Marbella Beauty

by Oster, Camille

  “Hey, I’m back,” Terese said as she walked into her parents’ house, the car keys dangling off her fingers.

  “Terese, I’m so glad you’re back,” her mum said, taking her by the elbow and turning her around. “Margret has dropped out and we’re in desperate need for a fourth for our tennis match. I told them you’d be happy to do it.”

  Terese smiled. “I love how you volunteer me for things, particularly when I’m all sweaty and flustered.”

  “Well, you will get more so. Would you mind driving? Raúl’s in Malaga today.”

  “Fine,” Terese said and jumped in the driver’s seat, trying to remember the way to the Athletic Club. Her mum’s topless Mercedes had cooled her off by the time they pulled into the club carpark and got out, walking through the main building to get to the back. Two of her mother’s friends were waiting by the courts, wearing white, compared to Terese’s black leggings and fluoro pink tank top.

  “Best get started before it gets too hot,” Mattie said. “Hi, Terese. Don’t you look wonderful? What I wouldn’t give for a body like that.”

  Terese flushed, not exactly sure how to handle the compliment. Racquets in hand, they took their places and the game commenced. Perfectly executed strokes, as taught by a professional, played in slow motion. The twack of the ball echoing across the walls.

  “Did you hear about that Cheyenne woman, hitting on poor Dominic every time she can? So bone thin the clothes practically hang off her. Men don’t like girls that thin.”

  “Cheyenne the model?” Terese asked. She’d read in a gossip rage while waiting at some airport that she’d retired to Marbella.

  “Calls herself a baronessa. The most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Felicity said with a chuckle.

  “She’s gorgeous. We used her for a campaign once,” Terese said. “Never met her, though.”

  “She’s awful. Might be gorgeous, but no substance. They’re a dime a dozen of those girls, creeping into town, trying to steal someone’s husband.”

  “But Dominic’s single.”

  “For now, but he doesn’t belong with the likes of her. That Russian man—that made sense. They belong together.”

  Terese decided to tune out of the conversation. She didn’t care about petty jealousies. This entire game was too slow and boring. The women half-heartedly volleyed the ball back and forth between them. She wanted to smash it, but could well imagine the looks she’d get from her mother. So she had to grin and bear it.

  When the women chose to finish and have a coffee, Terese decided she needed a break and went to the bar. Although full cocktails were available at ten in the morning, she chose a Sprite.

  “Careful. That will go straight to your hips,” a dark-haired guy said as she stood next to the bar, a towel draped over his shoulder. He wore a grey T-shirt with sweat running down the back. She knew him, but didn’t exactly know where from. He grabbed his drink and walked over, taking the armchair opposite her.

  “I think I can manage,” she said. “And you are?”

  “Felix.”

  She remembered him now. He’d been a couple of years younger. As she recalled, he’d had neatly cut hair, styled after whatever boy band had been hot. Must have been fourteen at the time. A smile crossed her lips.

  “What?”

  “Just remembering what you looked like way back when.”

  “Oh, so you do remember?”

  “Vaguely.” He was a friend of Alistair’s brother, or at least had been. “Are you still friends with…?” She snapped her fingers, trying to remember.

  “Quentin?”

  “That’s the one. Haven’t seen him around.”

  “Exploring the jungles of Indonesia.”

  Not the answer she was expecting. “Decided to be an adventurer, has he?”

  “Something like that. So what’s up with you and Alistair?”

  Another question that took her by surprise. “Absolutely nothing. Barely know him.”

  “He’s been asking about you, though.”

  Goosebumps rose up her legs, and not in a good way. “Oh?” she said a little thinly.

  “If I recall there was some scandal—way back when.”

  “Not much of a scandal. Alistair was a dick, and not much has changed from what I can gather.”

  “Harsh.”

  “You think so?” she said, curious to see if this guy thought he was something other than an absolute turd.

  He leaned on his hand. “No, probably not. Alistair’s always been prickly, especially with girls.”

  So it wasn’t just her. Whatever. She didn’t care. She was done with him.

  “So are you back here for good?”

  “God, no,” she responded. The question brought more to mind, though. She didn’t have to avoid London, or even Marbella now that she didn’t give a fuck about Alistair. Seeing him was not going to bother her, she’d decided. Bumping into him on the street meant nothing. Technically, she could live anywhere she wanted. Her life was in Berlin and she loved it, but still, after all this time, she was, and would always be, a foreigner there. As time went by, that grated more and more. “No, this place is too insular.”

  “That’s a good word for it,” Felix said, looking out the floor to ceiling window, which faced the pool. A rather hot lifeguard caught her attention. Wow. He was well-fed growing up.

  “He’s all loved up,” Felix said jauntily, snapping her attention back from a full-on drool moment. “Got a mean right hook, too.”

  “Found out, did you?”

  “Got between him and his girl.”

  “Bet there are few girls around here you haven’t got into,” she said tartly.

  “Which is why we all get excited when fresh meat saunters into town.”

  Was he hitting on her? He absolutely was. That devious, barest grin on his lips. Forward, wasn’t he? Was that what she was, fresh meat? “And will shortly be sauntering right out.” The dismissal in her voice would be clear.

  “Well, don’t take Alistair with you when you go.”

  “Absolutely no chance of that happening.”

  Chapter 43

  Alistair threw his car keys to the valet and walked into the restaurant where the guys were meeting for lunch. It was one of those too-cool-to-be-comfortable places, which were typically dotted around London. It had painted metal workshop stools around tall pine tables. So these trend wankers had started appearing in Marbella as well.

  He slid on top a stool at their table, where Aggie held her typical centre place. Jasmin, Clara, Corinne and Esme sat in light pastel dresses. Was that the trend amongst the girls now? They all seemed to dress in variants of the same thing.

  Miles, Dion and Jasper sat around, picking off a plate of antipasto. Terence had apparently not returned from his honeymoon.

  Alistair got up and went to the bar, ordering a Black Russian. There were tools on the wall for decoration, which was utterly pretentious. These guys, for all their tattoos and facial hair, had never used a tool in their lives. The only tools they knew were made by Apple. This was all bullshit, part of the image they had crafted. Not that Alistair could profess to being an actual tool user himself, which naturally did rub a little. No guy got away from the unspoken requirement that they know how to fix a car, that when something happened, they needed to open the bonnet and profess what the problem was. Girls expected it and guys looked down on you if you didn’t understand how a simple machine worked. Still, no one he knew actually knew how an engine worked beyond the most basic theory. Did guys who knew feel better about themselves? Did they sit comfortable in the knowledge that if an apocalyptic disaster happened, they wouldn’t be utterly useless?

  With a surly, “thanks,” he grabbed his drink and returned to the table. Who was fucking who, who was dissing who, was the ever-going topic of conversation. Or the guys would talk about their latest victory trading shares. Shares rose and they fell, and the logic was similar to the ramblings of an insane person. There was no touch wi
th reality, but if you lived with the beast, you got better at predicting its reactions. But there was no doubt it was all meaningless. The only point was to keep collecting money out of the whole mad process.

  The problem was: he wasn’t sure he could go back to that now. Yes, you get caught up in it. It’s you against the arseholes at the other banks, but it was still fucking meaningless. As was this conversation about pressed versus cut marble. How the fuck had they started talking about this?

  A clap on his shoulder drew his attention and he turned to see Felix had finally arrived. Newly showered he was, too. “Just get up?”

  Felix snorted. “I’m the quintessential gym bunny. Didn’t you know?”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  “Well, at least when I’m sober enough to go.”

  That sounded more accurate.

  “Saw that girl there.”

  “What girl?”

  “The Berliner.”

  This drew Alistair’s attention. “She was at the Athletic Club?”

  “Playing tennis with the ladies.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Why are you so interested?”

  “I’m not.”

  “She said you’re a prick.”

  “She talked about me?”

  “Not really. She talked incessantly about how hot Cory the lifeguard is.”

  For a moment, Alistair didn’t know if he could believe anything Felix said. What was surprising was how much the statement bothered him, as if he was losing his touch. He knew, beyond a doubt, he was burrowed under that girl’s skin and had been for a good decade. So why was the idea of her clenching her thighs for some stupid lifeguard bothering him?

  Because he hadn’t released her yet, was the answer. She did not have his permission to go off crushing on some guy. “Who is this guy?”

  “An Australian. Thick as a plank, but cut as hell. Girls swoon all over him—all of them,” Felix stressed.

  “And worth the swooning,” Aggie said teasingly. “So good,” she said almost orgasmic. “Shame, though. He just couldn’t get over that girl. Guys are like that, they fixate on some girl and never get over it.”

  Alistair stared at her, trying to read whether she was sending him a snarky message about his little tiff with Terese. She turned her attention to him. “Are you going to come to my party?”

  “What party?”

  “My birthday.”

  He’d had no idea. “I suppose.”

  “I’m holding it at Charlie Meyer’s house. He’s promised I could use his backyard.”

  Charlie Meyer had one of the oldest properties in Marbella, which had once belonged to some Spanish royal that Franco had allowed to live down here, out of sight, back when Marbella was little more than a fishing village. It was absolutely beachfront and the garden gave away to white sand. “Nice,” he said appreciatively.

  “Charlie can be very lovely that way.”

  “Only if you bat your lovely eyes at him. I think he would do just about anything if you asked him.”

  Aggie slapped him on the arm, but she knew full well she could get most guys to do exactly as she wished, except perhaps this lifeguard.

  Lunch arrived and Alistair tried to recall what he’d ordered. A plate of pork belly with fennel and some other spriggy greenery was placed down. That’s right. It had sounded good, and it smelled divine.

  They finished close to ten bottles of wine between them. He hadn’t done too badly, so he should still be okay to drive.

  Each payed their bills and prepared to wander off to whatever afternoon activity they had planned. Alistair had nothing particular planned, and he hated doing nothing. It was fine for a week, but now it started to grate. Saying that, he couldn’t manage any of the pointless activities people did around here—dealing with interior designers, working on their blogs, or shopping. Some even called what they did work.

  “Want to go for a drink?” Felix asked.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Alistair responded. “Just a minute,” he said, jogging over to where Aggie was just getting into her car. “Hey,” he said. “Invite Terese Wentworth to your party.”

  Aggie gave him a pointed look from the driver’s seat. “You want me to invite your little nemesis?”

  “She’s just a girl.”

  “That’s what they all say,” Aggie said, smiling as she pulled her car door shut.

  Chapter 44

  She wore a flowing dress—cotton, but Paul still felt Alice looked marvellous. A cardigan was carried in her hand as they walked through the cool streets of old Marbella.

  “It’s amazing how they still manage to keep things cool,” she said.

  “As opposed to some of the buildings we construct, they actually designed to keep the sun away.” The cobbled streets were more or less in the shade, the white of the buildings reflecting the heat. “We seemed to have lost the ability to be logical.”

  Alice smiled, and they kept on walking, reaching a square packed with small cafes and restaurants. He’d asked her to lunch as opposed to dinner. It seemed less confrontational that way. Green shrubs and bougainvilleas surrounded the square, and an old fountain sat in the middle.

  This was the perfect Spanish scene and a far cry away from the glitzy store fronts and luxury restaurants. This was authentic Spanish, although it was impossible to escape the tourists for whom this was a stop on the ‘what to do in Marbella’ guide.

  Paul ushered Alice to a table under an umbrella. The table was old, polished wood—small and intimate. He smiled awkwardly as he sat down across from Alice. Very intimate.

  He felt nervous and hated that he couldn’t be cooler about this. “I’ve been thinking about taking a drive up to Madrid. I’ve always intended to see the Prado.”

  “I actually don’t know much about art.”

  “Well, it’s not really something you strictly need to know about to appreciate.”

  “I used to go to the Tate quite often when I was younger,” she said. “I’ve even been to the one in St. Ives.” She smiled softly as if she was embarrassed by her own blabbering and it made Paul’s heart contract.

  “I really like you,” he said in a moment of unbridled honesty. She flushed red, but smiled back. They had something here, he knew. “Would it be awfully forward of me to ask you to accompany me to Madrid? We can have fully separate rooms, of course.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  Now it was Paul’s turn to feel a flush across his chest. They were taking this relationship to the next level, and he didn’t want to wait long for this weekend away. “When should we plan it?”

  “How about this weekend?”

  “Sounds fantastic.” And that was how it was done. Paul had a girlfriend, or at least he thought he did. He decided he liked to think he did.

  They’d spent the morning at the Prado, the afternoon wandering around Madrid and the evening in a quaint Spanish restaurant in a small square, of which there seemed to be an endless amount in Madrid. He’d booked a room at the Hotel Regina, which had looked like a nice, old building with a bit of character. The rooms were a little on the modern side for his liking, but he didn’t want to reveal just yet how much he preferred shabby chic. He didn’t want to send the wrong message.

  His hand shook as he slotted the card into the handle and the door unlocked. The room was white, with light grey curtains and frosted glass on the walls. It was nice.

  If he waited too long, this would grow awkward and he didn’t want that. So he pulled her to him and kissed her as soon as the door closed. No harm showing how much he’d been looking forward to this.

  She let him and even returned the kiss. It was wonderful, perfect. Breaking the kiss and with nervous fingers, he unbuttoned her blouse. She had a soft pink camisole underneath and it made him even more nervous. Her breasts were small and she wore no bra, which he found inordinately sexy.

  His chest puffed as she ran her hand down his front. He kissed h
er again, tasting the sweetness of her. Urging the blouse off her delicate shoulders, it fell to the ground. Moving back, he sat down on the bed, drawing her to him and kissing along the line where the camisole ended and the French knickers started. Her hands wound into his hair, showing she enjoyed the treatment. Her skin was soft and smooth. Everything about her was. Her hair was impossibly soft as she bent over and it spilled onto his neck and shoulder. He was shirtless now and leaned back on the bed, drawing her on top of him. They fitted perfectly together.

  Letting her slide down to the side, he kissed her and her hand ran along his chest and back. With his forefinger, he hooked the spaghetti strap of her camisole and drew it down her shoulder and past her upper arm. Her breast was revealed, lush and pink as if it was inviting him. Drawing her up to him, he took it in his mouth, teasing the bud. The softness was impossible and he grew inordinately hard. Her little mewls only helped. As her leg came up around his thigh, he drew her to him, pressing his hardness to her. A flare of heady sensation flowed through him. This was perfect. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her.

  Freeing the other side of the camisole, he urged it down her waist to where the French knickers were. With her on her back, he drew both down over her thighs until she was completely naked beneath him. Her hand on his cheek, she drew him up and into a kiss, her thighs parting from him. He refused to get carried away with the excitement of this. It was different with someone he had high hopes for. And she wasn’t entirely holding back either, which was pleasing. Her leg pressed him to her and he felt another bout of friction on his straining cock.

  Drawing back, he kissed down her front, trailing kisses down her breast and down her lovely stomach, lower to where her spread legs welcomed him. With his tongue, he teased her until she bucked underneath him. He was painfully hard by the time he unzipped and lining himself up to sink into her golden heat. Their bodies fit so well together. Her hips undulated with his strokes. It was perfect.