“Nice?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
She nods and tips onto her back to float once again, so I do the same, enveloping myself in the silent world of the sea, and let myself drift away.
Chapter Four
Jess
Rich and I float around for ages, occasionally bumping fingers or feet, enjoying being weightless, as if we’re on a spaceship floating in zero-g. After that, we swim for a bit, along the shoreline, just out of our depth, all the way up to the rocks before we turn and head back toward the bach.
I was right—his tattoo goes all the way up to his shoulder. He looks damn fine without a shirt, all muscles and brown skin. I can imagine how those muscles would feel beneath my fingers—hard and warm. I think about his mouth on mine, his hands on me, and feel a shimmer of sexual desire that I try to ignore as I close my eyes and turn my face to the sun.
We talk, sometimes. Nothing deep. I say something about how many shades of blue there are in the ocean and the sky.
Rich starts to name them. “Navy, azure, cobalt, sapphire…”
I join in. “Indigo, teal, peacock, lapis, viridian, cerulean, zaffre…”
“You’re making them up,” he scoffs. “Zaffre?”
“It’s obtained by roasting cobalt ore. It’s a thing, I swear.”
“I guess you know all that through your artwork,” he says.
“Some.”
“Go on then. Shades of red. Cherry, crimson, scarlet, ruby…”
“Currant, blood, rose, sangria, mahogany…”
He turns onto his back. “Purple? Plum, grape… um…”
“Mauve, violet, mulberry, eggplant, lilac, boysenberry, pomegranate, wisteria.”
“Jeez. Okay, brown,” he says. “I can’t think of a single shade of brown. Mud, I guess.”
“Aw, come on,” I prompt him. “Brown’s an easy one—they’re nearly all food. Caramel, wheat, gingerbread, pecan, peanut, coffee, chocolate, walnut.”
“Okay,” he says, “last one. Black.”
“Ebony, midnight, pitch, soot, coal, licorice, raven…”
He laughs. “All right. You know your stuff.”
“I do my best.”
His gaze holds admiration, something I haven’t seen in a man’s eyes for a long time. It makes me feel bashful—again, something I haven’t felt for eons. I splash him and swim away, and we continue then, until we’re opposite our baches, at which point we wade to the shore.
I turn and lie down in the warm, shallow water and make angels in the wet sand. Rich looks down at me, and then he does the same, stretching out so our feet are in the water and our heads are on the sand.
“You make me feel like a kid again,” he says, out of the blue. Out of the cerulean.
“Aw.” I splash him. “Are you too much of a grownup in real life?”
“Not really. I design computer games.”
I laugh. “Anything I’d know?”
“Are you a gamer?”
“I have a PlayStation 3,” I admit, swooshing my hand around in the water. “I play quite a lot. I’d love a PS4 but I have more important things to spend my money on at the moment. Like food.” He smiles. “So,” I prompt, “any games I’d know?”
“I doubt it. A couple of low-budget indie PC games. Heartsweep?” I shake my head, and he shrugs.
I sigh. “Yeah. It’s tough to be an artist.”
“Don’t know that I’d call myself that. I can’t draw to save my life. I’m a code monkey. All numbers and programming.”
“It’s still art, though, isn’t it? You’re still creating. I’ve read that programmers can look at a screen and they don’t see code, they see colors and shapes. It’s a form of synesthesia.”
“Sinny-what-now?”
“Where using one sense stimulates another. So a person might look at the number seven and see blue. Or hear a musical note and see a red square.”
He frowns. “Is that a real thing?”
“Of course it is. Around one in two-thousand people have it. The word is from two Greek words—syn meaning union and aesthesis meaning sensation. Jackie Onassis apparently had it, or was interested in it at least. Isaac Newton said musical tones and color tones share similar frequencies. Jung refers to color hearing. There are synesthesia associations all over the world.”
“How do you know so much about it?”
“Because I have it, and so does my brother.”
He sits up, water sloshing around him. “Do you? Really?”
I smile. “Yeah. I have a form called chromesthesia—sound associated with color. Sounds like a bell ringing will make me see color. Lots of sounds at once can make me see fireworks. Sometimes I also see shapes or numbers too, and very occasionally a sound will taste of something. It’s pretty amazing.”
“That’s so fucking cool.”
I laugh. “Yeah.”
“So does the same sound give the same color each time?”
“Depends. If the pitch changes, the color changes. Or the tone changes anyway. So high sounds will give light colors, and deep sounds give dark colors. Music is the best. Each note has a different color, so when I’m playing it’s like there are fairy lights twinkling in front of me.”
He seems fascinated. At least he believes me. I keep it to myself usually because it’s surprised me in the past how many people think I’m lying. I don’t think Alastair believed me. I guess I should have known then that it wasn’t going to work.
“Do you actually see these colors as if they’re in front of you?” Rich asks.
“It’s difficult to explain. I suppose they’re in what some people call the mind’s eye. For example, if I ask you to picture a pukeko, you can see it, can’t you? With its blue body and stupid red legs and red beak, and that odd way it has of walking as if it’s wearing someone else’s shoes that are too big for it. It’s not in front of you, but you can still picture it. Well, that’s how I see the colors.”
Rich stares at me as if I’m something wonderful, giving me goose bumps.
“It’s relatively common,” I mumble.
“You’re amazing.”
I lift a hand to shade my eyes while I look up at him. Droplets of water are running down his body. He’s pretty toned for a code monkey—his wet biceps shine in the sunlight, and his chest hairs glisten. His eyes are a dark brown that’s almost black. There’s something about this guy that rings my bell. I want to smooth my hand over his torso and see if his muscles are as hard as they look. I want to lift up and press my lips to the hollow of his throat and lick away the drop of water that’s shining there.
I don’t, of course. I just laugh, sit up, and brush the sand from my feet. “I’m hungry. I’m going to get changed and walk up to the fish shop—I think it’s open today. You want me to bring you anything back?”
“I might come with you. If that’s okay?”
Our eyes are level now. I stare into his, and a shiver runs down my spine as if he’s poured a cup of cold seawater down my back.
“Sure,” I say easily, even though my heart’s racing. If I were to lean forward, I’m sure he’d kiss me. But maybe he wouldn’t. Normally, I don’t care about making a fool of myself. I’ve always been the kind of girl who lives for today, and if I take a chance on something—or someone—and it doesn’t work out, I remind myself that at least I don’t have to spend my life wondering if that would have been the one thing that would have brought me happiness.
Then I think of Alastair. If I apply that logic to him, I should be thankful that I met him, and I shouldn’t regret what I did. But I’m not, and I do. I wish I’d never applied for that job. I know it takes two to tango, but he made me a bad person, and I wish I’d never met him.
So I hesitate, and the moment passes. Rich turns his gaze out to sea, and then he rolls over and gets to his feet. He does offer me a hand, which I take, and he lifts me easily, with enough force that I lose my balance and bump against him. I rest a hand on his arm, and his skin is warm, the m
uscle firm. My fingers tingle at the touch.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “You were lighter than I expected.”
“You sure know how to compliment a girl.” I step back and release his arm.
He laughs. “I meant it. You’re skinny as—you obviously need fattening up. Come on.” He turns, and we walk back up the beach.
I go into my bach and shower hurriedly. I wash the salt out of my hair, then after I’ve toweled it dry, I braid it into one longish plait. I reapply some sun lotion, pull on khaki shorts and a white T-shirt, find my jandals, shove my purse into my pocket, and head out, picking up my sunhat on the way.
Rich is sitting on the edge of my deck, head tipped back and face to the sun. I jump down onto the sand. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“You didn’t.” He smiles and stands, and we begin walking up to the main road.
“So do you use your synesthesia in your art?” he asks as we cross the grassy bank.
“In what way?”
“Well, like how the Impressionists attempted to paint exactly what they saw, I wondered whether you do the same. Interpret what you see in your art.”
“I don’t,” I say, “but maybe I should. I’ve not studied art or anything, other than books I’ve had out of the library. I suppose I’m not very adventurous—I tend to try to capture the reality of what I see. Perhaps you’re right, and I should let go a little.” I like the idea, and I wonder why I haven’t thought about it before. I’ve always felt that I should suppress my synesthesia because it’s not ‘normal’. The idea of utilizing it appeals to me.
“So you mainly paint?” Rich asks.
“Yes, although I use a lot of materials too—fabric, cardboard, plastic, anything that I feel adds to the shape of the piece. I may have given the wrong impression, though. I don’t make a living from it—nowhere close. It’s just a hobby.”
I thought I might have annoyed him by lying, but he doesn’t look angry. “So how do you make a living?” he asks.
“This and that.” I remind myself that I don’t need approval from him. “I left school with no qualifications to speak of, and I’ve never been to university. I’ve mainly done shop work and waitressing.” These jobs are nothing to be ashamed of, but I am ashamed because I know I have the potential to do better, to do something.
I’m basically a positive person, a silver-lining kind of girl. Now, anyway, thanks to Maria. I’m always telling myself that better things lie ahead, and that the decisions I’ve made are what have formed my character. I wouldn’t be who I am if I hadn’t made mistakes or screwed up from time to time. I console myself that not everyone can find a cure for cancer, and I’ve still contributed to the world and helped people.
But then I think of Alastair again, and that silver lining fades to a dull gray. He’s like a bad skin infection—it makes me itch to think of him. I want to scratch and scratch to get rid of him, but he won’t go away. The memories of everything that’s happened over the past year are painted on the inside of my brain like the Sistine Chapel, and I’m forced to stand there looking up at them.
“Hey.” Rich’s voice jolts me out of my musings. “There’s nothing wrong with waitressing. I was a waiter in an Italian restaurant in my late teens. I can still carry three plates on one arm.”
That makes me laugh. “No, I know there’s nothing wrong with it. Don’t mind me. I’ve had a crappy few months.” I hadn’t meant to talk about myself, but I doubt I’ll ever see Rich again, and don’t they say it’s easier to talk to a stranger? “I try to tell myself I’ve hit the bottom and I’m on the up, but the truth is that I’m on a wheel that keeps going around and around really fast, and no sooner do things feel as if they’re getting better than wham! I hit the bottom again. And I’m tired of it. I’m tired of pretending that everything’s going to be all right. Or that bad things happen to me because I’m supposed to learn some kind of lesson. There’s no lesson, other than not to do it again, but I do keep doing it again, I must do because it keeps happening to me.”
I’m losing the plot a little, and I’m rambling, embarrassed and angry at myself, so I stop talking, my chest heaving, and grit my teeth to stop the words falling out like ball bearings to bounce along the ground.
Rich doesn’t speak for a moment. We walk in silence, listening to the seagulls crying overhead, the sound conjuring up a flare the color of buttercups in my mind’s eye. It’s so hot I can feel my skin crisping, even though I’ve got factor thirty on all over, and I jam the hat I’ve been carrying over my damp hair. I can taste salt on my lips, and I’m hungry, my stomach rumbling in anticipation of the hoki and chips I’ll be eating very soon.
“We don’t have to talk,” Rich says. “You don’t have to tell me anything about yourself if you don’t want to. But if you do want to, I don’t mind listening. I don’t judge. We’re all the end product of a lifetime of events and experiences. I would never look down on anyone for the choices they’ve made.”
“That’s a nice thing to say.”
He shrugs. “There are so many factors involved in what we perceive as success. Some of them we can influence—we can work hard, be determined, be truthful and honest, and try not to hurt other people. Equally, there are things that will always be out of our control. I’m not sure if I believe in luck, but I do believe in opportunity, or a lack of it. There are so many people who could have done great things, but they just didn’t have the chance. They couldn’t afford to go to university, or didn’t have the right guidance when they were young. It’s not as simple as saying to someone that if they’re not where they want to be, it’s because they haven’t worked hard enough. Not by a long shot.”
My eyes water, and I’m glad I’m wearing sunglasses. Maria said I can’t blame my plight on my upbringing, and that I mustn’t let my terrible childhood hold me back, and she’s right. I don’t want to have been cursed from birth, and doomed to a life of mediocrity because of how I was brought up. I’ve read dozens of stories of people—scientists, actors, writers—who were born dirt poor, who were orphans, who succeeded despite what Fate had planned for them, so I know it’s possible to break out of the mold.
But the truth is that Rich is right. In childhood, it’s like we’re bundled onto a train and then we set off on those tracks, and the choice of destination is limited to the stations the train stops at. It’s hard to change tracks and head off in the opposite direction. Not impossible, just very, very hard. You have to have exceptional will power and a certain amount of luck. And so far, I don’t think I’ve had either of those.
“Are you trying to make me cry?” I say with a sniff.
“Aw. Not at all.” To my surprise, he takes my hand, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to be walking along the sand with this man, as if we’ve known each other for years, as if we’re the best of friends.
We’re approaching the small village that serves the camping park up the road. “Food,” Rich says, “is what you need,” and he steers me toward the fish shop across the road.
I wish he was right—that hot fish and salty chips could solve all my problems. Unfortunately, I think that’s far from the case. But I’m looking forward to them, nevertheless.
Chapter Five
Rich
We buy two pieces of battered hoki, a seafood basket, and some kumara chips, and sit on an old wooden bench overlooking the sea, shoulder to shoulder, eating them out of the same piece of newspaper. I rest it on my thigh, and when Jess leans across to reach for the chips, she presses against me, her arm warm and soft next to mine. I don’t object.
For a while, we just eat, and it comes to me that Jess is very like me—she enjoys just being, and doesn’t need to fill the silence like most others feel compelled to do.
She intrigues me, this girl. When she looks at me with those wide hazel eyes, a fuse lights at the base of my spine that travels all the way up to the roots of my hair. I like that she’s so… natural. I don’t mean that she doesn’t shave her armpits or
bikini area, because when we lay on the sand, the tiny triangles of orange over her breasts and the triangle between her thighs covered only the merest essentials, and it was clear she wasn’t that natural. But everything about her is clean and fresh and untouched. Not in a virginal way. Not at all. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was quite the naughty girl in the bedroom. I mean… I don’t know what I mean.
There’s nothing fake about her, that’s all. The girls in the city have bleached hair, false eyelashes, foundation an inch thick, sculpted lips, waxed eyebrows. They have four-inch high heels, underwear that’s meant to pull everything in and prop everything up, the latest phone, designer clothes. Nothing’s worth buying or wearing or doing unless it’s being broadcast on Twitter or Facebook. For those girls, life is all about how other people will judge them.
Jess is the polar opposite. The dark-blonde shade of her hair looks natural. I’m sure she’s not wearing a bra beneath her T-shirt. Her jandals and her hat look years old. Of course, there’s no way to tell whether, if she had money, she’d be the same as those other women, but the fact is that right now she isn’t. Maybe with other people she’s guarded and reserved—when we had lunch with Hemi and the others she didn’t exactly talk non-stop. But I don’t get the feeling that she wears a different face depending on whom she’s with. I think she is who she is, take it or leave it—open, honest, raw.
I like that.
She pops a battered oyster into her mouth and licks her fingers as she stares off into the distance. Her hand lowers slowly to her lap, and I know she’s thinking about whatever has made the last few months of her life ‘crappy’. I’m wondering whether to ask her about it when she gives a big sigh and starts talking.
“I was working at The Muffin House in Kerikeri. It wasn’t a complicated job—I filled rolls, made salads, baked muffins, kneaded dough. But I was happy there. The owner sent me on a barista course and I learned how to make proper coffees. I could do that all day every day—make lattes and cappuccinos and mochas. Brew the espresso, steam the milk. It was a good job.”
My New Year Fling: A Sexy Christmas Billionaire Romance (Love Comes Later Book 2) Page 4