Marbella Cool

by Oster, Camille

  “They are,” Paul agreed. “I had some … where was that? In London, I believe. Quite a revelation. Have you spent much time in Italy?” he asked Malin.

  “A little,” she said, smiling sweetly.

  Paul couldn’t help but be transfixed by a pretty face, and Rosalie wasn’t sure there was a prettier one.

  “I love walking around the markets,” she continued.

  “Oh, you’re seducing me now,” Paul said excitedly. Rosalie was glad he was enjoying this so much.

  Three martini glasses were placed down on the small round glass table. Malin had ordered one too, but Alexi had a beer, looking relaxed in white linen pants and a light blue shirt. He was looking at her when her eyes travelled up and she smiled as she took her martini glass and had a sip. The drink was perfect. She might actually reconsider and make this one of her favourites in the future. Sweet, but not overbearing.

  The boat was picking up speed as they moved away from the coast. Bright, blue sea shone through the large windows, brighter out the open doors at the back. The windows obviously had a tint, which was probably required with the sheer amount of sun shine. Not a speck of dust was on the darker blue carpet in the lounge. It was almost disturbingly clean and shiny, too perfect to touch.

  Chapter 19

  The cool was welcome as Felix stepped inside, shoving the soft, white leather glove in his pocket. The spikes of his shoes sounded as he walked across the marble entranceway. Pressing them off, he let the marble suck the heat out of his feet.

  The house was quiet and he walked further in. The kitchen was spotless and the large doors to the back were open.

  “How was golf?” Esme said from above somewhere.

  “Hateful. Not enough drinking,” he responded and walked to the fridge to get a cold water out. When he was hot and dehydrated like this, he only wanted water.

  He heard talking upstairs. Esme had someone here, a girl. There would be hell to pay if it was a guy. Yes, he was two-faced that way, getting irate about his sister being with a guy, but Esme was just out of school, so she shouldn’t be having guys over. There were some standards to be met. Bringing someone home just wasn’t a done thing. More likely it was Jasmine or Claudia, or one of those girls. There was giggling upstairs and Felix rolled his eyes. In some ways, Esme was still a girl.

  Footsteps walked across the floating landing and came down the stairs. Esme wore a dress and the other girl wore shorts, and it wasn’t one of the girls; it was someone vaguely familiar that definitely didn’t belong here. This girl was dark and a different ilk entirely. It was that dancer chick.

  “What’s she doing here?”

  “She’s staying for a few days,” Esme said.

  The girl stood there with her thumbs in her pockets, her ankle crossed behind the other one. What the hell had his sister dragged in now? She was probably going to steal everything in the house.

  “Have you talked to dad about this?”

  “Why would I talk to dad about it? I hardly need permission to ask a friend to stay over.”

  “But she’s not a friend though, is she?”

  “Who’s to say she isn’t?” Esme gave him that sour look she did when challenged, then turned. “Come, I’ll show you the garden.”

  “Nice shirt,” the American girl said, looking down his front for a moment, taking in the pink golf shirt he wore, before turning away. Felix watched them walk out. What the hell had his sister gone and done now? This girl was definitely not someone she should be hanging out with. Obviously this was some form of rebellion, because Esme wasn’t supposed to hang out with girls like that. He couldn’t even remember her name. They did have names though, unimportant names. Girls like that were basically whores, and this one more so than Quentin’s girl had ever been. She had that look dirty girls always did, like they knew you were imagining them naked, which invariably you were.

  Coming out of the shower, he opened the doors and heard the girls down by the pool. Grabbing his smokes, he stepped out on the balcony and lit a cigarette, the white towel wrapped around his hips. Water dripped down his back from his hair, which might be growing a tad long.

  Leaning on the balustrade, he looked down, seeing the girls on the sun loungers. The girl wore a black bikini. Of course she would wear black. The stark lines of cheap material, sweeping down the front of her breast just above the nipples, showing the flare of her breasts. That girl had a body for sin. Whores always did. Her breasts were perfect mounds, slimming to a trim, flat stomach, almost muscular and tight hips. He bet those thighs came apart beautifully. She wore boy shorts with slits cut into the sides up to her hips. Her body was almost mesmerising, the evenly tanned skin, curvy like a landscape.

  Flicking his ash, he stepped back. This was not okay. Esme wasn’t supposed to bring girls like that back to their house, their home. You could toy with trash if you needed to, but you didn’t bring it back home.

  The sound of the girl’s voice irked him, the lazy American drawn. There was no doubt that a girl like that was here to grab whatever she could, probably even if it wasn’t on offer.

  The girls were still there when he’d dressed and gone downstairs. He heard her laugh as he grabbed an apple out of the fridge before heading out, intending to find some people to have a late lunch with. Hopefully she would be gone by the time he got back.

  Taking the Porsche, he drove down along the coast to Nebu, a fusion restaurant where some people were apparently going. Aggie was there with her friends, Natasha, Jasper and, of course, Clara. Clara was another version of female he hated—vacant, stupid and insipid. She hated him right back, but only because he disliked her. It was like he was breaking a contract by disliking her. Princesses like Clara weren’t disliked; it wasn’t supposed to happen—born and bred to charm everyone.

  “Hello, Felix,” Aggie said. He ordered a whiskey from the waitress and sat down at the end of the table. “You look worse for wear. How was the golf?”

  “Fine,” he said. “How was shopping?”

  “Don’t be tedious, Felix,” Aggie chided. “What’s got your knickers in a twist?”

  “Nothing,” he said, smiling tightly. “Where’s that fucking drink?”

  “Charming as ever,” Clara said tartly, holding her champagne glass close to her chest. He ignored her as he really wasn’t in the mood to get into it with Clara, who was always looking for things to pick on in her ever continuing offense at being disliked.

  “Where’s Dessy?” he said, looking around the table, noticing the missing member of their immediate social group.

  “London.”

  “Oh? I was just there.”

  “Guess you missed him. How is Esme?”

  “Exploring rebellion,” he said, squashing the folded up napkin down on the table with his fingers.

  “We all do at some point.”

  “I suppose you are right.”

  “Yours, for example, never ended.”

  “This isn’t rebellion; it’s just the way I am.”

  The chiding look on Aggies face showed she didn’t believe that for a minute. It was hard to pull something past Aggie as she’d known him all his life, including his childhood when he’d been perfectly happy to let his mother dress him, and his all consuming passion for dinosaurs. They’d made clay prints of their hands. Aggie was as much part of his childhood as his family was, although they had been separated through secondary studies.

  Chapter 20

  Rosalie stepped out of the lounge to the lower aft deck, wearing a peach cotton skirt and a white top. It looked cheap and probably was. Clothes that had no season, probably even bought on special. She really had no dress sense. It hadn’t been something Alexi had noticed back at university. None of them had back then, including him, although he’d always noticed the older men who did.

  The inane culture of Oxford had always felt stifling and pointless. London had been more exciting—still was. City boys ran around with their sharp suits and Bugattis. He’d been so jealous, w
anting to be one of them. Now he had so surpassed them—they bowed to him.

  Malin emerged too, wearing a tight Dior dress which shimmered slightly in the light. She looked stunning and Rosalie looked drab in comparison. If fact, she didn’t look like she remotely belonged on this yacht. In truth, she didn’t. She was the ghost of the distant past.

  “It is dark out here, isn’t it?” Rosalie said. “What town is that in the distance?”

  “Most likely it is Palma,” Alexi answered, indicating to the waitress standing by taking drinks orders.

  Rosalie looked confused for a moment. “A gimlet if you could,” she said, smiling. “Much appreciated.”

  An urge struck him to inform her than she didn’t need to thank the staff. This wasn’t a restaurant. It only proved how out of place she was here.

  “That sounds lovely. I’ll have one, too.”

  Paul appeared wearing shorts and a check polo shirt. His legs were pale like a typical Englishman.

  “How have you found your cabins?” Alexi asked.

  “Very… baroque,” Rosalie said.

  “Absolutely lovely,” Paul said. “You’d expect cabins to be small and cramped, but the ones of this boat are stunning. And a full bathroom. I wouldn’t say no to having that at home.”

  Alexi smiled, pleased with the assessment. He normally never asked, less cared. He knew the décor on the boat was beyond luxurious; he’d paid to make sure it was, but with these two, you couldn’t necessarily expect a normal reaction. But for some reason he wanted her to acknowledge her impression of this property, the one she was now conveyed around in.

  Questioning her assessment left a bad taste in his mouth. This yacht was the best money could buy; if they didn’t see that, it was their ignorance.

  Urging the assembled party to the table, he sat down and they followed. Candles lit the table, while lights were tastefully washing the features of the boat around them. Drinks arrived and Alexi accepted his vodka tonic with a twist of crushed pomegranate seeds.

  Rosalie received her gimlet and he watched as she grabbed the little spear with a small onion and stirred it around the drink. She’d never drunk those in the past. Although back then, cheap wine was all they could afford.

  All these thoughts of poverty were irritating, but he had invited her here, and he still didn’t quite understand his own motivation. Usually he knew exactly why he did anything, but the reason dissipated like smoke whenever he tried to focus on it. It was there, he could see it out of the corner of his mind’s eye, firmly lodged in his subconscious, refusing to be coaxed out into the light.

  She lifted the spear out of the drink and took a bite of the onion. A sympathetic bitter and savoury taste filled his mind. Himself, he would never choose to eat a pickled onion on its own. Did she like the taste?

  “How long have you had the yacht?” Paul asked, having made himself comfortable in his seat.

  “A couple of years, give or take,” Alexi said without looking at him.

  “She is a beauty.”

  “You said so before.”

  “Did I? I must mean it then.”

  Annoyance flared through Alexi and he had to check himself. There was irrational to be rude to guests he had himself invited.

  “Have you been to the Amalfi coast before?” Malin asked, filling a gap in the conversation. She was the perfect hostess. Cordial and polite, but never quite warm.

  “No, it’s our first time.”

  “It is stunning.”

  “You do things together often?” Alexi asked, noting that Paul always seemed to speak for the both of them. From his memory, they had never been all that close.

  “I don’t know about often. Now as we are staying together it happens more often than not. Rosalie still doesn’t have a car.”

  “I can give you a car,” Alexi said, turning to her and watching as her mouth opened in surprise. “I mean I can lend you a car for the time you’re here. I have several in Marbella.”

  “That is very kind,” Rosalie said. “To be honest, I haven’t really had much time to consider transport as of yet. I’m still struggling to find my way around.” She smiled and took a sip of her drink.

  Alexi noted that she didn’t quite answer the question. Another English trait, hating to be beholden to anyone. He remembered that one, but didn’t quite understand it. Sharing was perfectly acceptable between friends. It was the Russian way, complete generosity between friends and family. The English were different that way. It still annoyed him that she wouldn’t accept a car. Even though he knew the English had an issue with generosity, it felt like a rejection of trust. “The offer is there,” he said curtly.

  “So where are you from, Malin?” Paul asked.

  “Gothenburg,” she said.

  “Lovely. I went there once for a conference—at the university.”

  “I studied there.”

  “Did you really? What did you study?”

  “Journalism,” she said, smiling. She was proud of her degree, even if in this company her degree was amateur. Alexi has never completed one. It had never irked him until now.

  “Interesting field,” Paul said. Alexi knew full well that journalism was not considered a field with any true gravitas to academics like Rosalie and Paul, stuck in their traditions and rarefied culture. Alexi knew the breed well, his father and all his friends had been the same, the academics. Their structures, values and ambitions were different from the rest of the world, shut away in their own unique culture.

  His father’s lack of ambition had always been an embarrassment, especially as Russia was changing so drastically and even during this time, his father resolutely held onto old and bankrupt traditions and values. Academics often didn’t notice that the world had evolved around them, leaving them even further behind.

  Chapter 21

  The walkway next to the beach was busy that morning as Trish found the girls sitting on a blanket. She waved and jumped over the little stone wall, making her way across the grass to where they were sitting.

  “Here you go,” Amber said, handing her a glass of champagne. Taking the glass, Trish sat down and crossed her legs under her. Chrissy and Hannah were lying down, champagne glasses in hand, watching the morning joggers slowly passing by.

  The champagne was a bit harsh on Trish’s stomach, but it was a champagne breakfast, after all, which sounded like a brilliant idea earlier in the week.

  The sun was still mellow and it was nice to sit and relax, away from the boys.

  “How’s the flatmate hunting going?” Amber asked. “Have you heard from Shania?”

  “No, not a thing; she’s just disappeared. Some of her stuff is gone, but some she just left.”

  “Jesus hasn’t heard from her either,” Chrissy said. “I think she’s left town.”

  “But to just pack up and leave without a word—who does that?” Trish said. She was annoyed. It was rude and now she was stuck paying all of the rent herself.

  “Well, your room is still there. The girl that was supposed to take it never showed. Why don’t you move back in?” Amber said.

  It was something Trish had thought about. She liked having her independence, but she couldn’t afford to keep the flat by herself. Moving back in with the girls really was the best solution. Or get another flatmate, but who knew what kind of crazy she would end up with. Shania had completely flaked, and been too rude to even mention she was doing it. Cow. “Yeah, I might have to.”

  “It will be fun, all of us together again.” But that was kind of what Trish feared. Practically it was necessary though. It was the simplest thing to do, give up the apartment and return. It would also save her money, which never hurt.

  “So how did it go with Cory?” Chrissy asked and they all watched her intently, obviously having seen them sneak off the other night.

  Trish shrugged.

  “You look so good together,” Hannah said.

  “I’m surprised you remember seeing anything at all.”

&n
bsp; “Admittedly, I don’t remember most of it,” Hannah smiled. “Are you two a couple now?”

  “No,” Trish said.

  “Are you sure, because I think he’s really missed you. He’s always asking about you.”

  Trish balanced her champagne flute on her knee and looked out to sea, feeling uncomfortable talking about it.

  “You two should just be done with it and admit you’re crazy about each other. You obviously are. And Cory is a good guy. I think he’s ready to calm down a bit.”

  For most of the week, Trish had refused to think about it and she didn’t really want to now either. She heard what the girls said. It was tempting to believe he’d changed, had moved on from being two-faced and deceptive. Trish sighed and leaned back with her arms supporting her. “I don’t know what to do about him,” she admitted. “He says we should be friends.”

  “Friends aren’t all over each other the way you two are.”

  Trish bit her lip. He’d said he had a thing for her like no other and indicated that he wanted them to get together in the future, but it hadn’t been a commitment to not see anyone else and Cory had a propensity to see other people. “No one gets under my skin like he does,” she admitted. No one made her pant like he did. The sex was raw and magnetic. That had to mean something. The way he looked at her, she just melted. And he knew it, too. He’d said so.

  “You two were made for each other; you just have to admit it. He was literally crushed when you walked away.” Trish hadn’t been aware the girls had seen it when she’d firmly told him no a while back, but maybe she shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone knew everything around here, particularly within their social circle. He’d hurt her again and again. If she let him, he’d just do it again.

  “He’s grown up a bit,” Amber said.

  Maybe he was trying to make things right, and he had admitted he’d been a complete jerk, even apologising for his behaviour.

  “I don’t know,” Trish said. “I’m gun shy, you know?”