SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories)

by Belinda Jones

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then why do you assume your fiancée is still in love with his ex? I understand weddings are stressful, but it’s only as big of a deal as you make it. Simple question: yes or no. Do you want to spend the rest of your life with Pieter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then stop yelling, go get your hair done and put on the white dress.’

  ‘But the bridesm—’

  ‘Paige will wear the bloody dress and stand up there with the rest of us. Will that make you feel better?’ Lucinda dabbed the last of Lisse’s tears off her cheek and drained the rest of her mimosa. I tried to protest from behind Lisse but Lucinda ignored me.

  Lisse beamed. ‘Yes! Thank you!’

  We got ready and I put on the dress meant for someone eight inches taller and five pounds lighter than me. It was a pale, crystal blue Grecian-style chiffon gown and my boobs barely fit into the top.

  ‘Suck in,’ Lucinda commanded as she tried to do up the zip. My hair was in tousled curls piled on top of my head and I’d loaded on as much eye shadow as possible to detract from the fact this was definitely not my dress and I wasn’t the tall blond that was supposed to be wearing it. One last pull from Lucinda and I was trapped, not entirely sure how I was going to go to the bathroom. Or eat. Or breathe for that matter.

  At two o’clock the various limos and range rovers showed up to shuttle the bridal party to Groot Constantia, the oldest vineyard in South Africa. Excited chatter filled the limo while I listened carefully for any tearing noises coming from my dress. So far I’d managed to walk to the car, sit down and accept a glass of champagne without bursting. If the rest of the day could go as well as the last fifteen minutes, I was golden.

  A grand fabric marquee was visible in the distance as we pulled up to the main house. Lisse and Pieter had rented out the entire vineyard for their wedding and the grounds were full of well-dressed guests melting in the sun. The ceremony was to take place facing the rolling hills filled with symmetric rows of vines, each capped at the end with a large red rose bush. The marquee was for the reception later and sat further down the valley.

  It was time to line up and the wedding march started. I was in the back with James because I refused to go down the aisle with Michael. Wearing an ill-fitting dress in front of people taking fifty pictures a second was a big enough sacrifice. So, we all agreed my groomsman would be James and we went last: the gay guy and the awkward girl. I guess that’s the problem with being one of a kind, there is no matching pair.

  A flourish of the music signaled it was time for us to walk and make way for the main event. However, just as I started my first set of ‘right together, left together’ steps, Lisse pinched my arm. I turned to see a face full of panic.

  Oh God, not again.

  ‘I have to pee!’ she whispered urgently.

  ‘What? Now?’ She actually picked the most inconvenient time possible. ‘Can you hold it?’

  Lisse started to hyperventilate and shook her head no.

  ‘What do I do?’ I asked James who looked like he wished he’d gone down the aisle with Lucinda instead.

  ‘Take her. I’ll get the band to keep playing.’ James moved towards the outer edge of the aisle to talk to the quartet who were already improvising. Badly.

  Lisse and I ran towards the main house and I ignored the snaps of thread reminding me this was not a dress made for sprinting. We found the toilets and I ushered her in urgently.

  Her face turned red. ‘I need your help.’

  Oh come on! This was not on the list of things Lucinda told me I’d be doing when I booked my trip at three in the morning. White tulle and silk was everywhere as I tried to pull the full part of her dress over her head and ignore the tinkling sound. I handed her the toilet paper while staring at a corner in the ceiling and patted her dress down when she was finished. Lisse seemed to calm down and took a deep breath as we walked back to the ceremony.

  Like a dutiful bridesmaid who had only met the bride the day before, I marched down the aisle slowly with my pair, making sure to be as invisible as possible so all the attention was on the bride. Exotic flowers lay like garlands across the rows of chairs and each bridesmaid’s bouquet held striking orange bird of paradise flowers against the flowy ocean blue chiffon. Well, everyone’s was flowy except mine, but I tried to suck in and watch my dress blow elegantly in the wind like the others.

  I don’t know what Lisse was worried about; the wedding was perfect.

  By the end of the ceremony, all of the bride’s worries had vanished with the breeze. I guess sometimes it’s scary for all of your dreams to come true because it’s almost like there’s nothing left to look forward to. We took photos and then moved to the marquee, which was full of music, wine and food as people laughed and watched the sun set into the valley.

  *

  After the drama-filled first two days, Lucinda promised to show me all Cape Town had to offer, no matter how touristy. In between beach sessions she took me to the V & A waterfront where we had fresh sushi and watched the lazy seals bask on the rocks. I saw Table Mountain with the famous tablecloth cloud, the only one in the sky draped over the pride of Cape Town. We’d even managed to take a day trip to a game reserve just over two hours away so I could see the big five: the lion, African Elephant, leopard, Cape Buffalo and rhinoceros. I learned they were called this because they were the most dangerous and difficult animals to hunt by foot. On safari I almost got close enough to touch a small elephant before Lucinda snapped my hand back into the jeep.

  ‘It’s mother will head butt you if you get any closer.’ Lucinda couldn’t help but laugh as I practically climbed out of the car to get closer.

  I didn’t want to leave.

  Too soon it was time to go, and James picked us up from the beach house two hours earlier than expected.

  ‘There’s one more thing you need to do.’

  We drove forty minutes into a reserve on the coast, not too far from the airport.

  ‘Where are we?’

  Lucinda smiled slyly. ‘Chicken, you wanted to pet a cheetah, right?’

  My whole body started to vibrate with excitement and I ran out of the car in my leopard print heels – not exactly cheetah-friendly footwear.

  We were greeted by one of the cheetah outreach center’s staff who took us through to see the ambassador cheetahs and explained that the cats have either been rescued or born in the reserve and are used to educate people on the importance of preservation.

  ‘Please dip your shoes in the bowl,’ she instructed me as I walked into the cage.

  I looked down at the bucket full of blue-tinged water, shrugged my shoulders and stepped in with my heels.

  ‘This is to reduce contamination. When you step in with me, please stay standing and move slowly. Do not be afraid as they can sense weakness.’

  I was suddenly very afraid and second-guessing my decision to get in a cage with a wild cat that can kill and eat antelope for fun. In five-inch heels nonetheless. The guide took me into the center of the cage near a covered area where the cats were all laying in the shade. There were three altogether and they were each about the same size as a golden retriever.

  ‘These are teenagers, about a year old. This is Nala and Simba, they are brother and sister and we are looking after them for a short time until they are moved to another facility.’

  The cats barely acknowledged my existence as I crouched down and ran my hand gently down their side. It was exhilarating and profound to be so close to something so powerful and yet they seemed so vulnerable at the same time. In the corner I noticed the third cheetah, which had stripes down his back and unusual markings.

  ‘Who is that?’

  The guide smiled and led me over to the napping cat. ‘That is our king cheetah, Charles. It’s a very rare mutation that makes his markings different.’

  I was suddenly worried that none of the other cheetahs would like him because he was a mutant. ‘Is he going to be OK?’

/>   She laughed. ‘Just because he looks different, doesn’t mean he won’t find a mate. Charles is a good boy and any cheetah would be lucky to have him.’ She bent down to pet Charles and he looked up at me and yawned.

  I laid my hand on Charles’ back and watched his belly heave up and down with his breathing.

  The most important thing in a mate was genetic diversity, right? I guess it doesn’t matter if you don’t have a matching pair, as long as you’re playing the right game.

  About the Author

  Growing up in Edmonton, Canada, a significant amount of Stephanie’s time was spent making up and acting out stories. She graduated from the University of Alberta with an English and Sociology degree and she also has a Bachelor of Motion Picture Arts from Red Deer College. She moved to New York on a whim after university and has written a variety of TV shows including an environmentally friendly lifestyle series and a tween magazine-style show about celebrities. Stephanie moved to London in 2008 and aside from being obsessed with Eggs Benedict, shoes, Fruit Roll Ups and travelling, she also works in children’s television. The Accidental Socialite is her first novel starring Paige and Lucinda and is out now. The follow up, The Accidental New Yorker is due out late 2014.

  Website: www.stephaniewahlstrom.com

  Twitter: www.twitter.com/Bacon_N_Legs

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/AuthorStephanieWahlstrom

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

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  The Dentist

  ***

  Anna-Lou Weatherley

  DESTINATION: Santorini

  Margaret Murphy was half way up the small step ladder when she clutched her face with her hand.

  ‘Mother of God,’ she winced as a searing white-hot pain swept through her jaw, momentarily rendering her paralysed. She came down from the step ladder slowly, discarding the books she’d been stacking in a pile on the table. Her jaw was on fire, the dull ache she’d been sporadically experiencing and ostensibly ignoring had now escalated into the most vicious throb. She reached for a Kleenex, pressing it against the left side of her jaw in a bid to alleviate the building pressure.

  ‘Are you OK, Maggie?’ Angelos Costas appeared from the back of the shop to find his assistant bent double over the counter, anguish etched on her face. He lightly touched her forearm with the tips of his fingers in concern.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Costas,’ she apologised in affected speech, embarrassed, ‘it’s my tooth…’ she expelled a little saliva into the tissue, hoping he would not see.

  He winced in sympathy. ‘An abscess perhaps? You ought to see a dentist, has it been going on for a while?’

  Maggie nodded mutely.

  ‘Why don’t you knock off early today, hmm?’ he suggested in a fatherly tone, watching her as she adjusted her glasses and attempted to compose herself, ‘I’m sure they’ll see you as an emergency…’

  ‘Thank you Mr. Costas,’ Maggie managed to reply, ‘it’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Please Maggie,’ he implored, ‘won’t you call me Angelos? We’ve known each other for nigh on twenty years.’ He didn’t know why he was pleading with her. He’d asked her a million times before and it was always the same story; she would smile and say, ‘If you insist Mr…I mean Angelos,’ before reverting back to addressing him formally the very next day.

  He watched her leave with a weary shake of the head. He supposed she’d always been too busy taking care of that mother of hers to worry about taking care of herself. Thankfully, the poor woman had at last been claimed by the lingering illness that had afflicted her last years and in turn her gentle and kind daughter. ‘Oh! And Maggie,’ she turned back to look at him, ‘please think about what I said…about the Santorini trip. The plane leaves Friday at fifteen minutes past midday and you still haven’t said if you will accompany me.’ She appeared a little red-faced and he hated himself for having possibly embarrassed her, though perhaps it was simply the toothache.

  ‘I will let you know, Mr. Costas. Thank you.’

  The Murphy’s had been neighbours; Ted, Joyce and their daughter Margaret. Nice little family, they had moved over from Kilkenny in Ireland back in the early 80s, ostensibly for Ted to find work. It had been a tragedy when he’d died suddenly of a massive coronary, leaving his grief-stricken wife and young daughter to fend for themselves. Joyce Murphy had been a robust woman from good hard-working Irish stock, always friendly and polite, but there had been a distance to her that never went beyond the pleasantries, despite his few failed attempts to try. Angelos had wondered if it had been something to do with her being a highly devout catholic, or perhaps she just hadn’t much cared for him. He had never been sure.

  Angelos would often see Joyce and Margaret in church on a Sunday and in the subsequent years that ensued after losing her husband she had become god-fearing, bordering on the fanatical. He’d sometimes heard her reciting bible quotations to herself while passing him in the street and was rarely spotted anywhere other than on her way to and from church, clutching rosary beads. He had watched Maggie grow up from afar with distant pity as her mother’s mental demise became more and more apparent. He recalled her as a painfully shy little girl, timid as the proverbial mouse, permanently by her mother’s side, hiding her face behind a long curtain of dark hair as though she were tentatively peering out at the big bad world, somehow checking to see if it was OK to be a part of it. He had barely noticed when she’d hit puberty for there had been little visible signs; her flourishing body disguised underneath plain smock dresses and cardigans, paying no regard whatsoever for the fashions of the time – unlike all her peers who paraded around town in frilly ra-ra dresses, their hair and lips as colourful as their language.

  Margaret Murphy had been sixteen years old when she had come to work for him at his little antique bookshop along the village’s small parade. She had started as his Saturday assistant and never left, eschewing her own education to become primary carer to that mother of her, who in her final years had become something of a monster; terrible disease, Alzheimer’s. He had considered watching Maggie grow from girl to woman as something of a privilege, never having had a child of his own. The conventions of a wife and family had sadly eluded him, something he often regretted now that he was heading towards the wrong side of fifty. After all, he wasn’t altogether unattractive, and certainly not back then when he had a full head of hair and less of a paunch. He’d never really understood why he had never made a husband and father; he was a decent man, by no means a philanderer, quite the contrary in fact, he enjoyed being romantic with a woman and he was solvent with his own home and business, yet still the stars had failed to align. Perhaps it was all down to luck in the end.

  Angelos had never known Maggie to have a boyfriend. In fact he could not recall ever having seen her with a man, something of a travesty he’d felt. If his calculations were correct, Maggie had recently turned twenty-seven years old; although in fairness the way she carried herself, her drab attire and lack of grooming put her a good few years above this. That wasn’t to say she wasn’t attractive, however. She possessed a quiet sort of beauty, the kind that crept up on you slowly. Her deep brown hair, though un-styled, was long and glossy and her pale skin was smooth and blemish free, with just the lightest smattering of freckles across the bridge of her small, upturned nose. Her features were delicate, indicative of her, and he had not been able to help but notice the slightest curve of her small neat breasts, the outline of her rounded hips, despite her being swathed in loose-fitting dresses. Just lately he had found himself wondering what it would be like to see her make the best of herself; style that long hair of hers, a slick of mascara, a dot of gloss on her rosebud lips.

  Her mother’s passing had naturally caused Maggie considerable anguish. She had relinquished her entire youth caring for Joyce round the clock, cooking, cleaning, washin
g and nursing the woman until her final breath, and he could only imagine what hardship the girl had faced. Rumour had it that Joyce Murphy had gone quite mad in the end, screaming bible verse until her maker had finally taken mercy on her poor disturbed soul. He had since seen Maggie struggle to adjust to a world in which her mother no longer existed, relieved of the only purpose she had ever known, and felt a terrible empathy for her. She often appeared lost, almost childlike somehow, unfamiliar with the machinations of the modern world. Many women her age were established with a husband and family by now and he wanted her to start living life, explore new horizons, see that there was a world out there to experience and culminate joy from, which was why he had taken the plunge and invited her on his annual trip to Santorini. The plan was to spend a few days on the stunning island where he had been born, exploring, swimming in the crystal-clear aqua waters, walking along the white icing-sugar-soft sand and imbibing the local produce before heading off to Athens where he had a little business to attend to: buying antique Greek literature for his impressive personal collection. He had tentatively sold the excursion to her solely as a business proposition, not wishing her to feel uncomfortable, yet could not prevent images of her semi-naked body in a bikini as they splashed and shrieked with abandon in the ocean together from invading his fantasies. She was almost certainly a virgin and although he was wracked with self-disgust for allowing such impure thoughts to cloud his mind, he was unable to prevent them. The idea of deflowering Maggie Murphy on one of the beautiful beaches where he had spent his youth, her soft, untouched naked skin, the tightness of her as he entered her for the first time, caused his breathing to accelerate and his private parts to stiffen. Such thoughts were not simply limited to pleasures of the flesh, however; he also fantasied about marrying her too, fathering her child, taking care of her, loving her – ridiculous, he chastised himself. But was it really so absurd to believe that she could love him too, that it was possible they could live a happy, contented life together? After all, they had never exchanged a cross word in the twenty years they had been acquainted and had much in common, not least a respective love of literature. Above all he sensed that like him she was lonely. Was it all really so much of a stretch of the imagination?