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

by Belinda Jones

  ‘The red ones are everywhere but the orange ones…’ he looked away. ‘They are for passion.’

  Suddenly she didn’t want to return to her hotel. She searched her brain for a convincing reason to stay here, with him. ‘Jordi, I should buy you a book, in return.’

  ‘Except you don’t have any money.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Unless I lend you some.’

  Great. So now it sounded like she was on the scrounge. ‘I don’t see any bookstores around here.’

  Jordi took her hand and she didn’t pull away. They moved swiftly and the tourists stepped aside, as though he had a special VIP route mapped out, stone by cobblestone.

  She could hear bad pop music and raised voices. They reached the end of the alleyway, and Jordi let her go first.

  Books.

  And more books.

  She’d seen books before, at the British Library, and in the little second-hand dealers that dotted the Charing Cross Road.

  But this was like a street party where books were the only guests that mattered. Trestle tables as far as she could see, down the central pedestrian walkway, the buses and taxis either side struggling to get past the thousands who’d come to buy.

  A kilometre or more of books.

  ‘Our famous rambla,’ Jordi said. ‘Every other day, a hangout for pavement statues and bad tapas sellers and pickpockets. Today, a temple to literature. Though, maybe still a hangout for pickpockets.’

  She laughed. ‘I have no money. Nothing to lose.’

  She couldn’t resist any longer, and threw herself into the sea of books, still holding Jordi’s hand.

  Every language, every kind. Picture books, maps, leather-bound classics, manga cartoons, cookbooks, dictionaries, you name it, it was there.

  All the knowledge in the world, piled high.

  And the sellers and the buyers, jostling and joking, but showing the books a kind of passionate respect. Opening the pristine white pages, tracing first words with caressing fingers, certain of the promise inside.

  ‘A million or more books will be sold today,’ Jordi said. ‘My day.’

  ‘Your day?’

  ‘The second reason the day is special for me,’ he said. ‘Jordi is the Catalan word for George.’

  George, who slew the dragon. Or, at least, pinned a slimy robber to the ground.

  She wanted him.

  Della turned away, to buy herself time. She picked up a book. Breaking the promise to herself. She felt the desire again, for words, pages, stories.

  It had been a long time.

  She turned back.

  A man who looked familiar was standing over Jordi’s shoulder. Why?

  She remembered. The TV reporter from the news this morning. Next to him, a cameraman, the lens facing her way.

  Capturing a moment in time. The moment when she realised she hadn’t fallen out of love with books. Or men. It had just been a trial separation.

  She smiled at the camera. She didn’t feel shy. She sensed that she and Jordi might be about to give them the shot they’d been looking for all day.

  ‘I have no money to buy you a book, Jordi. But I can think of another way to thank you for the rose…’

  While the adrenalin from the chase was still in her system, she leaned forward to kiss her St George. In the milliseconds before it happened, she wondered if the kiss would be a prologue, an epic, or a short, perfectly formed short story.

  And realised all she could do was dive in and let the next chapter of her life begin.

  About the Author

  Kate Harrison writes fiction and non-fiction for adults and teenage readers; her books include the SECRET SHOPPER series, the SOUL BEACH trilogy and THE 5:2 DIET BOOK. Before becoming a writer, she worked as a reporter and producer at the BBC, on programmes including Panorama and Newsround. She lives in Brighton, not far from the sea.

  Website: www.kateharrison.com

  Diet Book website: www.the5-2dietbook.com

  Twitter: @katewritesbooks

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

  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.

  LOVE AT FIRST KISS

  ***

  Lisa Heidke

  Destination: Venice, Italy & Sydney, Australia

  Do you really want to talk about love at first sight?

  Or love at first kiss?

  I don’t believe in it.

  You said you do. You said that when you saw me, orchestrated our meeting and felt our hands touch, that’s when you knew. For sure.

  Love at first sight is a fallacy created by people desperate to believe in romance, love, forever. That was my response.

  You told me I was a coward, scared to face the truth.

  The truth?

  Truth, you said. Our authentic selves. Love. Giving ourselves completely. Come what may.

  God! Thinking back, you were such a romantic. A harsher me would call you a romantic fool. A kinder me would simply say romantic.

  We met on the Bridge of Sighs. Yes, I’m shaking my head, too.

  I was minding my own business, taking a solitary walk around the narrow, tranquil streets of Venice. I stopped at the enclosed bridge, pulled out my guidebook and read:

  Spanning the canal between the palace and the historic prison, the Bridge of Sighs was named for the sighs made by prisoners as they crossed over to the jail beyond...

  Standing quietly, I was staring out the window and into the distance. My boyfriend wasn’t with me that day.

  I love you, he’d told me, but I’m touristed out.

  No doubt he was back at our pensione watching some rugby game on cable.

  I didn’t mind. I liked the peace. Reaching into my oversized art bag that travelled everywhere with me, I pulled out my sketch book and graphite pencils and started doodling. Imagining those prisoners, I drew several images, each more sad and tragic than the previous. Shading one moment, drawing sharp determined lines the next. How ghastly, knowing the shocking fate that awaited them on the other side.

  I also tried drawing the canals, gondolas, and my beloved labrador, Dexter, who was at home in Australia, awaiting my return from holidays. But my fingers insisted on sketching illustrations of long-dead prisoners. I drew until my fingers were numb...and then when my wretched, lazy digits failed me, I stared out at the horizon, taking in the decadence, decay and grandeur of this sinking city.

  Living in the moment, I felt blessed, but lonely. I could hear the faint lapping of the water and some distant chatter but the over-arching feeling was one of serenity and anonymity.

  That’s when you materialised beside me. How long had you been standing there? A modern day Mr Darcy, wearing faded blue jeans and a white t-shirt that showed off your amazing caramel-coloured buff arms. As for those shoes – tan brogues – well, they let you down, but let’s not quibble. You were almost perfect.

  Long ago, you said, Casanova was sent across this bridge to meet his fate with Spanish Inquisitors. Your voice was deep, resonant, terribly British.

  I was completely thrown. (Understatement. I might have fallen off the bridge had it not been roofed.)

  Did you know that this is a favourite spot for lovers? you continued. It’s widely believed that a kiss under this bridge will bring eternal love.

  I thought you were Crazy – Capital ‘C’ Crazy – with an amazing voice, but Crazy all the same. Nevertheless, I didn’t move away because you were also one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen.

  If you believe in a silly superstition, I finally managed to croak.

  Which I do, you replied. I believe in love at first sight.

  I didn’t pull away when you leant over, whispered your name and asked me mine, then brushed my face with your hand, before tucking stray strands of hair behind my ear.

  I was w
earing a floaty pale pink sundress, so light I forgot I was wearing clothes until an occasional breeze sent the fabric gently billowing against my thighs.

  I struggle to recall what happened next, though I felt instant electricity, an immediate connection. I think I sort of fell into you and you steadied me with those strong arms.

  Then you asked if I believed in fate.

  Maybe, I whispered. And that was that.

  You kissed me.

  Every part of my body throbbed, physically ached for you. I needed you, yet I hadn’t known you existed just minutes before. Why were you on the bridge at that time when our two worlds collided? Our bodies moved closer together, my mouth moving perfectly in time against yours.

  The passion. Your arms pulling me closer as you ran your supple fingers through my hair. You kissed me hard, forcefully. It was intoxicating, intense, life-changing...

  I surrendered the moment your lips touched mine and I melted into your commanding embrace, willing you to do whatever you wanted with me. Of course it was madness, but I wanted to stay in that moment forever. More than anything, I wanted to lose myself to you. Raw hunger was completely new to me.

  What I would give to feel that passion once more. The harder we kissed, the more my bruised lips pulsated with pain. Good pain. I desperately wanted you. All of you. To hell with the tourists, with their wide-eyed, eager expressions and silly broad hats.

  When we finally pulled away from each other, I reached up and ran two fingers softly over your lips.

  Sorry. I think they might be swollen.

  Don’t care, you whispered into my ear, pulling me greedily back into your arms. Kiss me again.

  Shivering, I did as you commanded, not thinking about the consequences.

  We kissed for twenty-two minutes. Twenty-two minutes and maybe forty-three seconds. I knew time was precious. My lips bloated and numb, and my desire for you deeper and more intense than any other I had known.

  I’d wanted to plead, just a few minutes more. A lousy two minutes more alone with you. But all too soon, you released me, stroking my cheek briefly with your hand before you walked away.

  Yes, after sweeping me off my feet, you moved away from me, taking several steps, then looked back over your shoulder. I watched, staring after you until you disappeared from sight.

  Vanished. Who was this man I had kissed, desired, lusted after?

  You had spoken of love at first sight, of destiny, and the stars aligning...then you were gone.

  I knew your first name and that you were English. Was I punching above my weight? Absolutely. But I didn’t go after you. Why not?

  I was charmed. Totally smitten. In love? Maybe. Who goes around kissing strangers in foreign lands? Clearly, I did. I was confused.

  After the bridge, I thought about you...constructed an elaborate fantasy about who you were and where you were from. An actor? Musician? Writer? Labourer? You were all of these and more. My fantasies changed daily, sometimes hourly or less. I searched for you...everywhere. From the Venetian canals to the Roman Forum, the Leaning Tower of Pisa and countless bistros in Rome and Naples.

  It didn’t help that I was travelling with my boyfriend, supposedly on a romantic getaway. I still couldn’t get you out of my mind. You and your business about love at first sight.

  Perhaps if you’d never uttered that phrase, I wouldn’t have obsessed. And if I hadn’t obsessed over the words, then perhaps I wouldn’t have obsessed over you.

  Funny, but after we got back to Australia, the boyfriend and I realised it wasn’t working between us. It was kind of amicable, I suppose. Tragic, too. Because until I met you, I’d assumed I was in love with him.

  Love at first sight. Such a line.

  But I couldn’t forget our kiss. I knew I idealised it. That one perfect moment (twenty-two minutes, forty-three seconds) where two strangers meet, connect, kiss...ideally go back to a hotel room and fuck (I think fuck adequately sums up what I would have liked to do with you, so I am at peace with the word).

  So yeah, I couldn’t forget you. Didn’t want to.

  Sad, though, that we were never to meet again – that the most amazing kiss of my life was with a man I would only kiss once.. I took consolation in the fact that we had exchanged names. First names, at least. That was enough. Or so I thought.

  But that kiss. Those feelings. What was I meant to do? Push them to one side? Never think about you again?

  And now, almost two years later, this is how it ends?

  Where are you?

  Back in the UK? With your wife? Children?

  I torture myself endlessly. About your life, your exquisitely happy and perfect life, as I try to get on with my own. My life’s not that bad. I live in Bondi, Sydney.

  I’m an artist.

  I began drawing when I was six. People remark that my paintings have become more dreamlike. They feature either the beach or you. Often both. Lots of bright, fluorescent colours. Abstract. You might call it magical realism. I like that term...magical realism. Like my most recent painting of you...realistic, I think, though I can’t quite remember what you look like, but I recall your perfect skin and the bluest eyes and longest black lashes I’ve ever seen. In my paintings, your lips, swollen and red, take up half of your face. As for your brogues? They’re huge and full of holes. Stylised. Flattened. Deformed? Maybe. Certainly unique.

  My post-kiss paintings are full of passion, longing. I take inspiration from you (of course) and from Gustav Klimt’s erotic masterpiece, The Kiss, of a couple embracing, their bodies entwined. Oh, there are other famous kiss paintings by Picasso, Toulouse-Lautrec and Lichtenstein, but I think I’m more successful and in tune with my craft now, thanks to you and Gustav.

  My favourite artistic ‘kiss’ isn’t a painting at all, but the marble sculpture by Auguste Rodin. I get goosebumps just thinking about it.

  Which leads me to thinking about you and our perfect kiss.

  I also draw Dexter, my favourite companion. Besides you. The picture I treasure most? A painting of an overly big-headed Dex at the beach with the caption This is NOT Dexter at the beach scribbled below. (Apologies to surrealist René Magritte and his iconic pipe paintings.)

  So, yeah. I teach art.

  Can artists teach art?

  I’m still trying to figure that out.

  As part of the process, I tell my students they must get in touch with their feelings. Tap into that raw energy, truth and passion.

  I lie to my students. I’m in touch, I tell them.

  Touch leads to sex, sex leads to love. Or does it? I get asked a lot about love.

  Funny, hey?

  I diffuse the conversation. I laugh about love, telling them they’ll feel it when they feel it and to catch the essence of how they are feeling, bottle it and use it when they’re painting.

  Use your feelings, harness the energy and seriously, work it for good.

  My advice seems to resonate. Though I don’t know quite what they make of my uninhibited use of colour, odd shapes, giant triangle heads and full-lipped, kissing, blue dolphins.

  But I don’t let anyone, especially my students, see my vulnerable side. Why would I? I make sure my art keeps people at a manageable distance.

  I need to cut down on the extraordinary number of sketches featuring lips...lip piercings, bruising, pouty, pink. Lips in every shape and form.

  I thought I was doing okay until I met you.

  A smarter person would have cherished our kiss, but relegated it to their fantasy box under the bed with dust mites and moths, and continued on with their real life.

  I’m not her.

  I can’t get you out of my mind. Your kiss...or rather the way you kissed me, your tongue, so perfectly suited to my mouth. And then the pressure, the momentum. So much was perfect about that kiss.

  But we didn’t talk. Not really. I didn’t say yours was the best kiss of my life. What would it have meant if I had? What was the point? You have your life. I have mine.

  That’
s why it’s so stupid. Me. Here. Now. Romanticising about a kiss that happened almost twenty-four months ago.

  So what have I been doing since? As I said, I paint, mostly down at the beach.

  I stick to my routine. I wake, run five kilometres with Dexter, drink coffee, maybe eat something healthy (a carrot now and then. I’ve lost a lot of weight which I really don’t need to) and then settle down with my easel. I’m happy. On my own, no demands.

  See! I keep busy.

  No one has to worry about me.

  I miss you.

  The weather, once sunny with cloudless blue skies, is changing again. More days are windy and dark. Stormy. Angry. Bitter. Rough, abrasive waves have replaced the gentle rolling ones of weeks gone by. Falling leaves. Sometimes it’s almost cold. Jackets required. Change of seasons, I guess. Which must mean you are having warmer weather.

  My every thought comes back to you.

  About you silently sweeping me up in your arms, throwing me down on a dark elaborate king-sized bed on top of oversized plush cushions and kissing me passionately, urgently. Touching my breasts through my flimsy sundress, only pausing to notice me shaking with desire and aching with a hunger for you. Only you.

  You reach behind my back, finding the zipper to my dress, smoothly unfastening it. I rise up allowing the fabric to fall away, revealing a sheer black lace bra and matching g-string. I pull you towards me and tear at the buttons of your shirt, quickly casting it aside, along with your jeans.

  My breasts are aching to be expelled from the confines of my bra and as you release them I murmur my excitement. My breath, shallow and quick, my body tingling as you cup my breasts, then nip and suck, almost swallowing them whole.

  I want you, you whisper as you press your body against mine, skin to skin. You lick my nipples, so obviously aroused, as you feel them harden beneath your tongue. You continue kissing my warm skin until you reach the top of my pubic bone. Slowly you pull my barely there waistband down and kiss the now-revealed, untanned, pale skin.