Sunlounger - the Ultimate Beach Read (Sunlounger Stories Book 1)

by Belinda Jones

  Belinda Jones Travel Club

  Presents

  SUNLOUNGER

  COPYRIGHT

  Sunlounger © Belinda Jones 2013

  Cover design © Samantha Pengelly

  Formatted by Jo Harrison

  All characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior permission of the publisher.

  INTRODUCTION

  Imagine having a private jet ready to whisk you away to Paris or Vegas or your choice of Caribbean island at a moment’s notice – wouldn’t that be sublime?

  Sunlounger is that jet in book form. With one swipe of the page your crowded commute becomes a bustling souk in Marrakech, your local Starbucks is suddenly a dreamy piazza café in Sorrento, your tiny office cubicle expands and glitzifies into a sheik’s palace in Dubai. One minute you’re in the bath, the next St Barts!

  As well as jaunting around the world in 44 stories, you also get to take an emotional journey: ‘What is so completely brilliant about this collection is the variety the reader gets to experience: heartbreak and heartache, laughter and a feelgood buzz, sweet romance and blossoming friendships, mystery and intrigue. There truly is something for everyone, crafted with love and care from an extremely talented group of women.’ So says Sunlounger’s Editor Harriet Bourton. I agree! More than once I had tears streaming down my face as I read. I also had a good chuckle and multiple heart plumpings. I love that my mind is now filled with ancient Cambodian temples, Egyptian pyramids and a never-ending flow of chilled rosé in the South of France…

  If you’d like to find out more about the Sunlounger authors, stories and destinations we invite you to visit www.va-va-vacation.com. With bonus fashion and beauty tips, a Travel Boutique and VIP Lounge, we have everything you need to make this your Best Summer Ever!

  Belinda xx

  Facebook: Belinda Jones Travel Club

  Twitter: @belindatravels

  Email: Sunloungerstories@gmail.com

  Dedication

  For Uncle Derek with Love and a Salcombe Sea Breeze

  Contents

  KATIE AGNEW - THE HONEYMOON CRASHERS

  VALERIE-ANNE BAGLIETTO - GENIE OF THE ROCK

  ROSIE BLAKE - ICE, ICE BABY

  ALEXANDRA BROWN - THE KEY

  LAUREY BUCKLAND - DIVINE INTERVENTION

  ABBY CLEMENTS - ROSIE’S ITALIAN LOVE LETTER

  MIRANDA DICKINSON - MIDNIGHT IN ST PETERSBURG

  CARRIE DUFFY - AT FIRST SIGHT

  ILANA FOX - A ROAD TRIP TO REMEMBER

  VICTORIA FOX - THE VENICE TRAP

  EMMA GARCIA - ASSERTIVENESS TRAINING

  MICHELE GORMAN - CABIN PRESSURE

  KIRSTY GREENWOOD - COOL GINGER

  KATE GUEST - HANOI JANE

  KATE HARRISON - HOLIDAY READING

  LISA HEIDKE - LOVE AT FIRST KISS

  MOLLY HOPKINS - SANTORINI… OR NOT!

  PERNILLE HUGHES - FIA MCQUEEN’S GREAT ESCAPE

  MARGARET JAMES - THE ANNIVERSARY

  BELINDA JONES - THE RUM DEAL

  LUCY LORD - FRENCH FOLLIES

  CHRISSIE MANBY - PACK UP YOUR TROUBLES

  LOUISE MARLEY - AN INDECENT PROPOSAL

  HOLLY MARTIN - ONE HUNDRED PROPOSALS

  MARTEL MAXWELL - SIDEBAR OF SHAME

  NIGEL MAY - WATERFALLING IN LOVE

  ROISIN MEANEY - BUON VIAGGIO

  KIRI MILLS - ESCAPE TO RUNAWAY BAY

  NICOLA MORIARTY - THE RED GLOVE

  TAMSYN MURRAY - MIDNIGHT AT THE OASIS

  EMILY O’NEILL - LA POSADA AMOR

  LYNDA PAGE - TRUE LOVE NEVER DIES

  CARMEN REID - HOW TO TIE A FRENCH SCARF

  WENDY RIGG - FROM EIVISSA WITH LOVE

  LUCY ROBINSON - JUST ONE DAY

  TALLI ROLAND - OVER THE HUMP

  RUTH SABERTON - PABLO

  NANCY SCROFANO - HAPPENSTANCE

  CALLY TAYLOR - MR LOVER LOVER

  SASHA WAGSTAFF - HAWAII 5-0

  ANNA-LOU WEATHERLEY - A FOOL’S PARADISE

  JULIA WILLIAMS - MEET YOU AT EPHESUS

  LARA WILLIAMSON - THE SECRET CINDERELLA LIST

  TIFFANY WRIGHT - SIGNS FROM SYDNEY

  THE HONEYMOON CRASHERS

  ***

  Katie Agnew

  Destination: St Barts

  I really don’t know where to start, where it started, my story. But I know where it ended. It ended on a breathtakingly beautiful beach, on an island so tiny, exotic and perfect that it feels like a dream now, with chalk-fine sand between my tanned toes, a delicious pina colada in my hand, a smile on my face so wide that it made my cheeks ache and my best friend in the whole world by my side. It’s not a fairy tale though. No Prince Charming came charging down the beach on his white charger and whisked me off into the sunset that day. In fact, as far as I can remember, by sunset I was on my fifth cocktail and in serious danger, not only of falling off my sunlounger, but of missing my ten p.m. flight home. But it was a happy ending. Which is a miracle really, because it started very badly indeed.

  Did it start on the day I met him? By him I mean Max. There, I said his name, which just shows how far I’ve come, because for a long time that word would stick in my throat like a lodged grape and make it almost impossible for me to breathe. I used to choke on the word Max. I thought the pain he inflicted on me would kill me. Thankfully I was wrong. Now his name just makes me want to gag. Yup, remembering Max now is no worse than remembering last night’s Jagerbomb after waking up with a killer hangover.

  It started well. But I guess everything starts well or it wouldn’t start at all, would it? He followed me round the sandwich section of Marks and Spencer’s in Covent Garden for ages, glancing at me shyly from beneath his ridiculously long, dark eyelashes, before he finally summoned up the courage to ask my opinion on the rare roast beef and horseradish. He explained, bashfully, that his PA usually sorted out his lunch, unless of course he had a business meeting at Nobu or The Ivy, but he’d sent dear, indispensible Melanie home that morning with a dreadful migraine so he was having to fend for himself. Bless. I melted and immediately pointed him in the direction of the freshly baked baguettes. I think I recommended the prosciutto. He had that posh, foppish, charming, public schoolboy thing going on that northern comprehensive girls like me find impossible to resist. Who? Me? You’re talking to me? When I have a Geordie accent and a degree from a university so far north of Watford that you’ve probably never heard of it? He was clean-shaven, sharply dressed and far too good-looking to let slip through my fingers and disappear forever back into the throngs of tourists on Long Acre. He took so long stuttering and blushing like Hugh Grant in his prime, as he tried to ask for my number, that I handed him my business card before he’d actually got the question out.

  ‘Kirsten Holmes,’ he read with a smile playing on his lips. ‘Architect.’

  He stopped then and eyed me carefully up and down, his neat eyebrows arched in surprise.

  ‘You don’t look like an architect,’ he told me, almost warily.

  ‘Why? What does an architect look like?’ I asked him cheekily, head cocked, enjoying the reaction I’d had a
hundred times before from guys just like him (just not as good-looking).

  ‘Well, um, erm, I guess an architect normally looks like a middle-aged man in a suit with wire-rimmed glasses,’ he explained, blushing. ‘Not a, erm, rather attractive blonde in a flowery dress and battered converse. You look more like an actress, or a dancer, or a model. Besides, you don’t look old enough to have qualified. Are you still a student?’

  I snorted at his cheesy line. ‘Thanks,’ I laughed. ‘But I’m twenty-eight and I’m barely five-foot-four so I’m far too short to be a model and far too old to be a student.’

  ‘Well, Kirsten Holmes. Holmes? Ha ha. An architect called Holmes. That’s good! I like that! So, Miss Holmes…’

  I would normally have groaned at such a lame gag but put a bad joke in the mouth of a handsome man and it suddenly seems hilarious. I laughed.

  ‘…would you like to go for dinner with me some time?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied with certainty. ‘I’d like that very much indeed.’

  He handed me his card.

  ‘Max Walker, Advertising Executive,’ I read. ‘So you’re one of the twenty-first century Mad Men, are you?’

  Max drew his fingers through his dark hair and looked down at me almost shyly.

  ‘I’m far too safe to be mad, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘But if you like your men dependable, trust-worthy and straight-down-the-line then I’d very much like to take you to dinner. Tonight!’

  And Max, being Max, was as good as his word. He picked me up in a cab at 8pm on the dot and was the perfect gentleman all evening. He was charming, well educated, well travelled, sophisticated and wise. A little less rock’n’roll than certain men I’d dated before, granted, but toe-curlingly sexy nonetheless! And no matter how many times I tried to pay my half of the bill, he insisted on picking up the tab. Over the next few weeks he showered me with compliments and gifts but he wouldn’t sleep with me – even on the night I wore my sauciest Agent Provocateur undies. He wanted to be sure we were right for each other. He insisted it was important I didn’t feel pushed or, worse, used. I melted at his old-fashioned morals.

  He introduced me to his friends and family almost immediately after we’d finally done the deed and I did likewise. Our lives slotted together as seamlessly as two pieces of an Ikea flatpack. It felt easy, comfortable, safe and, well, right. I’d dated mad, bad and dangerous-to-know men for years, so dependable, charming, kind Max was like a breath of fresh air. I fell for him hard and fast. Within a year we were slotting Ikea flatpack together for real. Max was the one who first suggested it was ridiculous to pay two lots of extortionate London rent when there was so much room in his Battersea bachelor pad. And so I waved goodbye to my beloved Shoreditch loft space and moved in. I’d spent some of the happiest days of my life in that apartment but I didn’t once look back as I slammed the door and handed back the keys. I had my future now. I had Max. I was only looking forward.

  The only little cloud raining on our love parade was my best friend, Savannah. She hated Max with the kind of passion she normally reserved for loving Louboutin stilettos and Audrey Hepburn movies. Every time I talked about him (which was all the time!) she would curl up her full top lip in disgust and wrinkle her retrouse nose distastefully.

  ‘He gives me the creeps,’ she would say.

  ‘Why?’ I would ask, desperate for my boyfriend and best friend to bond.

  ‘He just seems too good to be true,’ she’d reply.

  ‘And your problem with that is what exactly?’ I would demand.

  Savannah would shrug nonchalantly and explain, ‘If something seems too good to be true, it usually is.’

  I thought she was talking nonsense and that her real problem with Max was that he kept me in on Friday nights, drinking Chablis on the sofa, rather than out dancing with her. Savannah is the sort of friend your mum and your boyfriend disapprove of but your dad and your brother adore. She’s obscenely sexy, supremely confident, ear-splittingly loud, outrageously camp and utterly shameless. She is the undisputed Diva of Dulwich and I adore her. Naturally Max despised Savannah. He once described her as a ‘gay man trapped in a woman’s body’. He meant it as an insult but Savannah took it as a compliment and decided that she’d like to be Graham Norton trapped inside Cindy Crawford circa 1986. She’s almost six foot tall, half-Iranian, with legs up to her armpits and hair down to her tiny waist. When Savannah laughs, she throws her beautiful head back, opens her full mouth wide and lets out a roar as loud as a lioness. She doesn’t care who turns to look because she doesn’t feel embarrassment or shame. Why should she? When Savannah struts into a room, with her shiny mane of black hair tumbling over her bare shoulders, she makes the other women feel like a different species. And not in a good way. The first time I met her, I felt like a pit pony being introduced to a thoroughbred dressage horse. The Green Eyed Monster inside me wanted to hate her and yet, within five minutes, I was smitten. If you let Savannah in – if you put your envy to one side and give her a chance – she’ll give you her whole heart. And the amazing thing is that once Savannah’s on your side, her beauty and spirit will begin to rub off on you. Never do I feel as beautiful, as free and as alive, as I do when Savannah is by my side. Mind you, it wasn’t always like that…

  You see, Savannah is a force of nature. She’s a bit like a walking tornado. If you cross her path, she’ll lift you up in a whirlwind and you never know where you’ll end up, or what state you’ll be in afterwards! Which is perhaps why Max (or Boring Max as Savannah had started calling him) wasn’t a fan. While he preferred me to dress in dark, neat jeans and crisp, white shirts with a pair of ballet pumps on my feet, my hair pulled back and barely there make-up, Savannah was more likely to convince me to wear a fluorescent body-con micro dress, five-inch heels and bright red lipstick on a girl’s night out. By the time Max and I had been seeing each other for two years, he and Savannah were playing their very own game of tug-of-war – and I was the rope. The more Max tried to keep me safely in our flat, the more Savannah would invite me to private gigs, book launches and to the VIP areas of the hottest clubs and festivals. Sometimes I went with her but mostly I made my excuses. It wasn’t that Max got angry when I went out, it was more the look of disappointment he gave me when I did. He thought partying at our age was ridiculous, un-classy and ‘a bit pathetic really’. And I couldn’t bear for him to think that of me. So gradually I began to see less and less of my best friend.

  On Christmas Day, in front of both our families, Max proposed to me. Naturally he did it the proper old-fashioned way – he asked my dad’s permission first and then went down on one knee and presented me with his grandmother’s ruby engagement ring. I didn’t really like it. I had always thought I’d have something modern, clean-lined and structural in platinum with one simple diamond, but of course I pretended to love the ring. Because I loved Max and I adored the thought of being Mrs Walker. Nothing, not even the dubious engagement ring, could wipe the silly smile off my face. Within hours of the proposal I had been invaded by the spirit of Bridezilla and all I could think about were dresses, venues, cakes and seating plans. And bridesmaids. And boy was I going to have a good-looking chief bridesmaid!

  ‘You’re nuts,’ was all Savannah said flatly when I called her excitedly with the news. ‘He’ll suck the life out of you. You’re already half-dead and you’ve only been with him a couple of years. By the time you’re forty he’ll have you completely lobotomised. What will I talk to you about then? You mustn’t marry him. It’s suicide.’

  ‘Oh. My. God! I can’t believe you just said that. That’s so unfair,’ I shouted down the phone. ‘How can I ask you to be my bridesmaid when I know you don’t approve? You’re ruining everything! This is my wedding and I’m not going to let anyone spoil it. Not even you!’

  ‘Fine,’ she said curtly. ‘I’ll get out of your way then. But remember, Kirsten, a wedding is one day. A marriage to the wrong man is a life sentence. And Max is the wrong man for you. I can tell you that u
ntil I’m blue in the face but until you realise it for yourself I won’t be around to watch you screw up your entire life. I love you, and if you ever need me, I’ll be here. But not while you’re doing this. This is wrong. He keeps you in a little box when you should be out there exploring the world. That’s not love. Not by my definition anyway. Bye.’

  I missed Savannah like Ant would miss Dec if they ever fell out. Every time I watched an episode of Girls I wanted to call her and discuss whether we were more Marnie or Jessa. Every time I tried on a wedding dress, I wanted to text her a picture to see whether she approved. Weeks turned into months. Sometimes on a crowded tube I would hear a laugh that sounded like hers, or on Oxford Street I would catch a glimpse of a black mane of hair, but it was never her. On the day I bought my dream dress I cried, not out of happiness, but because my best friend wasn’t there to share the moment. But I never did pick up the phone. Max had convinced me that some women suffered from terrible jealousy when their best friend got married. And that Savannah was one of them. I reminded him that Savannah always insisted she would never get married and didn’t believe in being legally bound to another human being but Max sniffed and retorted, ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’ It was decided that Max’s sister Helen would make a more suitable chief bridesmaid anyway: one who wouldn’t upstage the bride, or upset the in-laws, or sleep with the wedding singer in the ladies toilets. Gradually, as our winter wedding approached (I had always fancied a summer wedding with Pimms and a marquee but Max’s family had a tradition of getting married on New Year’s day in the local village church), I managed to push Savannah to the back of my mind behind seating plans, chocolate profiterole cakes and winter sun honeymoon destinations.

  Until I became engaged to Max I had been pretty much married to my work, but the closer I got to the Big Day, the less I could concentrate on my job. I was much more likely to be Googling ‘funky wedding favours’ than planning how to turn a water tower into a four-bedroomed family home. Once upon a time I arrived at work at 8.30am and stayed put for at least twelve hours but in the weeks leading up to the wedding I could barely sit still for twelve minutes. There was just so much to do! On the Monday, two weeks before the wedding, I could bear it no longer. I needed to get my roots done, I needed a sneaky sunbed session, I needed to find just the right blue knickers to wear under my dress and I still hadn’t found the perfect earrings. How could I think about something as unimportant as work? So I faked a sudden stomach bug and rushed out of the office before lunch, like a naughty schoolgirl playing truant. I jumped in a cab home with lists of lists of things to do buzzing around my head and ran up the stairs two at a time. I’d have been much quicker heading to the shops straight from work but I needed my tiara – how else could I match the earrings properly? Thank God I did go home that day. Otherwise I would never have known the truth.