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

by Belinda Jones

  She drives like a maniac, windows down, hip-hop blasting. My maxi dress with the black-and-green tropical pattern is beginning to stick to my back. In the wing mirror I watch the handles of the red holdall blowing in the intense dry heat like a happy flag.

  We head out of Palma with its cool architecture, shiny shop fronts, palm trees and sleek marina, through a tangle of traffic and we’re flying along a coast road. I catch glimpses of the sea: turquoise against white sand, sparkling navy breaking white and lacy against the rocks. I feel myself smiling. I look at my sister in her massive shades. Everything here is brighter and better and more exciting; the plants by the roadside, the people selling fruit, the kebab joints, even the dogs are happier than any dog I’ve seen at home.

  Her apartment is shuttered and cool; she opens the door onto a square room, with a tiled floor. It’s mostly bare apart from a white sofa. She slips out of her leather-thronged sandals and pads inside. I follow, leaving sweaty footprints.

  She throws open the shutters and a door that leads to a little balcony with a low table and two wicker chairs. Over the rustic stone wall are shrubs and a sea view if you stand on tip toes. The heat glazes us. ‘This is you,’ she says, ducking back inside and opening the door of a dark box room. ‘Don’t worry though, you won’t be sleeping much,’ she laughs. ‘So dump your stuff and we’ll go, I want to introduce you to everyone!’

  This is the kind of thing she casually says that strikes horror in my heart. I imagine beautiful, bored people questioning me. I imagine having to explain about Kitchen Warehouse, about Richard and Martin and assertiveness training and all the while bobbing to euro pop and holding a cocktail with fruit sticking out. Why did I come?

  I sit on the little truckle bed and stare at the red holdall. Eloise puts her head in.

  ‘Alright?’

  ‘Unpacking.’

  ‘Later! Just grab your bikini – we might swim out from the cove,’ she says, unleashing more terror.

  So what if I stand out like Snow White at a tanning parlour? I am wearing a bikini and as long as I can keep the sarong in place, everything is hunky dory; I’m on my second large Bacardi cola, and my beautiful sister manages ‘Sandias’, the best damned sun-soaked beach bar in town. I wander down to the beach, and take a walk on the wet sand. The lazy Mediterranean rolls up and away, with the sunset trembling on its back. I look around at the lights beginning to twinkle in the hills around the cove. The breeze drifts with the fragrance of rosemary and jasmine down from the rocky ledges. I walk until the music from the bar fades, concentrating on the rush and suck of the warm sea around my toes. No wonder people stay forever. After a while I feel someone close by. Someone begins to walk in step with me. Tanned feet, rolled up trousers. I glance up. He’s Spanish looking, handsome, smiling, perhaps thirty-five. Oh here we go.

  ‘Enjoying your paddle?’ he asks and I shake my head. He laughs. ‘Are you on holiday?’

  ‘No, I live here,’ I say and we walk along together back towards the bar.

  ‘But I live here, this place is very small. I would have noticed you straight away,’ he says.

  ‘You saying I’m weird?’

  ‘Like a sore finger,’ he says and I smile. ‘Paco,’ he offers his hand, our fingers brush.

  ‘What do you do here in Cala Valyes then, Paco?’ I ask awkwardly.

  ‘This and that,’ he smiles and nods towards the bar. ‘Care for a drink?’

  ‘Actually, my sister runs that very bar.’

  ‘Actually, I’m her boss.’

  It’s clear that Eloise is in love with Paco. Her eyes follow him everywhere and when he speaks to her she pouts like she does when she looks in the mirror. She plays with her hair. I watch her; it’s the first time I’ve seen her unnerved. Paco talks with everyone. He slaps people on the back and laughs. He tells stories involving a lot of hand movements and the occasional dance. I struggle to ignore the casual way he walks, or how his shirt pulls across the muscles of his back when he leans over tables. He concentrates fully on everyone he speaks to and yet I feel him looking at me, he keeps catching my eye. He stays for about an hour then drains his beer.

  ‘Eloise, I’m going,’ he calls, raising his chin.

  ‘See you,’ she says over casually. He turns to me and makes a small bow.

  ‘Encandado,’ he smiles. I watch him go. As he reaches the door he turns, grinning; he wags his finger and shakes his head as if he knows what I was thinking. I turn away and gulp Bacardi cola.

  Later after the bar has emptied, we drink on with some of Eloise’s friends and co- workers. We’re finishing a tray of shots with Estella, Raymond, Ben and someone who’s name I didn’t catch – good-looking man though. Think he might fancy Eloise. Oh, hello! He’s kissing Ben… Now you would never have guessed that.

  Estella slams down her glass. ‘Skinny dip!’ she declares, raising one finger into our faces. She throws back her black hair, takes off her bra top and legs it down the steps into the darkness of the beach, hopping out of her pants on the way. Raymond follows, a flash of white buttocks. A splash and a scream and Ben and what’s-his-name and Eloise are stripping.

  I hear a sobbing noise and recognise it as my own nervous laughter. I’ll just finish up my drink while they…

  ‘Sharona!’ Eloise teases from the sand. She performs a naked cartwheel.

  I watch, shaking my head. ‘I’m keeping my clothes on!’ I call out and my voice wobbles. This is my worst nightmare. She’s dancing now, belly dancing, her piercing glinting.

  ‘Strip now big sister, whoo hoo!’ she sings and sashays down the beach with one beckoning hand raised. I swallow and close my eyes, listening to The Black Eyed Peas blast from the speakers. If this song ends before she hits the water I will. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.

  Eloise surfaces, shaking her hair back; it snakes beige and heavy over her shining shoulders. I tread water, grinning at her and she grins back.

  ‘Welcome to Mallorca!’ she screams and dunks me under the waves. I swallow a lot of salt water and for a split second suddenly long for Martin and a night in front of the telly, but I compose myself and come up smiling. ‘So what did you think of my boss Paco?’ she laughs as we swim a few strokes.

  ‘He’s alright,’ I say and I float on my back. The stars are impossibly bright. I feel I could reach out and take one; they’re just diamonds scattered on a dark mirror.

  We’ve only slept for three hours but Eloise has to check one of Paco’s villa rentals up on the north coast near Pollenca.

  ‘Don’t come, sleep,’ she frowns, stubbing out a cigarette then downing an espresso.

  ‘Hey, I’ll sleep when I’m dead,’ I say, pointing to myself with a thumb and feeling close to death-by-Bacardi.

  She snorts, ‘Come on then Goth girl, you’ll get to see the north, it’s beautiful.’

  We drive in silence. I look out at the dry fields from behind my sunglasses; the light scorches my eyes. Occasionally a huge white water park looms or a night club palace, from nowhere, like a ghost ship riding on the heat haze. I think about Paco.

  I also think about that red holdall. Inside is a roll of cash, about two hundred euros. A man’s cashmere sweater, plain white tee shirt, a pair of chinos, socks, boxer shorts, loafers, Acqua Di Parma, a knackered tooth brush, two sets of keys, a bottle of scotch, a copy of Catch 22 by Joseph Heller; a disappointment, nothing mysterious, no clues as to why I was meant to take it.

  Eloise shouts above the engine, ‘So we’ll check this villa and give the keys to the new tenants. It won’t take long. We can eat lunch in Deia if you like, its pretty there with the orange groves. Paco owns six villa rentals, the bar and two nightclubs in Magaluf. When I got here, he gave me work touting the clubs and now I pretty much run Sandias myself.’ I look across at her; she’s smiling, resting her head in her right hand, steering with her left. ‘He lets me keep all the tips. I run the kitchen too – well, with Estella. I came up with the Asian tapas idea and Paco loved that. He helped me get a low re
nt on the flat and he just gave me this jeep.’ She pats the steering wheel.

  ‘And so you slept with him?’

  ‘No!’ she glances at me, laughs.

  ‘Blow job?’

  ‘No! He was helping me out. I’m a good worker.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  Eloise fiddles with the air conditioning, gives up and opens the windows.

  I think she says something like, ‘I wish,’ into the hot wind.

  We drive to Palma a few days and nights and parties later. Eloise has some menus to collect. I like to go with her on these errands. I like to feel what her life is like. Today I’m sneaking to the airport while she’s busy, to return the bag. It’s become this huge deal. I can’t stop thinking that the owner is cosmically linked to me. I’ve fantasised about him. I sprayed the aftershave on the cashmere and held it, packed it again. But there are no contact details in the bag and so all I can do is return it to the airport, say I was confused, but leave my number and hope the owner calls. When he calls to thank me, we’ll arrange to meet, fall in love and I’ll have to live here with Eloise and she’ll help me plan my beach wedding or church wedding; the details are hazy.

  Yesterday Eloise asked me to stay in Mallorca for a while and maybe work at the bar. I felt the old anxiety but then I used a sailboat I’d been watching in the bay to make the decision. It turned just in time so we’re meeting with Paco later to ask him for work.

  ‘You know you’re starting to change colour,’ Eloise says, looking at my arms. ‘Are the un-dead allowed to get a sun tan?’

  ‘On special occasions,’ I nod.

  ‘And your hair’s going lighter. Careful or everyone will discover you are… gorgeous!’ she laughs at her own joke. I pull a face.

  ‘I’ll drop you here,’ she says, swerving to the shaded kerbside, ‘so you can explore. That street is The Born, with loads of bars and shops. I’ll call you when I’m done. Keep your phone on.’ She raises her glasses so I can see her meaningful stare. I blow her a kiss and she honks and waves as she makes an illegal U turn.

  I head into the dappled shade of a wide tree-lined pavement and sit on a stone bench. Somehow I need to find a bus to the airport. I unzip the holdall just to check again that everything is inside. I take out the jumper, stroke it and replace it. I hold the book, flick through the pages. I’ve done this before, but this time a small business card slides to the paving stones.

  Francisco Carlos Torres

  Placa de Joan Carles 1

  Palma

  981 276738

  At a table outside a bustling café on the edge of Placa Major, I wait for Francisco Carlos. I place the bag on the table top so he will recognise me instantly. He sounded surprised and then suspicious on the telephone as I explained how his bag looked almost exactly like mine. A simple mistake. He barked orders about where to meet him. I look across the paved square with its arches and shops and study each person I see heading this way. I track back from this sunny table through each and every choice I made to get here. I might get murdered or kidnapped but this is how adventure begins; you make choices, make decisions and act. So here I am. After about five minutes I focus on a man crossing the square, outlined by the dazzling light. He walks casually. He wears a black polo shirt and sunglasses. He approaches and removes the glasses.

  ‘Paco,’ I say. He shrugs his shoulders in a kind of resignation and pulls up a chair.

  ‘You again,’ he smiles. He places the holdall on the floor.

  ‘That’s, er… I’m meeting someone,’ I say.

  ‘You are meeting me.’ He signals to the waiter and orders a lemonade, turns back to me. ‘Francisco Carlos, at your service.’ He looks across the square and then right into my eyes. ‘Paco is my nickname. Thank you for returning my bag.’

  ‘You… were you on my flight?’

  ‘No, I flew from Madrid. A mix up at the airport,’ he shrugs. I feel myself blush. He leans forward and searches through the holdall. I admire his back and his shoulders. ‘If you’re looking for the money, I spent it,’ I tell him just as he finds it and checks the roll of notes. He leans back in the chair. ‘You don’t have a bag like this, do you?’ I think about insisting on the prepared mistaken identity story, but I don’t say anything, just shake my head. ‘So why did you take my property?’ he asks and we smile at each other as if we recognise the other from centuries ago. ‘Are you a thief?’

  ‘No,’ I say but he waits for a better answer, jerking up his chin. ‘It was there, so I took it,’ I tell him and without thinking I reach out to touch his forearm. He turns his hand and I run a finger down to his wrist and onto his palm. He closes his fingers around my hand and squeezes hard.

  ‘Do you want to go to bed with me?’ he asks. I look at him and he watches my reaction. I notice him swallow. ‘I have a flat a few streets away.’

  His words explode in my brain; I feel them spreading through my body. I look away from his eyes to the back of the café where a TV screen flickers. A newsreader, a shot of a sports ground, a newsreader. A waiter snakes his way between tables towards the bar. I’m considering it. I start to make a decision bargain. If the television picture changes before the waiter makes it to the bar... But then I look away. I don’t watch anymore. I turn back to Paco and I take his hand.

  About the Author

  Emma Garcia attended Liverpool University and Roehampton University but didn’t understand much of what was happening there. She worked as a teacher before writing and illustrating three children’s books. She lives in York with her husband, three children and dog. She likes playing the ukulele and going to Filey. She is the non-prize-winning author of NEVER GOOGLE HEARTBREAK.

  Twitter: @emzagarcia

  Visit the Sunlounger website at www.va-va-vacation.com/emma-garcia

  We have everything you need to make this your Best Summer Ever!

  You can also chat with the authors on the Belinda Jones Travel Club Facebook page.

  Return to the contents list.

  CABIN PRESSURE

  ***

  Michele Gorman

  Destination: Hong Kong

  Nobody falls in love with a stranger on a long-haul flight, right? Certainly not someone like me. Logic is my middle name. I eat common sense for breakfast with a side of practicality. So this cannot be happening.

  I do wonder, though, if it isn’t happening, why I feel light-headed. Why, whenever I steal a glance at him and his green eyes meet mine, my breathing hitches in my oesophagus.

  And if it is happening… Then I may be about to close the door on my eight-year marriage.

  ‘Will you have dinner with me?’ he asks as we wait together in the bustling immigration hall.

  I feel dishevelled, still on London time, and aware that I need to brush my teeth. I want to say yes. I want to say no. ‘I…er...’ I study my battered Hong Kong passport cover, smiling as we shuffle forward.

  Since moving away nine years ago, I’ve stood in this queue a lot. Facing the uniformed official always gives me the buzz of homecoming. Quickies, my boss calls the forty-eight hour trips necessary to mollify head office every few months. That’s easy for her to say. She never makes the journey. She has a family. My lack of offspring qualifies me for the jetlag every time.

  ‘So,’ he says as we walk together to the taxi rank, not quite touching. ‘About that dinner?’ His Australian accent makes the proposition bouncy, full of fun.

  I have to answer or he’ll think I’m a dimwit. My future hangs on my words. ‘I need to shower.’ Stalling.

  ‘That won’t take all night.’ When he laughs, the right side of his upper lip rises more than the left. Not like he’s had a stroke. Like he’s got a dirty secret. I can’t stop staring at his lips.

  With a shaking hand I write down my hotel in Central.

  ‘I’ll meet you in the lobby at eight, okay?’ he says as he opens the little red taxi’s door for me. ‘Shall we share a taxi to Central? I’m not far from you.’

  ‘No, thank yo
u,’ I answer with all the restraint I can muster. I will keep up this façade as long as I can. ‘Eight o’clock. See you then.’

  The excitement I usually feel when barrelling through Hong Kong’s crowded streets is amplified. Tangles of Chinese writing beam from neon signs overhead as we squeeze down the narrow roads, nestled between high pavements that keep the typhoon rains from washing into the shops. Despite the heat I open the windows, buffeted by the sounds and smells carried on the wind whipping through the little car. ‘Aircon?’ shouts the driver over the wind. He gives me a dirty look through his rear-view mirror. I feel a stab of guilt at making his drive unpleasant.

  ‘No, thanks, no aircon.’ I enjoy the cloying air, pregnant with the promise of rain.

  It had rained on my wedding day. A good omen, everyone insisted, in case I needed cheering up about the rivulets running between my satin shoes. Oh really? I thought. A good omen like being shat upon by a passing pigeon? I didn’t buy it, but there was no need for any cheering. I’d cried with happiness then. Now I cry for different reasons when I remember the day.

  The hotel is slick, my room silent, lit to be trendy. It’s the kind of room where they hide the loo door behind the mirror and have hangers that won’t hang outside the closet. So much of Hong Kong is sanitised like this, identikit efficiency that could be any major financial centre. But I know better. I grew up beneath the veneer, where the city is chipped and worn and wonderful. When my Dad first arrived from London, he lived in Wan Chai, next door to a brothel. After he and Mum married, that’s where I was born (though, a bit disappointingly for storytelling purposes, not in the brothel). Dad’s job sometimes took him away from Hong Kong, and when it did, Mum and I had adventures in the narrow back streets of the city. They were full of small wonders – the tiny red and golden shrines wafting pungent incense outside most of the shops, their owners bowing in prayer to say good morning to their deity. We’d wander through Sheung Wan, wondering at the unguents, powders and potions captured in the clear glass jars that lined the shelves of the medicine shops. We bought our weekly groceries at outdoor markets, which were crammed with more colours than existed in my Crayola box. It was exotic, but simply felt like home to me. Then, when Mum took over Uncle Josh’s export business, the family moved to Aberdeen, just a few miles away by car, but a different world. There, with the country park behind us, we saw more hill walkers than street walkers, and soon the vibrancy of Wan Chai withered to just a few treasured memories. Aberdeen became my norm. I rarely go there now to see the old house. My hold on my life in London is sometimes slippery. How easy it would be to come back here, to start fresh again. Sometimes I like to take that thought from its hiding place just to feel its possibility.