SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories)

by Belinda Jones

  I’ve been travelling in India for six weeks now. I started in Kerala in the south, with its swaying palm trees and endless beaches filled with happy couples. But even now, over a year later, it was too painful a reminder, so I left and took a train to Delhi in the north. This was the real India, far away from the honeymoon brochures. Chaotic, polluted and bursting-at-the-seams, Delhi flung itself at me as I stepped out of the station, embracing me with more noise, energy and colour than I could have ever imagined.

  From there I travelled to Rajasthan, known as the Land of the Kings. This is the region Will and I had talked about endlessly, pouring over brochures at the kitchen table, looking at pictures on the laptop, drinking wine and dreaming of this magical land. Will was fascinated by the ancient history, the sumptuous palaces and the lavish fortresses; I was mesmerised by the rainbow silks and the silver jewellery. But both of us were intoxicated by the stunning scenery, which simply oozed romance.

  Yet here I was by myself, not a loved-up honeymooner. Alone, I wandered around the grounds of the Taj Mahal, a stunning symbol of everlasting love. And in what felt like a further cruel twist of irony I discovered it was wedding season when one evening I turned a corner and found myself in the middle of a procession. Led by a white horse on which rode a groom in a flaming red turban, it included a marching band, a fantastically jewelled elephant and hundreds of revellers, dancing and singing in celebration.

  As fireworks exploded above us and lit up the sky I managed to escape into a doorway where I stood and watched, like a bystander looking in on life. On someone else’s joy. And as I looked at the faces and the smiles, at the energy and excitement, I wondered if I would ever feel happiness again.

  When you plan your honeymoon you never expect to go on it by yourself. It was never part of the plan. And we’d planned for everything. Well, I’d planned. Will had just nodded and said, ‘Yes dear, whatever you want dear,’ in a bad English accent, whilst I tried to swat him with whatever was closest.

  We set the date for January 1st. New Year’s Day seemed pretty apt to celebrate the beginning of our new life together and this way our friends could continue partying from New Year’s Eve right through to our wedding.

  We were to be married in my parent’s centuries-old village church where I grew up and afterwards we would walk across the stepping stones in the river to the local pub to feast on bangers and mash and pints of ale.

  It was so exciting. We were so happy. Our whole lives stretched out in front of us, filled with our hopes and dreams and a future that looked so bright it almost dazzled me. We had everything we’d ever wanted, because we had each other. Some people spend their whole lives looking for their soulmate but we’d got lucky. And we knew it. We often used to look at each other in that crazy run up to the wedding and say just how lucky we were.

  But we were wrong.

  It turned out that we weren’t lucky. That happiness can turn to sorrow in a split second. That out of the blue your life can change forever.

  In one moment you can go from planning a life with someone and dreaming of your future together, to standing in a hospital ward as a doctor tells you there was nothing they could do, that the man you love with every fibre of your being has suffered a catastrophic stroke. To having the curtains drawn around you as you crumple to your knees next to their lifeless body and clutch at their hand, once warm and full of life but now fast turning cold, clinging to the fingers that would always curl around yours as you walked hand-in-hand down the street, holding you tight and never letting you go.

  One moment. That’s all it takes. One beat of your heart. One second on the clock. One blink of an eye.

  And Will would never hold my hand again.

  I spent a year barely moving from the sofa. It’s strange, you think you’ll cry forever but the tears eventually dry up and you enter a numb state, detached from reality. Like swimming underwater, life goes on around you but it’s muffled, as if the sound is turned down.

  I stopped feeling. I stopped caring. Grief robs you of any joy in your life. It drains the colour from the world around you and snuffs out any hope like the flame on a candle. Its companion, sadness, meanwhile lays across your shoulders like a heavy overcoat, one you can never take off. There’s no reason for anything anymore. You get up, you breathe in and out, you put one foot in front of the other. Day after day. Week after week. Month after month.

  Family and well-meaning friends rallied around me, but slowly they had to get on with their lives, leaving me in the wreckage of my own. All I had left were photos, scribbled notes, a shirt of Will’s that was fast losing his scent as I clung to it at night. I was terrified I’d forget him, how he smelled, how he felt, how he sounded. And yet, conversely, I couldn’t believe that he was gone. That I was never going to see him again. It was impossible. This was Will. My Will. The Will that was never going to let me go.

  I felt like I was slowly going mad.

  I came to India because there was no choice. Because Will and I wanted to come together, because it was somewhere we had dreamed of. And because I had to do something. It was an act of desperation. People thought it was madness – it was where we were going to come on our honeymoon, wouldn’t it be painful, remind me of him?

  I almost laughed. Remind me of him? As if every second of every day I didn’t think about him. As for being ‘madness’, going to India was the only thing that had made sense to me since Will’s death.

  I set off walking down the main street. I’m in Pushkar, a small town which according to my guidebook is one of the most sacred Hindu towns in India with more than 500 temples. But I’m too weary for sightseeing. I’ve been travelling for hours and I’m need of something to eat and drink.

  The town is buzzing but I need some quiet and forgoing the busy snack bars and restaurants, I climb the rickety stairs to a small cafe overlooking the lake. It’s empty and taking a seat I order chana masala, a vegetarian dish made of spiced chickpeas, and a fresh pineapple juice. The air hums with the sounds of temple bells ringing and prayers being chanted and eating my food I gaze out across the water, watching the monkeys swinging from the trees as the sun begins to lower in the sky.

  ‘Legend has it that the lake appeared when the god Lord Brahma dropped a lotus flower from the sky,’

  I look up to see the Indian man who took my order.

  ‘Push means lotus flower, and kar means hand,’ he explains, smiling.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I nod.

  ‘There is a better view of the sunset from the roof,’ he continues.

  I nod again, but don’t reply. I don’t feel like making conversation. I just want to be left alone with my own thoughts.

  But he’s not to be put off.

  ‘It’s really beautiful – every visitor to Pushkar should see it. It is the best in all of India, I will show you,’ he persists then, seeing my reluctance, smiles. ‘Don’t worry, you will be very safe.’

  Embarrassment prickles. I don’t want to offend him. ‘Thanks,’ I smile, ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  I follow him up the narrow wooden staircase that leads out onto the roof and emerge out of the shadows into an incredible 360 degrees view. High up above the rooftops, I gaze across the scattered white buildings, across the shimmering lake stretching out, framed by the purple mountains in the far distance. I breathe it all in, letting my eyes drift across the pomegranate sky, watching the sun slowly sinking.

  Then I see them. Coloured shapes, dancing in the sky. Swooping and diving like a kaleidoscope of tropical birds.

  Kites.

  ‘You want to fly one?’

  I turn around to see him holding a kite in his hands.

  My heart constricts and I feel myself reel, the breath caught tight inside my chest as my memory flashes back to Hampstead, to Will, to the moment he asked me to marry him.

  The longing to see him again is so intense, it’s almost palpable.

  ‘Come,’ he gestures, and without waiting for an answer he sets
off across the rooftops.

  I stand frozen, watching as his figure recedes, my heart thudding loudly in my ears. Deep inside every fibre of my being is reverberating, but I can’t move.

  Then something kicks in.

  I clamber after him, my feet slipping on the precarious corrugated iron roofs. I don’t like heights, never have, and normally I’d be terrified, but now I have no fear. I have nothing to lose.

  In the distance I can hear the sounds of childish voices calling to each other in Hindi, their shrieks of laughter carried on the evening breeze. Finally we reach a flattened rooftop where a group of barefoot children are gathered, several hand-made kites between them.

  Seeing him they swarm towards him, their faces lit up with excitement and he laughs, tousling their hair as they cluster around his legs.

  ‘I am their teacher,’ he smiles, stooping down to help them with their kites, unravelling pieces of knotted string, calling instructions, guiding them with his strong and steady hands.

  Some of the children are yelling and laughing in excitement, others are more focused, their young faces set in concentration. Above us the sky has deepened as the sun sinks even lower towards the horizon, a blazing backdrop for coloured scraps of material that swirl above our heads. Twisting and fluttering, swooping and gliding.

  I watch for a while, I’m not sure how long, and then I’m aware of the tears silently rolling down my face and someone’s presence next to me. I turn to see a little boy, his face smeared with dirt, his chocolate eyes shining as wordlessly he holds the ragged piece of blue material that is his kite.

  I hesitate, then take the ball of string from him, standing with my back against the breeze as I let it slowly unwind. He steps backwards, still holding the kite as together we both wait for a gust of wind to launch it into the sky. Moments pass. Our eyes meet. His gaze was steady. He’s only a small child and yet somehow we have this connection.

  Then suddenly the breeze whips up. He lets go of the kite and together we watch as it launches itself soaring into the sky. I feel a sudden sense of liberation, timelessness, freedom. Watching it flying and circling above my head I could be anywhere, I could be back with Will, laughing and happy, our whole lives stretching out head of us… I can see his face again, feel the exhilaration of his smile, hear his laughter in my ears, only it’s not Will’s laughter.

  I look away from the sky to the children around me. It’s their laughter that I can hear, their smiles I can see, their eyes filled with joy. And instead of feeling that familiar sense of crushing sadness, I feel something I haven’t felt in long long time. Here on this rooftop, in this tiny far-flung corner of the globe, a million miles away from my life and the ghosts of my past, I feel something that I thought was gone forever.

  I feel hope.

  About the Author

  Alexandra Potter is an award-winning author of ten novels. In 2007 she won the prize for Best New Fiction at the Jane Austen Regency World Awards for her bestselling novel Me and Mr Darcy. Her books have been translated into over twenty-one languages and You’re The One That I Don’t Want is being adapted into a film. She is currently to be found travelling the world with her laptop, researching the next in the The Love Detective series.

  Website: www.alexandrapotter.com / www.thelovedetective.com

  Twitter: @alexpotterbooks

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Alexandra.Potter.Author

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

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  Like A Waterfall

  ***

  Wendy Rigg

  DESTINATION: Ibiza

  Corinne stretched her long tanned legs out on the sunlounger, the green raffia parasol rustling in the sea breeze above her. She Instagrammed the view of the glistening turquoise sea beyond her slim thighs, with just a glimpse of a triangle of bright bikini bottoms, and then shut her eyes and let her hand drop to the sand, still holding the phone. She couldn’t resist showing the ‘Ginger Love God’ what he was missing.

  If she closed her eyes she could see his laughing blue eyes, gorgeous curled lashes and the way his mouth turned up at the corners. She banished the thought from her head, and tried to console herself with the fact that he had always looked terrible in the sun – like a pink prawn.

  No one had ever made her laugh as much as Ricky did - he had the most wicked sense of humour. She loved his cheeky look, his ginger hair and every bone in his body. He was clever too, and had a great job as a website editor. He was one of those people who had quickly worked his way to the top, getting on with everyone on the way. When he was around there was a feeling that nothing could go wrong – it would all be alright in the end.

  He had laughed her in to bed on the third date, and she had discovered that he was an amazing lover. Corinne often joked to her friends that despite being ginger he could only be described as an absolute Love God in the sack. Every bit of her body ached with the emptiness she felt without him.

  She still couldn’t understand why he’d left the flat they had shared for two years so suddenly. She tried to think back to anything she could have said or done to precipitate the end of their relationship. She’d come home from work one evening to find him packing his bags.

  He’d said he needed space, he wasn’t sure they were meant to be together forever. There was no-one else. She had begged him to stay, the tears streaming down her face. He hadn’t been able to look at her. He said he needed a total break, no contact.

  When the door had closed behind him, she’d sobbed uncontrollably. She cried till her throat hurt and her face was swollen. Curled up in a ball of sorrow and utter devastation on the floor, she had reached for her mobile and in between sobs, she’d called her bestie Lola who’d come round right away with wine and sympathy.

  She looked over now at Lola, who had drunk her way through at least four ‘special’ Sangrias (laced with rum) from the bar, which they’d positioned themselves handily near, and was enjoying a woozy snooze. Lola had woken Corinne up from her own sun-kissed slumber, with a loud one-off snore, and was now dribbling slightly out of the side of her mouth.

  Seriously, how were they ever going to attract a couple of gorgeous holiday romances if she was going to snort away like a pig, every day, during siesta? She was doing neither of them any favours.

  There were two handsome dark-haired Spanish boys on loungers next to them, a few hippy girls in tiny tie-side bikini bottoms on the sand near the water’s edge, and a group of lads who looked like One Direction mucking about with a football. The scene was blissful, and those Spanish dudes were hot, no mistaking that. Serious contenders for holiday romancing, Corinne thought.

  The ‘Ginger Love God’, and all the hurt he had caused her, was gradually occupying slightly less of her brain space. The sun and sea helped to make her feel a bit better, but the split was still so raw. It was six weeks now since he’d left.

  She needed this holiday so desperately and luckily Lola was always up for a trip to Ibiza, so here they were. She still couldn’t believe how suddenly it had all happened. It was so out of character for Ricky to behave the way he had. Just when her life had felt settled and she’d never been happier with anyone, this had happened.

  They were lying on Corinne’s favourite beach on Ibiza, Benirras: a tiny cove with a symbolic, mystical rock in the middle of the water. Corinne got up to go for a swim in the beautiful, cool, sparkling sea, heading for that magical ancient rock. As soon as she submerged herself in the water and glided off, her worries began drifting away. The rock had surely seen it all. She should have a chat with it – it must be wise. She laughed to herself, but being in the presence of such a majestic piece of geological history did have a soothing and calming effect on her. Must be the whole spiritual Ibiza vibe – that’s why she loved it so much here.

  Refreshed and back on her sunlounger after h
er swim, Corinne dozed off in the saturated heat. When she awoke, an hour or so later, a beautiful green glass bottle had mysteriously appeared by her hand, which trailed in the sand by the lounger. She looked at it closely and could see something written on a rolled up piece of paper inside it. She toyed with the idea of looking at it, remembering that as kids when they’d gone on holiday they’d always launched a bottle into the sea with their names and address on it and ‘write to us’ as the missive inside. One year someone had actually written to them from France, and had ended up being a pen pal for a couple of years.

  She looked around self-consciously to see if she was being observed, as curiosity was getting the better of her and she desperately wanted to have a look at it. No-one put messages in bottles anymore – not when there were so many other ways of delivering them.

  She couldn’t see anyone looking, so she picked it up and tipped the note out. She opened it and read the typed message: a verse of her favourite Calvin Harris song, ‘Feel So Close’ – the one with the line about the waterfall. This was followed by the words:

  Open your heart tonight, where the music plays…

  Calvin was playing Amnesia that night, and she and Lola had tickets.

  She woke Lola up from whatever dream she was having, most likely involving Ryan Gosling. Lola was always disappointed and grumpy when woken, as Ryan Gosling was usually just about to make love to her…

  ‘Look at this, Lola – someone’s written a sort of coded message in a bottle. D’you think it’s for us? And what does it mean? It was right by my hand. I swear it wasn’t there before. I fell asleep and when I woke up, there it was.’