Marbella Cool

by Oster, Camille

“Excellent,” Rufus said. “I will leave you in Cory’s capable hands.”

  Cory swallowed his nervousness. She looked so pretty, as if she had stepped right out of the TV, but here she was, in person, real. “I’ll give you my number. Like he said, anything, day or night.”

  “Oh, thanks. What was your name again?”

  He couldn’t see her eyes behind the mirrored glasses. “Cory.”

  “Cory,” she repeated and looked around again. “It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” The surroundings were landscaped to be lush, almost tropical.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Will you be training today?”

  “My coach is coming in an hour. Did that man say there was a kitchen?”

  “Yeah, I can go get a menu for you, if you like.”

  “You do that,” she said, turning to a shaded white table beside the tennis courts. Cory took off to get a menu from Pablo at the pool bar. Jogging back with it in hand.

  “Here you go,” he said. She was sitting flicking through her phone.

  “So, Cory, what does a girl do for fun around here?”

  Cory felt a rush through his body. “Blanca Beach is probably the most famous club, you know, on the more exclusive side. It’s where anyone who’s anyone goes. They’ve got some big floor clubs in town. There’s every possible restaurant you could want.”

  “So Blanca Beach, that’s the place to be?”

  “Sure,” Cory said. It was the place to go for any celebrity, and Mirabel definitely fit into that category. “There are some other open air ones, but Blanca’s the best.”

  “Maybe you’ll have to show me where it is?” she was smiling, but still looking down at her phone. “You cool with that?”

  “Absolutely.” He couldn’t believe it, escorting Mirabel Sunning to Blanca. That was a new level of awesome. The guys were going to be beside themselves, but no, there would be no adder-ons tonight.

  Mirabel had a driver, who took them around in a black SUV with black tinted windows. It smelled of new leather. Mirabel wore a silver dress, which looked absolutely fantastic on her. Her shoulders were broad and muscular, and the little crossed spaghetti straps covered beautifully tanned skin. Every single muscle in her back was distinguishable.

  In terms of hot bodies, Cory wasn’t sure it got better than this. Her thighs were chunky and firm, and Cory refused to let himself look, because he would seriously start drooling. This was a step up from anything he’d ever seen, a professional athlete at or near peak condition. He clenched his fist, trying to dissipate some of the tension. He certainly didn’t want to come across as some drooling freak, running around with a hard-on.

  There were photographers there. Everyone knew that Mirabel had come to town and Cory was the one standing next to her. People might assume they were a couple and Cory wouldn’t deny the thought was appealing.

  The girl on the desk was smiling as they walked past, the photogs having to stay behind. The walkway opened to a neon lit space, a large crowd of people, but not enough that there wasn’t space. It was the perfect amount of people for the space. A cabana had been reserved for her, and a waiter stood eagerly by to greet them.

  Mirabel sat down and ordered a drink. Cory ordered a beer.

  “So how long have you lived here?” she asked, turning to him. People left her alone, everyone complicit that this was not the place to walk up and ask for a selfie.

  “Coming up two years,” he said, almost embarrassed that she’d asked.

  “Hello, darling,” a guy said, stepping around the table to give her a kiss on the cheek.

  “Jonathan. It’s been a while. How are you? This is Cory.”

  “Good. Hi, Cory,” the guy said, absently shaking his hand. “I heard you were in town. You here for a while?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to train here for a month or so. Prepare for the Dubai Open.”

  “Fantastic,” Jonathan said. Another girl joined them, obviously someone Jonathan knew as he put his hand on her waist.

  Cory went and got himself another beer, leaning back on the bar and watching the people buzzing around Mirabel.

  “You do keep interesting company,” a dark-haired guy said. Cory remembered meeting him last year when he’d gone to Morocco with one of the girls from the club. This guy hung with that group. “Felix,” he said and Cory was glad because he couldn’t remember his name.

  “Cory. How’s Aggie?” She had stopped coming to the club for a while since that little scandal had come to light about him sleeping with one of the members.

  “She’s good. Same as always. You fucked up with her, didn’t you?”

  “It was never anything serious,” Cory shrugged, “for either of us.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “So are you banging her?” Felix asked, nodding at Mirabel. He wasn’t slimy about it; he was just outright asking.

  “Not yet.”

  Felix laughed. “I like a guy with confidence.”

  “Not confident, just hopeful.” Maybe he was a little confident. There had been a bit of appreciation in Miss Sunning’s eye, or at least Cory hoped there had been. It would make his year to have those powerful thighs wrapped around him. He sighed.

  Felix clapped him on the back. “Good luck,” he said, then walked away. He stopped and turned. “Hey, do you know some American chick named Shania. She works at Shine.”

  “Yeah,” Cory said. “Well, I know off her more than I know her. Why?”

  “What’s the thing with her?”

  “I couldn’t tell you, mate. I heard she took off or something.”

  “No, not just yet, but she will,” Felix said, turning again and disappearing into the crowd.

  Chapter 24

  There was something uncomfortable about being on the boat. There was something uncomfortable about being around Alexi. Rosalie wasn’t quite sure what it was. Malin was polite, but it was like she was confused about why they were there. Reading undercurrents had never been Rosalie’s strength, and Paul was probably oblivious, but there was something there, a message they were supposed to get.

  Alexi was distant. He would intermittently leave them to take phone calls, where he spoke in harsh Russian tones. Everyone more or less bowed in front of him, even Malin, who hung on his every word. Every time Rosalie moved, she felt either Malin’s or Alexi’s disapproving eyes on her. Rosalie had started apologising, which was something she did when she was nervous. But really, they had invited her and Paul onto the boat; they weren’t stowaways, so why were they treated like they were imposing? There was something a little bit disconcerting about it all.

  The Italian coast came into view and Rosalie sat down at the front of the boat, crossing her legs beneath her and just watched as it approached. It was so beautiful. She couldn’t believe she was here. The heaviness that seemed to have settled on her lifted. The opportunity to get off the boat also sat like shining hope in front of her. The truth was that she hadn’t enjoyed this trip at all. The lobster and caviar, and little delicate deserts with gold leaf sprinkled on top were not things she really relished. She knew this was supposed to be the crème de la crème, but it was just flour, sugar and cocoa powder presented in a more intricate package.

  But coming towards her was the Italian coast—true, genuine culture. She could already see herself walking through rustic streets, hearing Italian spoken around her, feel the long and convoluted history of the place. She couldn’t wait, excitement was buzzing in her veins. Paul felt the same way. He loved Italy.

  Lunch was being served and the boat slowed as they took their seats, although Rosalie couldn’t feel much difference in the stability of the boat as it was large enough not to be overly affected by the waves. Alright, she had to admit that the cod was exquisite, and was served with a salad including edible wild flowers, which would have been flown in from northern Europe just to partake in this lunch. It seemed crazy, but this was all out of her league.

  “We should be in Amalfi tomorrow,” Alexi said, looking regal
and relaxed as he sat drinking a tall glass of beer.

  “I can’t wait,” Malin said, picking at her fish. She was skin and bones. There was no flesh to her arms at all. Granted, she did look elegant.

  “What are you going to do?” Rosalie asked Paul, knowing he usually approached something with a plan.

  “I think I am going to take some photos of religious architecture,” he said, shifting his glass of wine slightly on the table. This meant Paul would be wandering around with a definite agenda, which she didn’t necessarily want to follow.

  “I might go wandering on my own.”

  “They have some lovely pastry shops,” Malin said, her eyes drifting down Rosalie’s body. Things Rosalie was sure Malin had never even tasted.

  “Yes, I’m not sure you can claim to have lived if you haven’t tasted Italian desserts.” Rosalie considered if she’d just taken a shot at Malin. It wasn’t in her nature to be bitchy, particularly with girls that more or less constituted a foreign species. Worse was that she didn’t like it. It was as if she was sucked into this culture and behaviour against her own will and judgement. It had to stop.

  Rosalie breathed in deeply as she stepped off the boat. They had moored alongside a jetty, the staff standing by to help them disembark. She was in Italy, she acknowledged. Whatever Malin and Alexi felt was glamour was construed—this was glamour. It had history; it had depth and it was assured in its own confidence.

  Paul set off, camera in hand. Malin followed, wearing another flowing dress and a ridiculously large hat. She did look good, but it seemed a trifle contrived. Alexi as well, wearing linen. Again it struck her how much larger a man he was now compared to when she’d known him. He wore a gold watch on his wrist and Gucci loafers.

  The town of Positano stretched up the hill in front of them, blending into the rugged cliffs around it, even with the subdued colours of the buildings. The ocean was bright blue and there were children jumping off the jetty. She smiled at them, wondering if they had the idyllic childhood she imagined. Maybe they did. Her own hadn’t been bad at all. They’d lived in a small Georgian house in Binsey, not far from Oxford in a rural setting. Her parents still lived there and she had seen them every other weekend before she’d come to Marbella.

  The streets were cool, chilly from the lack of sunshine. The stones of the roads were rounded with wear and uneven. Malin would struggle in her beautiful heels. The whole town was decorated with bright pink bougainvillea. There was also a marked lack of global commercialism, which was pleasing.

  She passed cafes and street vendors. The fruit was beautiful and ripe, far more appetising than fare she normally had to contend with at Waitrose. Everything was so alive and genuine here. Even the smells were pleasant—coffee, gelato, pasta.

  Another sigh racked through her. Maybe she hadn’t given Marbella enough of a chance, she conceded. There was something to be said for Mediterranean life, even if Marbella was an overly manicured version of it. Until now she’d only seen herself as being on holiday, half ready to bolt back to the UK at any moment. There was nothing stopping her from settling in for a year and giving the place a chance.

  “Finding anything interesting?” Alexi’s coarse voice sounded close by, pulling Rosalie out of her reverie. He stood looking relaxed with his hands in his pockets, his shirt unbuttoned around his neck.

  “I’m not particularly looking for anything,” she said. “Just enjoying the atmosphere and the sights.”

  “It is beautiful. Better than the cold rain in Oxford.”

  Rosalie was actually offended. “You don’t have the lush greenness of England without the rain. You can’t have it both ways.” Although in Marbella the lush gardens thrived with very little rain.

  Alexi shrugged.

  “You don’t regret not finishing your degree?”

  “What value is a degree for me?”

  Again, he’d just ripped into her values. “In academia they have some value, obviously.”

  Alexi didn’t respond to the statement. “I had other things to focus my mind on.”

  He took a step down the street, as if expecting she should walk with him. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he wanted something from her. There had to be some reason why he’d invited them along on this trip.

  “Academia is so stuck in dusty books, they rarely see the real world. Always looking back at the old.”

  “Perhaps the pragmatist would say the future doesn’t exist yet.”

  “The pragmatist would say only the present is important.”

  “Clearly, not everyone agrees.”

  “Always arguing,” he said, smiling, but it came across a bit indulgent.

  Rosalie didn’t want to carry on this conversation. It was like arguing with someone who knew her but didn’t like her. That was perfectly acceptable. He wasn’t obliged to. His view of the world was very different and he saw no value in hers. Again perfectly within his prerogative.

  She tried to think of a way of getting away, which would be rude considering he was the host for this trip. For a second she cursed Paul for agreeing to this. The chasm that had broken her and Alexi apart so many years ago had only grown, painful and awkward in its vastness.

  Smiling tightly, Rosalie found she had nothing else to say. They came upon a gallery. “I might …” she said, drifting off and pointing to the gallery.

  “Of course,” he said, but then followed her in. It had been the perfect excuse to part, but he apparently wasn’t ready to.

  The art was modern and probably existential in nature. The price tags were eye watering. This gallery was geared to a certain type of tourist, while Rosalie might actually prefer the street art aimed at a much more mundane class of tourist; paintings of bright Italian scenery, paintings she could put in her kitchen to brighten the space up.

  Alexi purchased a painting, the gallery owner fawning all over him. An assistant whipped the painting away, which looked like a dog had eaten tubes of paint and then chucked up on the canvas.

  Turning to her, he smiled as if downplaying the transaction. “The modern Italian artists are very popular at the moment.”

  Of course this was an investment for him, perhaps even a gamble. Did he even like the painting? Art was certainly not something he’d appreciated to any notable degree when at Oxford.

  Rosalie smiled tightly. Maybe she should go buy one of the tacky landscapes from the market just to spite him. Again that bitchiness was emerging and she didn’t like it.

  Chapter 25

  She was there in the morning at the breakfast table when Felix walked out onto the main covered patio. They all sat around the glass table, eating as he approached. Even his father was there, sitting in a sharp navy suit, and the girl, in shorts and a tank top with spaghetti straps. She was completely out of place, but no one seemed to notice.

  Taking a deep breath, Felix suppressed the deep annoyance he felt. This girl had invaded his house and his family, installing herself like she belonged here. The staff served her for God’s sake.

  “Finally emerged?” Esme asked, noticing him

  Felix sat down, wishing he could order a hair of the dog, but father was here, for some unusual reason. Why wasn’t he seeing past this imposter in their midst? It was one thing to give to charity, another to bring it into their house. But this wasn’t charity; Shania was a little grafter, and for some reason, she had made purchase here. “So what have you got planned today?” He was curious what this girl was talking Esme into.

  “We’re probably going to lunch with the girls.”

  Was his sister treating this little slum whore like the latest accessory? Where they all adopting big-eyed waifs who like their lives on their knees? Some kind of warped badge of authentic grittiness? He wouldn’t put it past them.

  The smell of the food made his stomach turn. It would be a few hours yet before he could eat.

  “Hung over again?” Esme said pointedly. The barest look from his father conveyed his disapproval well enough.

>   “I’m sure you weren’t spending the evening plaiting each other’s hair.”

  “More or less,” she said.

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” he grumbled, knowing full well his sister wasn’t the innocent she made herself out to be. Yes, she cultivated that image well, but she knew what was going on. There were few places along this coast where she hadn’t been.

  “Will you be here tonight?” Esme asked their father.

  “No, but I will be back tomorrow.”

  “It would be nice to have a family dinner. I think we should have one tomorrow.” Esme was laying it on thick. She did these things so no one would pay attention to what her and her friends really got up to.

  “A family dinner should be for family,” Felix said bitterly.

  Esme gave him a withering look. “No need to be ungenerous, Felix.” Again he had to wonder if she kept this girl around just to annoy him.

  Calling for Maria, Felix ordered an orange juice. The girls were finishing and Esme rose. “We’re playing tennis,” she said. “Mirabel Sunning is in town, apparently. The whole coast is coming down with tennis fever. You should join us, Felix. I would like to see you running around the court. Think you can do it without coughing up a lung?” She knew full well she was agitating things for him, highlighting the things that his father was disappointed with. Bitch.

  The girl looked down her nose at him, which only angered him more. She didn’t say anything, seemingly adopting his sister’s cutting disapproval. His fingers itched to strangle her, or more rather to show her the door and watch her slink away.

  The girls walked out, going upstairs to change. They were probably off to the Athletic Club to play and watch the pro practice—no doubt because that was what the guys would be doing, drooling over Mirabel Sunning’s stunning figure, tanned, powerful legs and the erotic grunts when she smashed the ball across the court. For some guys that was the height of admirable females—independent, vicious and powerful.

  “That girl needs to go,” Felix finally said when he was alone with his father.