Lola, squinting from the sun, pulled her oversized sunnies from her hair and put them on. ‘Dunno hun – it’s probably a flyer for tonight. Maybe it’s from ACTUAL Calvin Harris!’
‘Someone on this beach must have put it there. Let’s see if we can guess who it was,’ Corinne said with a smile.
Lola pointed to a middle-aged man with a paunch who was enjoying a naked stroll on the edge of the water, proudly displaying his small penis which was bobbing around over a giant pair of sagging balls.
Corinne giggled hysterically. ‘Gawjus!’
Lola rolled over on her lounger. ‘Well, we’re going anyway – so we’ll find out soon enough. Oh I do love a mystery. How thrilling!’
They whiled away the rest of the afternoon in a Sangria haze trying to work out who could have possibly put the note there and not coming up with any sensible conclusion.
*
Midnight, back at the apartment, and the girls were almost ready for their night out. Corinne was checking out her full-length reflection in the mirror. The yellow fluoro Boohoo bodycon spaghetti-strap dress really showed off her tan, and the heartbreak diet meant there wasn’t an ounce of fat on her. Her Nike trainers looked great with it. Just as well as there was no way she was going to risk heels and sore feet – she wanted to be sure she could dance till dawn tonight. Lola was wearing a black crochet dress from Toppers with an acid lime bikini underneath. Couldn’t argue with that for wow factor.
At 2am, the club erupted as the legendary DJ appeared.
‘Amnesia, my name is Calvin Harris. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s a pleasure to be here.’ His tall skinny frame was high up in the DJ box and he looked tiny from where they were in the crowd, but he was in the house alright!
Corinne and Lola screamed and ‘The Ginger Love God’ was temporarily forgotten in the sensory overload of pulsating beats, flashing coloured laser lights, dry ice and the effervescence of sparkling fireworks.
‘God is a DJ!’ shouted Lola, as they danced like there was no tomorrow. Ever.
*
The day after, Corinne was looking up at the sparkling waterfall which had a permanent rainbow over it. The sun was beating down, and the coolness of the water was a relief after the dusty rocky climb to get there. The ‘Ginger Love God’ held a small box in his hand.
With great difficulty he got down on one knee in the shallow, rocky pool under the shower of crystal clear water.
‘Corinne, can you understand that I didn’t want us just to drift on without making any big decisions? I had to know whether it was right – our relationship seemed almost too good to be true. We’re both so young, and I wanted to be sure about my feelings. I know now that I love you more than anything, and I want us to spend the rest of our lives together. It scares me to think that I could so easily have lost you, but I had to be apart from you to know my mind. Please say you’ll marry me?’ he squinted up at her, the sun in his gorgeous blue eyes. His skin was a shade of pink, and even though his hair was all flat, soaking wet and plastered to his head, he still managed to look like a total ‘Ginger Love God’. She’d never seen him look so deadly serious.
The diamond on the ring he was now holding danced in the light and sparkled, like a droplet cascading from the waterfall.
Tears of joy mixed with the cold natural spring water as they kissed passionately under the spray, and Corrine could barely whisper, ‘Don’t ever do that to me again – you absolute bellend! Yes, with all my heart. YES!’
You’ll be wondering how this delightful ending to the tale came about…
Rewind to the club, when Calvin Harris called Corinne up into the DJ box where Ricky was waiting for her. Calvin shouted out to the crowd, ‘If you think these two should be together, put your hands up in the air!’
A sea of hands went up, the crowd cheered and Corinne could hardly believe what was happening. There was Ricky, smiling and laughing, pulling her into an embrace. It didn’t feel real – it was like a dream.
And Lola? Well, she had known all along. It was she who had put the mysterious green bottle by Corrine’s hand on the beach.
‘Open your hearts,’ shouted Calvin, as he played the opening bars of ‘Feel So Close’, and the glitter cannon shot multi-coloured confetti over the joyous crowd.
About the Author
Wendy Rigg is Associate Editor of celebrity weekly magazine Reveal. A respected fashion journalist and stylist, the number of celebrities and readers she has dressed would reach Ibiza and back, if lined up. She has written on a freelance basis for The Sunday Times’ Style supplement, the Evening Standard and Good Housekeeping.
Twitter: www.twitter.com/wendyrigg
Instagram: www.instagram.com/wendyrigg
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!
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Sandals and Sangria
***
Talli Roland
DESTINATION: Barcelona
‘You’re in grave danger of becoming a cliché.’ My best friend Lissa gazed at me over the top of her coffee cup. ‘Divorcee, wandering around Europe, seeking the cure for a broken heart.’ She sighed, leaning back on the rickety café chair. ‘Look, I understand why you want to get away from here, after everything that happened with Nick. But why don’t you go somewhere different, some place off the tourist trail? Like Cambodia, or… I dunno, Zimbabwe? Not bloody Barcelona. In August of all times! For God’s sake, you’ll come back red as a lobster.’
I shrugged, biting into my chewy pastry. ‘I’ll wear sunscreen,’ I said when I finally managed to swallow. ‘Barcelona is supposed to be one of the world’s most beautiful cities. Now that Nick has nothing to say about it, I’m going.’
Lissa raised her eyebrows. ‘Okay, my friend, calm down. If it’s Barcelona you want, go for it.’
I took another bite, remembering how Nick had a lot to say not just about Barcelona, but everything. Anything beloved by Middle Britain ran particularly afoul of my husband – ex-husband – in his quest not to embrace the popular. No, we couldn’t honeymoon in Europe, because then we’d be like a million other couples. Let’s almost get kidnapped in Somalia instead. Hell no, we wouldn’t get a cat, because people expected childless couples to do just that. Hey, I know, let’s buy a hideous exotic frog! Thankfully, Nick got full custodial rights when we split a few months back.
Shaking my head, I thought of the irony that after seven years of trying not to be a typical married couple who grumbled and sniped, we’d become exactly that. So we’d got divorced, and now here I was: in danger of being a cliché. Again.
Well, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. No longer would I let pursuing the unique stop me from what I really wanted. And what I really wanted was to visit a city Nick would never dream of, escape the memories assaulting me at every turn here in London.
Just a few hours later, I was sipping a glass of sangria I’d paid a fortune for in a tourist trap on Las Ramblas, sporting trainers and a bum bag. Nick would have disowned me. At least I hadn’t bought a shaded plastic visor, I laughed to myself as a group of hefty Americans strolled by, proudly wearing their headgear.
‘Anything else?’ A waiter with long brown hair and eyes so soulful you could almost drown in them appeared in front of me.
‘Er, sure. I’ll have another glass of this,’ I managed to sputter, forcing myself away from his intense gaze.
‘Coming up.’ He disappeared into the restaurant, and I sat back and watched the world go by. Dusk was falling, the blue sky slowly morphing into red. Soon I’d stroll through the narrow twisting streets of the Gothic Quarter to the tiny hotel I’d booked for my stay. I had a list of Barcelona’s highlights, all things Nick would have hated: lounging on the beach, queuing up for the Sagrada Familia, and checking out the Gaudi chimneys from Casa Mila. Maybe I’d even go for broke and hop on the open-top tourist bus. I breathed in th
e soft night air, feeling myself relax for the first time in months.
My eyes drifted open, smile fading as a face on the street swam into focus. I blinked to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating, but when I opened my lids, there he was: my ex in the flesh, sauntering down the pavement, hand in hand with a redhead who was clutching – I squinted – a carrier bag stamped with the logo of Barcelona’s famous football stadium.
I sat, stunned, as the couple drew nearer. What on earth was he doing here? And how the hell had that woman managed not only to drag him to Barcelona, but also to a football stadium? Nick had always said he’d prefer to be drawn, quartered, then quartered again before setting a foot anywhere near a sports venue. And speaking of feet… oh my God. He was actually wearing sandals, an item he’d sworn would never come within a mile of his trotters.
Who was this man?
I shrunk in my seat, but it was too late. Nick had spotted me, an expression of incomprehension sliding over his features before pasting on a smile – his social smile, the one he used to cover his true emotions. I could only imagine what those were.
‘Hi, Kat!’ he said, glancing down at me. ‘This is a surprise.’
I nodded, my eyes falling on the wilted red rose the woman was clutching. Seriously? Nick thought roses were for chumps.
‘Yes, it is,’ I said, raising my eyebrows slightly as I shifted my gaze from the floppy flower to his face. A faint blush tinted his tan cheeks. ‘Um, this is Julia. Julia, meet Kat.’
‘Hi, Julia. Nice to meet you.’ I could see by her startled expression she knew exactly who I was.
‘Nice to meet you, too.’ Her voice was high and child-like. ‘Um, we’ll let you enjoy your drink. We want to stroll on the beach before it gets too late.’
‘Stroll on the beach?’ My eyebrow arched even higher. ‘Well, have fun. Bye.’
Nick lifted a hand as they walked away and then took Julia’s palm in his, an action he’d always rejected despite my many attempts. I watched them go, gulping my drink as a mixture of emotions tumbled through me. Was I jealous? No, I didn’t want Nick back, that much was certain. I was more… disconcerted. This new Nick wasn’t the man I’d been with – he’d changed, shed his obstinate self, and become someone who wore sandals.
Had I changed since we’d split? I bit at my thumbnail and glanced down at my feet, clad in the same pair of serviceable flats I’d been wearing since God knows when. Okay, so I hadn’t embraced new footwear, but had anything else shifted since Nick left? I still heard his voice in my head – even if I did revel in ignoring it. In fact, my journey here was a reaction to his repulsion of tourist destinations. Nick wasn’t physically present in my life any more, but he loomed just as large in his absence.
I downed my drink, plopped some euros on the table and joined the crowds on Las Ramblas. I didn’t want to become a bitter old divorcee, a ‘walking cliché’, as Lissa so kindly put it. If Nick could move on, I could, too – beginning with banishing his narrative and replacing it with my own. And there was no time like the present to get started.
But how? I paused, waiting for the little voice inside to peep up, but all I could hear was my rumbling tummy as it tried to digest the sugary sangria. Give it time, I told myself, breathing in the balmy air scented with cigarettes and sea.
Half an hour later, though, I was still walking. Bloody voice had gone to sleep! Maybe I should do the same. I was about to turn in the direction of my hotel when a flashing sign caught my eye, proudly proclaiming ‘Karaoke! Fun!’. The neon light was like a beacon, drawing me in until I stood in front of the door.
You must be having a laugh, I told the voice urging me on. I walk for thirty minutes past loads of bars packed with hot men, and you want me to karaoke? I couldn’t.
Could I?
I shook my head, an incredulous smile on my face. Well, why the hell not. What better way to rediscover my voice than by shouting a song at a drunken audience? It wasn’t like I’d ever see them again, I muttered to myself as I pushed into the heaving bar.
A scant ten minutes later, I perched on a platform at the front of the room, clutching a mic and waiting for the music to start. At first, my voice sounded shaky and squeaky – I barely even recognized it. But as some hearing-impaired punters cheered my efforts (the only logical reason anyone would clap – the rest of the bar was making their way to the exit) and my confidence grew, the song came out clear and strong, if not in tune. A thrill of happiness and excitement went through me as I squawked my way to the end.
This was my voice; my life. I was going to embrace it for all I was worth.
Even if it did mean clearing a bar with bad karaoke.
About the Author
Talli Roland writes fun, romantic fiction. Born and raised in Canada, Talli now lives in London, where she savours the great cultural life (coffee and wine).
Despite training as a journalist, Talli soon found she preferred making up her own stories – complete with happy endings. Talli's debut novel The Hating Game was short-listed for Best Romantic Read at the UK's Festival of Romance, while her second, Watching Willow Watts, was selected as an Amazon Customer Favourite. Her novels have also been chosen as top books of the year by industry review websites and have been bestsellers in Britain and the United States.
Website: www.talliroland.com
Blog: www.talliroland.blogspot.com
Twitter: www.twitter.com/talliroland
Facebook: www.facebook.com/authortalliroland
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.
The First Last Dive
***
Ruth Saberton
DESTINATION: Cayman Islands
The dive boats always left early. As soon as the sun’s fingers scraped the sky, the moon had faded away and soft pink light blushed the sand, the morning stillness was broken by the clanging of cylinders and calling of excited voices. The cicada’s song, as much the backing track to any night’s sleep here as the purr of air conditioning and the sighing of wind in Casuarina trees, was replaced by the thrum of engines and thump of dive gear being hurled onto the decks. Although the blinds were closed, stripes of bright sunlight tigered the white walls declaring that it was time to rise and head out to the reef just as clearly as the singsong Caribbean tones below the window.
Tess lay on her back and watched the ceiling fan whirling in never-ending circles. Although she’d gone to bed early, leaving the other divers hugging the bar and listening to the steel pans, her limbs felt as heavy as though she’d been downing mudslides until the small hours. The air stirred lazily beneath the blades and even the thin cotton sheet was sticking to her. It might have been early but already the temperature was in the eighties and by noon it would have climbed even higher. Lugging dive gear in the fierce Caymanian heat was hard enough work at dawn; nobody in their right mind wanted to be carrying Nitrox tanks and fins when the sun was shining in earnest. Once in that silent turquoise world, the magical realm where fish teemed in coral forests and the sun’s rays only filtered through for several sparkling metres, it would be cool, but before that there was a boat journey in the heat to the dive site. Leaving late was not an option.
Judging by Luke’s chunky dive watch, which Tess still wore on her wrist, it was just gone seven am – high time she was out of bed and pulling on her bikini and shorts before joining the others at the boat. Already the dive masters in their scarlet t-shirts and board shorts would be stowing the gear and running through their safety checks. Soon they’d be reading the roll call of the day’s divers and sailing off across the shallows to the deep dark waters of the Wall, that notorious shelf which marked the mile-deep drop of the Cayman Trench. Just the thought of it always made Tess shiver.
Like diving off a skyscraper.
Luke’s voice was in her ear and she turned, half expecting to see him
emerging from the shower, towel slung low around his lean hips and water beading his broad tanned shoulders and starring his eyelashes. He’d be shaking his head at her lack of get up and go, chivvying her to get ready and always hopeful that this might be the day that she joined him on a dive. If only she had. Of her many regrets this had to be one of the biggest. Luke had longed to show her the underwater world he was so passionate about and sometimes Tess wondered whether they would still be together if she’d only agreed. If she’d encouraged his dream of living in the Caribbean maybe he wouldn’t have left? They could have been living here in the sunshine…
For a split second she could almost believe that Luke was in Cayman, looking forward to a morning’s diving and teasing her for turning pea green before she’d even so much as set foot on the boat. But of course he wasn’t. Tess bit her lip. Maybe coming to the Caribbean by herself hadn’t been such a good idea? From the depths of a particularly dismal British winter nothing had appealed more than escaping to this sun-drenched paradise where they’d enjoyed so many happy holidays. Even signing up for a Padi Dive course, which had been her way of showing she could be brave and do these things without Luke if she had to, had seemed a great idea – from the safety of Clapham. But now she was alone it wasn’t feeling so much brave as just plain painful; not exactly the fast track to the process of moving on and getting over him that her friends and family were so keen she started.
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