘Wait!’ She ducked away. ‘There’s something I have to tell you first. I’m a journalist – and not even a proper one. I specialise in gossip – mean, nasty stories about celebrities. I deliberately go to places where I know I’ll meet them. I pretend to be their friend. I buy them drinks and encourage them to tell me all their secrets – and then I sell the stories.’

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘It wasn’t hard to work out. You’re really not that subtle.’

  Gaby winced. ‘I don’t usually need to be. I meet most celebrities at parties, where they are either drunk or high – and they do love talking about themselves.’

  ‘Did you write a story about me?’

  He didn’t seem angry, just mildly interested.

  She shook her head. ‘I did, but then I deleted it. And then I emailed my editor to tell him I wouldn’t be sending him anything else.’

  ‘That was a bit hasty,’ he said. ‘I could have told you loads of stories. We could have split the proceeds, fifty/fifty.’

  For a moment she wondered if he was serious, but then the trademark grin reappeared and he bent his head again – just as the door to the balcony swung open.