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

by Belinda Jones

  ‘Andy, I’m sorry. I can’t…’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  If only he’d arrived five minutes later, I’d be on that bus and gone already. But then when would I deal with us? Andy deserves better than a runaway girlfriend. He was hardly a bad boyfriend. We just got too comfortable, too quickly. That may be what he wants from a relationship, but it’s nowhere near the kind of love I’ve got in mind. I push back my shoulders, summon all my courage and look him in the eye.

  ‘Andy, you cancelling this trip on me was the best thing you could have done. I’m grateful to you for that. But I’m sorry, I’m not your bubba any more.’

  I notice Toby seems to have disappeared, but I carry on.

  ‘I feel restless. There’s so much I want to see, and do, and be. I need to be by myself for a while.’

  His face drops, but now that I’ve started there’s no stopping me.

  ‘We’ve grown in different directions. Admit it. If you had your way you’d have spent the entire three weeks hanging out with those hill tribes. And why shouldn’t you? Aren’t we too young to compromise? You should go do it!’

  He gives a wan smile, and shrugs, but I can’t bear to see any more of his reaction. I know it’s selfish, but I squeeze his hand one last time and pick up my rucksack. As I round the corner of the bus I find Toby standing by the door.

  ‘Good for you,’ he says, wrapping his arms around me. ‘Will you be okay?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I hear there are some tunnels down south I can hide out in if I have to. Right now I have a bus to catch.’ I pull back and kiss him goodbye.

  ‘Give me your arm.’

  With a puzzled smile, Toby straightens his arm. I pull a pen from my bag and scrawl my email address along it, then I jump on the bus. As I reach my seat, Toby bangs on the window.

  ‘Remember kid, walk your walk! Let them find a way around you.’

  This time lovely Toby’s American earnestness hits me right in the chest. I will, I promise. The driver puts his foot down and we skid onto the highway. This time I’m ready for it.

  About the Author

  Kate Guest is an Australian journalist, born in Yarrawonga, Victoria, and currently based in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Before moving to KL she spent seven years working in media in London, an experience that ranged from the sublime (sub-editing Jamie Oliver's magazine, where the regular consumption of amazing food was a job requirement) to the ridiculous (night-shift media monitoring, where she rote-learnt the GPS coordinates of every 6am-opening pub in the borough). She has worked for Harper's Bazaar (Australia and Malaysia), Australian Gourmet Traveller, Grazia and Food & Travel, among others. HANOI JANE is her first short story, but hopefully not her last. She is currently completing her first novel.

  Twitter: @KateEGuest

  Visit the Sunlounger website at www.va-va-vacation.com/kate-guest

  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.

  HOLIDAY READING

  ***

  Kate Harrison

  Destination: Barcelona, Spain

  ‘I’m going into reading rehab,’ Della said.

  Alice, Deputy Librarian and the kind of woman who cooked with a spatula in one hand and a novel in the over, went pale. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘On my holiday. I am doing a book detox. Am packing nothing but a bikini and a toothbrush.’

  Alice couldn’t have looked more shocked if Della had announced she was planning a live World Book Night re-enactment of the key scenes from Fifty Shades of Grey. ‘You’re not taking any books at all?’

  ‘Not so much as a novella,’ Della said. ‘I’ve fallen out of love with the lot of them…’ she waved at the library shelves towering behind her. ‘Maybe absence will make my heart grow fonder.’

  ‘There must be an alternative.’ Alice’s voice was panicky. ‘A different kind of book, maybe. A change of genre is as good as a rest.’

  The rest of the staff took that as a challenge. For two weeks before her trip, Della was bombarded by books: steampunk dystopia, misery lit, cosy crime. She turned them all down.

  Even as Della prepared to leave on the Wednesday night, Alice pressed a book called Hardware into her hands. ‘It’s a brand new genre. Eromscicom.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Erotic sci-fi romantic comedy. I know you’re off men, but there are some seriously hot robots in this one.’

  ‘Seriously, Alice. I don’t want to read a single word all weekend. Robot sex won’t change that. You understand.’

  But Alice couldn’t understand, Della knew that. Her colleagues lived for books: for brilliant stories, faraway places, larger-than-life villains, heroic heroes. She’d felt that way once – she’d been Young Librarian of the Year 2011 – but the fight to save the branch had left her exhausted. Especially as all they’d won was a stay of execution.

  As for heroes, they didn’t exist. End of story.

  Back home, as she packed her little case (brand new, to fit the exotic restrictions of Budge-it Air), the to-be-read pile on her bedside table toppled over, as though the untouched novels were trying to jump into her case.

  ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ she told the books.

  At Gatwick, she almost panic-bought a bagful of three-for-twos. But she’d managed to resist, and settled for the magazine with the fewest words and the highest number of celebrity cankle/bra malfunction/inappropriate hair photos, in honour of her new shallowness. No more Orange Fiction Prize for Women, hello orange fake tan disasters.

  Della abandoned the mag on the plane. The in-flight ‘mile-high menu’ was better written.

  And now she was lying on a lounger on Barcelona beach, her hands itching for a book to hold. But she was like any former addict: she had to keep on track, tell herself that the hit wouldn’t satisfy as much as it used to.

  Words were just lies. This beach, this sun, this was real.

  She trailed her hand along the sand, feeling the warmth spreading up from her fingers. It had been a long winter. Eleven months of grey skies, bitter winds. She needed the break. The sun, the sea, the…

  Definitely no sex.

  After the split from Antony, she’d been numb. Then raw. She’d allowed herself to believe he could be the one: she’d never have agreed to go to Paris with him otherwise. She had been before, on a school trip. A man had flashed her at the Gare du Nord, and then she’d thrown up after trying snails in garlic butter.

  Since then, she’d been saving the city for Mr Right. Of course, she’d soaked it all up in books. From The Hunchback of Notre Dame to The Dud Avocado, she’d dreamed of discovering the truth behind the pages with Mr Right, laying down literary memories that would last a lifetime together.

  Sacre bleu, how stupid could she have been? Antony was charming and even better read than she was, with the soul of a poet and the restless libido of Russell Brand. ‘I tried, Della. I really wanted to be faithful.’

  But Antony was the kind of man who saw taking a library book out for a whole three weeks as ‘a commitment. Oppressive. A denial of who I am.’

  Della was determined not to turn bitter, so Paris was definitely off le menu for now. The thought of all those other loved-up couples made her want to jump headfirst into the Seine.

  ‘If you cancel you lose the lot,’ the girl at the call centre told her. ‘But you could transfer for a fee. We do Florence, Athens, Barcelona…’

  Florence was a no-no, thanks to Shakespeare and A Room with a View and The Talented Mr Ripley. As for Greece? Homer, Captain Corelli and a mandolin put paid to that one.

  But Barcelona was tempting: bars, beaches, and a very famous football club. But no books she could think of.

  It was only after she’d confirmed her flight that Alice plonked a copy of The Shadow of the Wind on her desk. ‘Set in Barcelona. Features the best library in the whole of fiction,’ she’d
begun, before Della had thrust her fingers in her ears and started to hum Barcelona.

  And now she was here, going cold turkey in the warm Spanish sunshine. So far, so good. At the airport, the signs were in not just one but two languages she couldn’t understand.

  She focused on the beach. The sea was a crystalline turquoise, the sand a buttery yellow. Even the other bathers were holiday brochure material. To her right, she could see two honed specimens of six-packed Spanish manhood. Okay, she was off men, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate them aesthetically—

  Oh.

  She hadn’t realised she was on a nudist beach. That wasn’t at all aesthetically pleasing. So much for missing men.

  Della wasn’t daft. She hoped her mojo would make a return some day. She was twenty-eight and she certainly had no intention of ending up like a storybook librarian, dusty and permanently on the shelf…

  But a mini-break from books and men who loved them would do no harm at all.

  Della ate tapas in the hotel that night. Ernesto, the gnarled waiter, kept topping up her glass with complimentary cava, so she felt dizzy in the lift on the way to her room. Without a book on her bedside table, she was worried she might not sleep, but the cava did the trick.

  Sunshine and heat woke her, like a lover’s sweaty kiss. For a moment, she was confused, but when she remembered where she was, she felt a delicious freedom. She was planning a day of getting lost down cobbled backstreets, with no map to read.

  ‘Buenas dias, señorita!’ Ernesto smiled that crooked smile as he led her to her table, and returned with a flask of hot coffee, and a long-stemmed red rose.

  ‘Um…’ She didn’t want to take it but didn’t know how to refuse without offending him.

  He thrust it towards her again, with a sigh. ‘Is April 23. Is day of St George.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks. Though it’s not really a big deal in England.’

  ‘Here, yes! Big deal. You think he is English saint, but no, he is our saint. He killed the dragon right here, in Cataluña. And the dragon’s blood turned to roses!’

  She took the rose. ‘I don’t have a rose to give you.’

  ‘Ah, no. Is the rule: the ladies are given a rose, the men in return a book!’

  ‘Great. The women get a flower and the men get something that costs ten times as much,’ she mumbled. ‘Why does that not surprise me?’

  ‘Yes, a nice surprise. And so easy to buy one. Today in the city, books everywhere!’

  Della stared at him. ‘Books?’

  ‘Si. In every street, every square, will be people reading. Is fiesta time. But especially La Rambla, out the hotel, turn right. Everyone loves a book, is true, yes?’

  She considered staying in her room, but it wasn’t as though she had anything to read. A rose was bloody useless as a form of entertainment.

  She turned the TV on. A reporter was standing on top of a small hill made entirely of…

  No.

  The hill was made of books.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ She threw the remote across the room, then caught sight of her furious face in the mirror.

  Della began to laugh.

  Here she was, in one of the world’s trendiest cities, the sun was shining and no one knew her. There’d be no old ladies haranguing her for too much filth in the library books (or, more often these days, not nearly enough). There’d be no angsty discussions about redundancies. No broken-spines task force (she’d spent too many lunch breaks lately trying to mend her stock with sticky tape).

  She was going to enjoy herself, and no stupid book festival was going to stand in her way.

  Della turned left out of the hotel.

  The sun was shockingly bright, and she rummaged around in her bag for sunglasses. Without a map or guidebook, her handbag felt daringly empty. Just water, and enough money for a souvenir. She hadn’t treated herself to anything for ages. It seemed like the wrong thing to do with so many people being sacked.

  To her right, a Picasso-like sculpture of a head surveyed the marina beyond, the yacht masks like a parade of lollipops.

  Hot rays bounced down onto the bright paving slabs. She took off her cardigan and enjoyed the prickly feeling as the sun hit her skin. Yet everyone else was wrapped up in scarves and coats. Even the little pug trotting past wore a zebra-print fleecy jacket to match its owners.

  Della looked left, up a wide boulevard stretching as far as she could see, with black-and-yellow taxis buzzing up all four lanes. New York meets Paris.

  But she stopped comparing. Why not let Barcelona be itself?

  She headed down a shabby cobbled street. The buildings were so tall that they blocked out all but the thinnest slice of light. It hit the pavement like an arrow showing her the way.

  Just ahead, a street-cleaning buggy scrubbed away the previous day’s dirt, leaving the cobbles shiny, as though the street was paved, well, not with gold, but at least with silver.

  She liked this city. And she hadn’t seen a single book. So much for Ernesto’s stories of St George’s Day book mania.

  The buildings turned smarter again and at street level, glossy shop fronts replaced chipped security doors. A cake shop presented its jewel-coloured macaroons like gems under individual spotlights. Next door, in the window of a fashion store, headless mannequins stood in line like passengers in a train carriage, holding newspapers up to their non-existent faces.

  Weird, but it made her smile.

  Hot. Without noticing, Della had drunk all her water. Ahead, there was a busy square and a market, where she could buy another bottle. Maybe an ice cream too. Hell. She was on holiday, wasn’t she? She walked towards it—

  The sunshine was suddenly brighter.

  Then a flash of light, a moment of violent dizziness, a blow to the side of her head. Sharp, jolting.

  A thin face, big eyes, sharp teeth.

  A burning sensation all along her arm.

  She wasn’t standing up any more. She was on her side, on the pavement, lying on her arm and her handbag.

  She blinked. Something wasn’t right.

  No. She wasn’t lying on her handbag. There was no handbag, just her handbag strap.

  ‘No. NO!’

  Right at the end of the street she could see movement. A man in black jeans, running away. She tried to stagger to her feet, realising the runaway and the thin face and throbbing of her head were connected … but he was gone.

  People stood frozen in time like the shop dummies.

  How long had that taken? Twenty seconds. Less?

  ‘My bag,’ she said, knowing they probably didn’t understand her, but wanting to say it, anyway, to be heard. ‘He took my bag.’

  Her voice was a stranger’s, so high-pitched that she wondered if anyone but dogs would be able to hear her. But two older women scuttled towards her, arm in arm. Sisters? They began chattering at her and when she didn’t respond, they spoke louder, as though that would help her understand.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t speak Spanish. Or Catalan…’ Suddenly her decision to come here on her own without so much as a phrasebook seemed reckless, rather than cutely eccentric. She held up the denim strap of her bag. One end was perfectly sliced, and the other frayed.

  The thief must have cut one end with a knife, and then pulled her over as he went to wrench away her bag.

  A knife. She felt tears building up in her eyes. Her head hurt and her arm stung. She looked down to see a scarlet graze from above the elbow to her wrist.

  ‘Bastard,’ she mumbled, trying to focus on being angry instead of teary. The face of the man with the bad teeth appeared, then disappeared. She was angrier with herself. Everybody she’d told about her trip to Barcelona had warned her about the pickpockets. But she hadn’t listened. It wasn’t just her spending money gone, but the cute little bag with the appliqued butterfly, plus her house key, car keys, favourite lipstick, mobile…

  The two sisters called out to others, who joined the circle around her, but no one seemed to speak English, and
Della felt cornered. The world began to swim and she was falling.

  She heard people call out as she tumbled, bracing herself for her second encounter with the Barcelona pavement.

  But instead, she fell against something soft.

  Soft cotton. With a strong body underneath.

  ‘Sorry!’ she stuttered. As she pulled away from the t-shirt, she spotted her blood staining the blue fabric. ‘Oh, God, sorry, I—’

  And then her gaze reached the owner of the t-shirt, and she silenced.

  He was what Alice would call a cover boy. The kind of square-jawed male model who graced the covers of romantic books.

  Maybe it was the blow to the head, but Della pictured him on the jacket of a Mills & Boon: The Secret Latin Billionaire, perhaps. Or something historical: Her Secret Pirate Baby.

  The man smiled, and it made him look less like a cover boy: they only ever scowled and brooded on the front of those books, burdened by all those secrets.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Hearing English made her feel calmer, especially English in a voice that began as a warm growl behind that sturdy ribcage and grew in power before leaving that mouth.

  What a mouth.

  Concussion. Definitely.

  ‘Someone took my bag…’ She nodded towards the end of the street where she’d seen him disappear. It hurt her head. ‘Ow.’

  The cover boy looked in the same direction. She realised he was about to sprint after the robber. It felt unbearable, the idea she was about to lose her only friend.

  Friend? They’d exchanged two sentences. But she reached out to stop him anyway, touching his brown forearm. ‘He’s long gone, I think.’

  He nodded. ‘This crime. I see it one time per week, even more. Our shame. I apologise to you on behalf of all Barcelona.’

  ‘Oh. Well. It wasn’t you that did it…’

  The sisters were the only ones left, now, and cover boy said something to them and they touched her hand, tutted sympathetically, and moved on.