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

by Belinda Jones

  The aircon has made the hotel room too cold. They always try to protect foreigners from Hong Kong’s humidity at this time of year. As if they can chill visitors like cheesecakes until they set, so they don’t melt too quickly when served up on Hong Kong’s streets.

  As I quickly shower, my mind follows the water swirling in the drain. What am I doing? I want to call my husband. I want to hear his voice. It’s irrational. Of course I can’t do that.

  Two hours until he arrives in the lobby, this man who makes my heart skip. I trade London’s armour for the gossamer cottons and silks I save now for tropical climes. They are the clothes I wear on annual holidays. We always went somewhere warm, and five star. I miss those holidays.

  Hong Kong’s dusky evening closes in around me as I make for Sheung Wan. I want to lose myself in the markets and let the city carry me for a little while. But it isn’t strong enough to pry me from my thoughts. As I wander down the narrow stretches of pavement, sidestepping the drying seafood in their shallow woven baskets, I allow myself the happy memories of after we were married, when our lives stretched ahead of us. It’s important to make myself remember these. It would be too easy only remembering the past few years. I owe my husband more than that.

  He’s waiting in the lobby as the lift doors open. I am early. He is earlier. He kisses me on both cheeks when I approach. ‘You look beautiful.’

  I feel guilty that I spent the time and effort to make sure I did. I thank him.

  Still we don’t touch, yet the connection is there as surely as if we were wrapped in each other’s arms. Again I marvel at this. Twelve hours of conversation, side by side in economy class, brought us to this place. By the time the flight attendants had served dinner, we were entangled in the threads of each other’s history. As reading lights popped off and the near-silence of fitful sleep descended around us, still we talked.

  We are quiet at dinner. I want to fill the void; only so many words will fit into the time we’ve got left. But whatever is building between us demands respectful silence.

  ‘This is a romantic city,’ he says, watching the lights in Kowloon twinkle, flare, die and reignite as the first sheets of rain are dragged across our panorama.

  I nod. ‘My parents fell in love and married here. It’s changed so much since I was a child, but I still love it.’ Again I feel the pull of the city.

  ‘Why didn’t you stay?’

  ‘Peter got a job in the UK not long after we married.’ I don’t like raising the spectre of my husband. Naming him gives him a presence at our table, but I have to do it. ‘My work can be done anywhere, so I was happy to move. Mum and Dad followed a few years later. They wanted to be near us for when we had children.’

  ‘But you didn’t have children,’ he says.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was that a conscious decision?’ he asks gently.

  ‘I have no womb,’ I blurt out. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I know that’s too much information. All I meant is that it seems important for you to know that.’ My face is burning.

  That’s why my boss makes me go on these trips. I am wombless against her excuse for staying close to home. After the miscarriage and subsequent ‘procedure’, my British Airways Gold Club membership was assured.

  Procedure, that’s what Peter and I called it. Never the ‘H’ word. When we talked about the baby-that-almost-was, we never mentioned that she took a bit of me with her when she died.

  He takes my hand and kisses my palm. ‘I’m not falling in love with your womb.’

  I smile. He feels this thing too.

  Later we walk, sometimes in the rain, sometimes not, sharing stories as we explore the small wonders we find. We laugh about our pasts, our families, our likes and dislikes. The internal exploration is at least as interesting as the external one.

  Hong Kong seems to warp time, like the casinos in Vegas. How has it only taken a few hours to be in so deep? As evening passes into night, and night into pre-dawn, we revel in each other, carrying on as we began, in this easy, natural progression of discovery. Still we are solidly within each other’s grasp.

  ‘Will you come up?’ he asks when we reach his hotel. ‘My flight isn’t until seven.’

  There are very few pivotal decisions in life, fewer than we think. And sometimes years go by before having to make one again. I find myself thinking: Am I going to step over this edge? I can’t go back from this.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t want to pressure you into anything you’re not ready for,’ he says as we stand together overlooking the harbour from his window. The sky is just beginning to blush; a freshly-washed face.

  ‘I am ready.’

  I kiss him. I kiss him and I feel such an overpowering passion for this man that I have not one moment of doubt. It’s instinctive, visceral, a need so strong that I don’t think I could stop it if I wanted to. I don’t want to. Minutes stretch into hours, and still we kiss, into the day. There is no awkwardness, no thoughts even, except ‘More’. I feel like I am more me than I’ve ever been, completely true to myself, and like nothing else in the world matters except this moment. It is a perfect release.

  Time progresses so naturally, sometimes soothing, sometimes intense. Always, there are only these moments, only us. Nothing intrudes on our world.

  ‘I feel like we’re in a bubble,’ he says as we lay tangled together, still in our clothes.

  ‘Me too. It’s an incredible feeling.’ Do I tell him what I’m thinking? Will it scare him? Will it scare me, to release such words into the world? ‘… I’m a little bit in love with you.’

  He smiles, and kisses me. ‘It’s been years,’ he murmurs, ‘since I’ve felt like this.’

  I’ve never felt like this. The thought makes me cry.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks, holding my face, kissing my tears.

  ‘I feel guilty.’

  He nods, knowing my story. ‘Don’t you think Peter would want you to be happy?’

  This time I nod. ‘I know he would. He said as much before he died.’

  Remembering that final conversation wrings more tears. It’s been nearly two years since his accident. The ‘experts’ say that’s long enough to mourn. I’ve been a widow for seven hundred and something days. I know I could calculate it quickly if I wanted to. Two years next month. It’s now part of who I am. I wear the label comfortably. I used to think it suited me.

  He holds me until I am calm.

  With him, it feels like I might finally be ready for a wardrobe change.

  Hong Kong releases her hold, letting time flow again. I want a few more minutes to climb back into our bubble and let that be our last memory, but practicalities intrude. His Sydney-bound flight drags us back to the real world and hunger lures us to the hotel restaurant. We sit closely beside each other in the booth, watching the nearly empty restaurant and talking quietly about ourselves. We talk about him. We talk about me. We don’t talk about us. Us is implied.

  Last night’s rain is far away. The sun does its best to beat down through China’s pollution. It’s going to be a muggy day, just like yesterday. Only it’s nothing like yesterday.

  Finally, his taxi arrives. We kiss, and hold each other as the driver patiently waits. There are just a few minutes left. We drag it out, neither wanting the absent feeling that comes after the last contact.

  I see him for the last time as the taxi pulls away. A smile. A wave. He recedes.

  As I walk back to my hotel to shower for the evening’s client dinner, already it starts to seem unreal. Nobody falls in love on a long-haul flight. It was just a change in cabin pressure, right?

  My phone rings minutes after we part. ‘I don’t want to say good-bye,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what this is, but I’ve never felt it before. I’m sorry, I should have said these things when we were together. Hannah? Say something, please.’

  Two pivotal decisions in one day. That’s as unlikely as falling in love on a long-haul flight. ‘I can be back in Hong Kong next w
eekend,’ I say.

  ‘Me too.’

  I feel like I’m coming home again.

  About the Author

  Michele Gorman is the bestselling author of SINGLE IN THE CITY, MISFORTUNE COOKIE (the book set in Hong Kong that inspired the short story, and is on sale for the month of August), THE TWELVE DAYS TO CHRISTMAS and BELLA SUMMER TAKES A CHANCE. She also writes upmarket commercial fiction under the pen name Jamie Scott. Born and raised in the US, Michele has lived in London for 16 years.

  If it weren't for Twitter and Facebook, Michele would be a much more prolific writer, but wouldn't have nearly as much fun, so do chat to her online.

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/michelegorman3

  Twitter: @expatdiaries

  Visit the Sunlounger website at www.va-va-vacation.com/michele-gorman

  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.

  COOL GINGER

  ***

  Kirsty Greenwood

  Destination: Alonissos, Greek Islands

  Someone recently said to me that turning thirty marked the slow and final descent into a life of ‘meh’. As if suddenly, on my thirtieth birthday, I would sprout hair on my chin and become magically interested in pension plans and the origin of my coffee beans.

  For me, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I turned thirty earlier this week and it’s made not a jot of difference. I feel exactly the same as I did at twenty-nine. And twenty-eight, come to think of it.

  Exactly the same.

  It is, sadly, my last year of eligibility on the 18–30s holidays I have loved all of my adult life and I plan to go out with a bang. Or two, depending on the talent levels this year. My best friend Jane, partner in crime for many years of sand, sea, sangria and sexy times, is now in a most serious relationship with Knobhead Pete but, as a birthday gift, she has agreed to play the part of wingwoman on a concluding clubber’s jaunt to Skiathos.

  I am prepared: newly single (Dan wanted to do the Inca Trail. I told him I’d rather squirt eyelash glue directly into my eyeball. He dumped me.) and ready to tingle. My body is toned, honed and perfectly fake baked, hair streaked just a little blonder, belly button freshly pierced with a stone the colour of the med, and I am flush with the most valuable 18–30s currency known to humankind: Berroca.

  Scoping out the departures board, I nudge Jane, who looks up from her copy of Grazia. ‘We’ve got at least another forty minutes until the gates open,’ I say. ‘Let’s get another drink.’

  ‘Ginger, I don’t know. I don’t want to get dehydrated. My skin will look like a flapjack!’

  ‘Ew. But it’s my birthday week. And I was just dumped! Come oooooooon.’

  ‘Hmmmm.’

  ‘Red aftershock or green, Jane? Make the call.’

  ‘Bluergh,’ she says, but her eyes are sparkling. ‘Go on then. One of each.’

  I heart her.

  I spend the first hour of the flight heaving and spewing into a paper bag. I am possibly the most hated passenger on board. Maybe even more despised than the ten-year-old girl who is singing a Little Mix song on repeat and only pausing at ten-minute intervals to ask if we are in Greece yet.

  Jane is stroking my head and making soothing noises with one eye on the inflight TV.

  I don’t know why the shots have made me so ill. They’ve never given me a problem before. I am the shots queen. They call me Stomach of Steel back home. The incredible Ginger with her incredible Stomach of Steel!

  I heave into the bag again.

  Stomach of Sadness, more like.

  Shuffling to the plane loos, I squeeze myself inside and splash my face with cool water. Okay. Woman up, Ginger. Only two hours until we land. I’ll put on my sleep mask and rest for the remainder of the flight. By the time we arrive in Skiathos I’ll be replenished, re-vitalised and raring to go. I am on it. It will definitely be party time. Oh yes.

  Thirty can suck it.

  Two hours later

  Ugh. My head hurts and my eyes are all blurry.

  ‘It’s called a hangover,’ Jane says helpfully.

  We’ve stepped off the plane into the enveloping heat and squint-inducing sunshine and despite the pukey feeling I’m experiencing, all of the familiar excitement has come flooding back. Holidaaay! Celebraaaaate! Woop! Seven days of pure, unadulterated Living. It. Up.

  For the next week I am not Ginger, bored receptionist at the world’s least successful car tyre centre, I am Cool Ginger! Sexy, sparkly mastermind of fun and frolics. The girl everyone will remember fondly back in England. ‘Ah, remember Ginger,’ they will say, shivering in their coats and brimming with holiday nostalgia. ‘Ginger MADE that holiday. Ginger was… so cool!

  ‘This is going to be amazing,’ I sing to Jane.

  ‘AMAZING!’ she replies.

  I’m putting my hand luggage into the boot of the waiting taxi when I hear Jane, from inside the car, let out a blood-curdling scream.

  Shit!

  I dash around and poke my head inside the car door.

  ‘Jane! What on earth…?’

  I don’t get chance to finish my question because there, inside the car, is a massive knobhead holding a diamond ring.

  ‘Yes, Pete!’ Jane squeals. ‘Yes, I will marry you!’

  Bamfreakingboozled.

  ‘You swear you didn’t know?’ Pete says, cuddling Jane in the back of the cab as we make our way to the hotel.

  ‘I swear! I had no clue!’ she beams. ‘For all I knew you were at work in Manchester!’

  ‘Definitely no idea. At all,’ I pipe up from the front seat.

  I try to sound chirpy. Hurrah for Jane. Really. But did he have to propose now? On my birthday? On our holiday? I mean 18–30s is fabulous, obviously, but who proposes on one? It’s like trying to have a nice afternoon tea in a strip club. I want to say something to this effect but it’s a proposal. I can’t ruin a proposal.

  Think positive, Ginger. The dynamics have changed but the holiday isn’t necessarily ruined. Pete might be a knobhead, but there’s nothing to say that he can’t hang around the apartments while we go off to do our Living It Up.

  ‘There’s another little surprise,’ Knobhead Pete says as the taxi makes an unexpected stop outside a seaport.

  Dear Jesus. Please let the surprise be that Pete is going back to England now.

  ‘We’re not quite staying in Skiathos,’ he grins.

  Exsqueeze me?

  Jane is looking at him like he’s the most romantic fucker that ever existed. Buoyed by her adoration Pete gets down on one knee, and spreads out his arms.

  ‘Jane. We’re going to the magical island of Alonissos, where our families are waiting, where we’ll get married.’

  Jane bursts into tears of joy. Pete grins at me like I’m in on the plan.

  ‘Hurrah!’ I give a feeble thumbs-up in return.

  What a massive holiday thwarting knobhead.

  We’re aboard a gigantic ferry on the way to Alonissos and we’ve just passed an island called Skopelos which is where the Mamma Mia movie was made. If my holiday had to be ruined by any tiny island, I’d much rather it have been one that Pierce Brosnan had visited. I ask Pete, and he tells me that exactly zero movies have been made on Alonissos.

  ‘Penny and Andrew are waiting for us too!’ Pete says.

  Ugh. Penny and Andrew. Jane and Pete’s sad-act couply friends. Great.

  ‘Is Katy there?’ I ask. Katy is Jane’s eighteen-year-old sister. She might be good for a laugh now that Jane is otherwise engaged.

  ‘Of course she is!’

  Yay! Katy will definitely come clubbing with me. I’ll be the cool older mate. I will introduce her to the 18–30s lifestyle, teach her how to say ‘my place or yours?’ in Greek, show her how to make her boobs look twice the size with only the use of bronzing powder and four safety pins. Cool Ginger still has a chance!


  ‘You should have told me!’ I nudge Pete, when Jane nips to the loo. ‘I could have helped, at least.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ginge. The surprise was so much better because you had no clue either! Did you see her face? I’ve rescued her from the tacky 18–30s holiday she was dreading and I’m going to give her the wedding of her dreams. Definitely one to tell the grandkids!’

  ‘Dreading?’

  Pete has the good grace to turn a bit red.

  ‘Er… You know, not dreading, per se. She loves coming away with you. Just… pair of you are a little bit old for all that hijinks now, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m twenty-nine!

  ‘Didn’t you just turn thirty, like, three days ago?’

  ‘Oh yeah… Well, same difference,’ I protest.