I lift my hips slightly to allow you to remove my final piece of clothing. I’m naked except for my favourite, oh so delicate, glass-beaded Venetian bracelet. Trembling nervously, I lean back, waiting for more kisses, anticipating every exquisite moment to come.
You don’t let me down. Touching my inner thighs, I feel your warm tongue licking my sensitive skin, urging me to pleasures I haven’t experienced before. With bare limbs touching, I pull you up towards me, caressing your face, collarbone, shoulders. I press my face to your chest and draw one of your nipples into my mouth. As my tongue strokes your skin, I feel your body stiffen. You press your hips against mine and I feel the force of your desire as the urge to take you intensifies.
I let my fingers linger on your ribs until you take my wrist and guide my hand towards your stomach and lower. You lift me so that I am on top of you. You raise my head and kiss my lips and I feel your hips manoeuvre into position before a thrust and quickening rhythm as our willing, desperate bodies unite as one. I’m gasping, calling out your name. Over and over. I don’t stop until we are both panting with pleasure and sweating with heat and hunger... Crying with happiness.
But in the end, I am crying because I am alone.
It’s not healthy, this brooding obsession. How can it be? I seem to be in love with someone I will never see again.
In love? What do the words even mean? Could I be in love? I hope not or I am doomed to extend the unsatisfying life I’m now living. This life. Where I distract myself with painting, running, sometimes alcohol. All trying to forget you. It’s not me. It’s you.
But it is me. Me running from myself, trying to find you ever since Venice.
Why?
Why did we meet? Or rather, why did you throw yourself in my path? I was happy. I had a boyfriend. A life. I didn’t need to meet you.
Twenty-two minutes. That’s all the time we spent together.
How could those minutes have derailed me so? If there was any justice in the world, it would be that we could find each other, fuck, agree it was terrible and forever extinguish this fire that I feel for you.
But even as I say that, I know it’s all one-sided. It’s me. I am the one suffering, not eating, not sleeping. Not you. Where are you?
Why does it matter? You would never want to meet me now, knowing how unstable I am. Spending fruitless hours crying about what an extraordinarily good kisser you are.
Imagine if I were your Facebook friend? I’d be messaging you ten/twenty times a day. If I knew your Twitter handle? The same. It’s a blessing I don’t have your email or worse, your phone number, I’d probably stalk you. But again, how could I know your number? You only told me your first name. And then you disappeared.
This unrelenting, obsessive self-pitying has to stop.
I’m angry with you. Why did I let you kiss me?
Maybe this is a game you play with every female tourist who crosses your path?
Why was I so gullible? I wish I could see you again to tell you how angry I am for letting you hijack my thoughts and feelings. But really, I am furious with myself. I let my guard down and you infiltrated.
This may surprise you but I haven’t shared my heartache with anyone else. I’ll be damned if I’ll admit to anyone but myself how much I have let this situation affect me. What could I say? More importantly, what words could anyone answer with to make me feel better?
Hon, you knew the guy less than an hour! Let it go.
I’d smile and say, Yeah. I know. But...
And they’d persist. But what? You knew the guy for less time than it takes to watch an episode of The Simpsons. Get over it.
And that’s just it. I can’t get over it. Over you.
I think I love you. Seriously.
I know it’s not a grounded love. I know we have to get to know each other and I have to get pissed off at you for leaving your wet towels (plural – yes, they’ll stack up) on the floor, your dirty socks on the kitchen bench (Why do you do that?) and the lid off the toothpaste. But I also know (am pretty sure) you’ll hold me at night as we’re drifting off to sleep and that you don’t snore.
I want to reach out and tell you that you’re the reason I started living. Truth: even though the days are painful and sad, at least I am feeling. I am alive. Much like Sleeping Beauty after she received her kiss of awakening from Prince Charming. Not that I am deluded enough to believe in fairy tales but I connect with the sentiment. Your kiss awakened something within me that I never knew existed.
And where there’s life, there’s hope.
This morning, I came to the beach with Dexter. One minute he’s on the sand darting around with his ball and the next, he’s jumping in the waves. They’re huge, thumping. I’m calling for him to come back. He’s getting into trouble. I’m anxious about my boy.
Come back, I shout. Get out of the water. Now!
He doesn’t seem to register the concern in my tone. He doesn’t appear to hear me.
The waves are crashing, ferocious, fierce. I’m only thinking about saving my dog as I run to the water’s edge. He’s all I have and he’s caught in a rip.
I’m in the ocean. My clothes are heavy. I’m struggling to keep my head above the waves, conscious that the rip is swallowing me whole. My beautiful bracelet slips beneath the waves, the glass beads capturing the glint of the sun’s rays as they disappear. Why haven’t I painted this before...life’s essence slipping away?
Is this real or am I catastrophising?
In the distance, I hear Dexter barking. He’s back on dry land, safe. Thank you, Universe.
I’m sinking, drowning, dying...
Why? Why have I wasted my life on this obsession for so long?
Life was meant to get better, not end like this!
And suddenly...there you are, every bit as real to me as you were on the Bridge of Sighs. After all this time, finally you are reaching out to me and we are kissing again.
For the second time.
But this time the kiss feels different. This time I realise that living a life of pointless obsession or dying young is not what I want for myself. Dexter is barking. He is manic. Frightened. So am I.
I know this beach. I can save myself if I want to...and I do. I really do.
Cutting loose the impossible dream that has ruled my life for so long, I am floating to the surface when two enormous arms lift me out of the water and onto a paddle board.
You’re safe now. Just breathe. Breathe, a distant voice soothes.
Lips cover mine...the kiss of life. So many vibrant colours, blues, greens, the reds and yellows of the surf life saver’s vest...blinding and blurry at first but becoming clearer as we near the beach and are soon smothered by an overjoyed labrador.
Minutes pass. I sit with Dexter, staring at the magnificent ocean, surfers, joggers, dog walkers.
Slowly, my breathing becomes more even as it returns to normal.
There is a special beauty and joy flowing, embracing me. And I am grateful.
Finally, the spell has been broken.
At last I stand, tears in my eyes, and follow Dexter home.
Home.
I feel release.
Peace.
Life – fleeting and precious.
Mine.
And I am overjoyed with dazzling and luminous visions of what is yet to come.
About the Author
Once upon a time, Lisa Heidke made a New Year’s resolution to write a book. Like most people, she woke up on January 1st with a headache. Unlike most people who’d made resolutions the night before, Lisa took two Nurofen and started writing. The result was LUCY SPRINGER GETS EVEN (A&U, 2009), followed by WHAT KATE DID NEXT (A&U, 2010), CLAUDIA'S BIG BREAK (A&U, 2011), and STELLA MAKES GOOD (A&U, 2012). She also teaches Intro to Chick Lit workshops at Sydney Writers’ Centre.
Website: www.lisaheidke.com
Facebook: Lisa Heidke Author
Blog: www.blog.lisaheidke.com
Visit the Sunlounger website at www.va-
va-vacation.com/lisa-heidke
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.
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SANTORINI… OR NOT!
***
Molly Hopkins
Destination: Greek Islands
Chapter One
Lulu strode purposefully into the lounge, swinging a bottle of wine in an outstretched hand and cradling two glasses in the crook of her elbow.
‘Evie, we must book a holiday now, or all the special offers will be snapped up!’ she said sharply, and for the third time.
My fingers rapped a street-dance on my laptop.
‘I know that,’ I shot back in a combative tone. ‘And that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.’
The bottle and glasses landed on the dining table with a careless clatter.
‘How hard can it be? You’re in the business. You go on holiday for a living, you…’
‘…I’m a European tour guide, not a friggin’ magician.’
Lulu sighed and sat down heavily in the seat next to me, undoing a couple of buttons on her blouse revealing a black lace bra.
‘It’s suddenly quite hot in here,’ she complained, then pressed on. ‘I’m not asking for much. All I want is somewhere sunny, with a fabulous beach, cheap gin and tonic. And an amazing club scene with hot men.’
She gave a naughty laugh.
‘And preferably an army base, because an army base can be one of the happiest places on earth. Forget paradise…’
‘…An army base?’ I quizzed.
She tipped closer to peer over my shoulder, and studied the laptop screen with total absorption.
‘Yes, an army base! Every man in the world can look handsome in uniform,’ she said, inflating her chest like an air-bag to underscore her point.
I leant back in case fancying every man on earth in a uniform was contagious.
‘We want to go somewhere that we haven’t been before, so that rules out Spain, Portugal, Italy and France,’ she said helpfully, sloshing a torrent of ruby wine into a glass.
Having polished off the pinot, we were now on the shiraz. We’re not colour fussy.
‘I want the ultimate sunlounger holiday,’ she said with earnest principle, ‘and don’t drink this wine too quickly,’ she warned, as she slid a glass in front of me. ‘The last time you shopped online with a drink in you, you bought tickets to see Rihanna in Sweden. Only you would confuse the Swedish capital of Stockholm with Stockwell in south west London. What were you thinking?’
I felt a familiar unsettling sensation; disappointment assailed me as always when I thought of the lost opportunity. In my defense I’d only mixed up four little letters, it could’ve happened to anyone.
I rallied; she’s no drunken intellect either.
‘Well you bought a garden shed in Afghanistan,’ I reminded her, ‘and you pay a monthly direct debit for a orangutan that you’ve adopted.’
She made a so-what motion by flicking a wing of thick blonde hair over her shoulder, and peered at me through narrowed dark eyes.
‘I like orange monkeys,’ she insisted hotly.
‘You’re overdrawn every month as it is,’ I prompted, ‘and you don’t even know where your orangutan lives. What sort of an adoptive mother are you?’
She held her glass aloft.
‘Evie, let us concentrate on the matter at hand, bickering is time wasting,’ she snapped, and took a greedy gulp of wine. ‘Let’s not dwell on the fact that neither of us are perfect. No one is.’
She had a point.
I felt a swell of determination. I would not move from this chair until we had a holiday to look forward to. I took a healthy draft from my glass and pressed on with my Google search. My brain raced as I honed in on my investigative skills, quickly disregarding resorts boasting kids clubs, children’s pools, baby-sitting services and family-friendly holiday entertainment. It’s not that Lulu and I are child- or family-prejudice or have a lack of humanity, we love kids, but kids wake up ridiculously early on holiday, make too much noise, and their dads are usually married men (a proliferate species).
‘Google ‘playboy tycoon holiday hot spots’!’ Lulu urged, toasting her glass randomly, and spilling wine on her arm.
I gave a spontaneous round of applause.
‘What a brilliant idea!’ I said, eyeing her with scholarly respect as she licked at the spilt wine.
She raised her glass to her mouth in salute of her own genius…but up popped a load of rubbish about Russian princes. We exchanged an exasperated glance. Deflated, I suffocated a swear word and buried my nose in my drink. We were getting nowhere.
A ribbon of Flower Bomb perfume assaulted me as Lulu flounced her backside into a more comfortable position and tugged her skirt over her thighs.
‘For god’s sake, this is ridiculous,’ she complained with an infuriated sigh, ‘it would be easier to get hold of a Birkin bag.’
I seriously doubted it.
‘We’re looking for Bond Girl fun and excitement,’ she insisted, her voice serious and assertive.
I was totally with her. I wanted the same. I put down my glass, it was empty…again. On cue Lulu reached for the wine bottle. I pulled my chair closer to the table and shifted to a more active pose, setting about my laptop like a virtuoso pianist.
‘We want cloudless blue skies, a glittering ocean flanked by warm sandy beaches. A place soaked in legends,’ Lulu said; there was a switch in tempo from matter-of-fact to wistful as she pressed on…‘A peninsular of love, inhabited by a superior race of men with lean, toned, tanned torso’s and cute accents.’
A superior race of men? How many drinks has she had? But I have to admit that oddly my thoughts echoed hers, exactly.
‘I agree,’ I breathed, and I swear I could hear the lapping of the glittering ocean.
‘We want men with primeval romantic values,’ she said, pressing her palms together as if in prayer, ‘like the ancient Mycenaean Greeks.’ She wore a dreamy smile.
I’m dreaming myself now. Primeval romantic values – that is sooooo what I want.
‘Didn’t the ancient Mycenaean men wear cute leather skirts?’ I asked her.
‘I don’t know, but Brad Pitt wore one in Troy,’ she reminded me.
We exchanged a silent smile of nostalgia in lustful reminiscence of Brad (the warrior Achilles). Lulu’s nostrils flared and her eyelids fluttered in recollection.
‘We should go to Greece,’ I said.
But Lulu was miles away – in Troy to be precise, in a vaulted white linen tent, lying seductively on a bed of furs. Her hair was a cascade of platinum silk and she was wearing nothing except an ivory chiffon veil and a coy smile. Brad stood before her resplendent in all his naked glory. He dropped to one knee, and took Lulu’s delicate hand in his.
She was salivating a little.
‘I’d love to go to Greece,’ I told her again, fielding her gaze.
Lulu didn’t answer…She was nibbling Brad’s ear and palming his chest, her touch light and teasing. Brad lifted a lock of her hair and let it fall. I watched as her mouth formed a rosebud – to receive Brad’s sweet embrace.
‘Lulu!’ I prompted. ‘I. Want. To. Go. To. Greece!’
Her eyes widened as inspiration struck. Her jaw dropped; she almost ate her glass.
‘Evie, we should go to Greece, we’ve never been there!’ she said in a flash of assertive genius.
She was back in the conversation.
‘You have telepathic powers,’ I told her. ‘I was thinking exactly the same thing myself.’
Her look was wild and excited.
‘Greek men are brilliant lovers, all Greek men say so, they can’t all be bloody liars,’ she said in a rush.
But which island, there are so many? I fretted.
I Googled ‘Mycenaean Civilization’ and discover that the Mycenaean civilization perished at the end of the Bro
nze Age. What?! But I remain positive because obviously there must have been survivors. I Googled ‘Mycenaean’s where did they live?’. Okay, this is more like it – up pops a map of the Aegean Sea. Now…where did the descendents of the Mycenaean men settle? I narrow the search by keying ‘Mycenaean artifacts, jewelry and wine bottles’. I’m looking for an indication of nightlife, parties – evidence of a civilization that enjoyed the pleasures of entertaining. We want a culture we can relate to. My laptop danced with information. This was looking promising. My eyebrows came down from speculative orbit. I was getting answers. I opened another web page and gazed at my laptop in delighted fascination. My fingers froze in mid air. Lulu tipped forward. We were cheek to cheek.
My eyes fell on a kaleidoscope of pictures of one of the most beautiful islands I have ever seen, boasting cloudless blue skies and a glittering ocean flanked by warm sandy beaches. Clouds nudging russet-tinted mountains and enchanting emerald hilltops. A place soaked in legend. A peninsular of love.
I turned to Lulu. Our gaze locked in triumph. This was it.
Our dream destination.
Lulu’s eyes roved the screen, captivated. Her eyelids didn’t bat once. Her smile was radiant.
‘Evie, this is where we will go. The island of Santorini is paradise,’ she said excitedly and with volume. ‘It’s textbook, or should I say holiday brochure, perfect.’
And she was right. Santorini, one of the southernmost islands of the Cyclades in the Aegean Sea, was the ideal holiday destination.
‘Book it!’ she said quickly. ‘Book a week in Santorini.’
‘I’m on the case,’ I told her, opening lastminute.com’s special offers section.
We sealed the deal with a chink of TK Maxx glassware. And as we do I’m dimly aware that it takes three attempts for our glasses to actually connect and chink.
‘We’ll have a gin and tonic to celebrate and book our holiday together – we don’t want any mistakes,’ Lulu said in slightly slurred authority. ‘I’ll get the drinks and our passports and you look to see if Santorini has an army base…just as a matter of idle interest.’
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