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

by Belinda Jones

  Lulu sat beside me, whizzing a straw around her drink.

  ‘Evie, I’m a little…’ Lulu hesitated, organizing her words, ‘…unsure,’ she said at last.

  ‘Unsure of what?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful that you managed to sort out a holiday at all, and like you said we can always visit Santorini next year. But we’re going to Croatia, and I don’t even know where it is.’

  She would know where it was if she’d bought a guide book like I did.

  ‘Croatia is in the Balkans, to the east of Italy in the Adriatic Sea. Bordered by Slovenia, Hungary, Bosnia, Herzegovina, Serbia and Montenegro,’ I told her, thumbing the glossy pages of my Guide to Croatia.

  ‘Is it? That’s nice,’ she said, and I suspect still none the wiser.

  A sudden judder caused Lulu to spill her drink.

  ‘And Evie, about our habit of late-night internet spending—…’

  ‘…Don’t even go there,’ I cut in.

  ‘Never again!’ she shot back forcefully.

  ‘Agreed,’ I said, and dropped my eyes to my book.

  ‘Lulu, Croatia is amazing. There are 1,185 islands dotted like diamonds in a tray across the Mediterranean, with breathtaking sandy beaches stretching the length of the Adriatic coast. And high in the mountains there are castles, medieval towns and vineyards.’

  We shared an eager looking-forward-to-our-holiday-smile, and chinked our plastic glasses.

  ‘Can I borrow the guide book when you’re finished with it?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course you can,’ I replied, pleasantly surprised that she had asked. ‘Croatia has everything.’

  ‘Is there an army base in Croatia? Lulu asked her eyes bright with interest.

  ‘Yes, I do believe there is. Why have we not thought to go there before?’

  Lulu didn’t reply, she was miles away, in an Army base in Croatia to be precise.

  I clinked my glass against hers, and joined her.

  About the Author

  Molly Hopkins is the author of IT HAPPENED IN PARIS and the follow-on sequel IT HAPPENED IN VENICE. Her books offer a fantastic cocktail of hilarity, sex, fun and romance set against an ever-changing backdrop of exotic destinations. If you have enjoyed your time with Evie and Lulu in Molly's first two books, then read IT HAPPENED AT BOOTCAMP. With one meagre gym visit between them and an addiction for white wine and saturated fats, Evie and Lulu decide to get-in-shape with laugh-out-loud consequences.

  Molly lives in Surrey and has two teenage children who have two smelly big dogs. She will never be a size ten again or give up gin and tonic.

  Website: www.mollyhopkins.co.uk

  Twitter: @Molly_Hopkins

  Visit the Sunlounger website at www.va-va-vacation.com/molly-hopkins

  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.

  FIA MCQUEEN’S GREAT ESCAPE

  ***

  Pernille Hughes

  Destination: Mauritius

  My tears don’t attract much attention at check-in. People cry in departures all the time.

  ‘You might have missed your wedding,’ Simon says, digging out a Kleenex for my tear-streaked face, ‘but there’s no way you’re missing your honeymoon.’ A little sob escapes me. I’ve definitely left my dignity back at the manor. ‘We’ll call it “The Great Escape”,’ he soothes, and proceeds to ply me with tissues and Martinis throughout the flight. I clink my glass against his beer, but I can’t muster any cheer.

  ‘He didn’t want me, Si,’ I weep.

  ‘He’s an idiot. I always said that,’ he replies, tersely.

  I should have suspected that Greg wouldn’t show, by the way he handled the rehearsal. The stricken look on his face, the sweat on his brow. The way he practiced his vows like he was giving his own eulogy, how his eyes kept flitting to the exits. The signs were all there, but I was too busy being Bridezilla, fretting about how my to-die-for Miu Miu shoes would manage the walk from the chapel, across the meadow to the marquee. Could one ask to be carried? Would that look bad? Even so, his text knocked me for six...

  I was so preoccupied with the wedding of my dreams, that I didn’t spot that I was, perhaps, not the girl of his. Still, it was only 150 of our nearest and dearest to witness my total humiliation. Simon took complete control; he designated the gift returns to my mother, made some calls to BA for ticket changes and whisked me away from all the mayhem to Heathrow. We only had to swing by his flat to pick up his passport, laptop and some clothes.

  ‘I can consult from anywhere, Fia,’ Si said, rolling his eyes at me for worrying about his work. ‘Self-employed, remember?’ He’s always been willing to drop everything for me. Perhaps even his plus-one at the wedding. Oh dear… Poor girl.

  I picked the wedding venue with its meadow because it would be lush and green. Mauritius by comparison is LUSH! and GREEN! The drive across the island begins to lift my mood; it’s a cocktail of vibrant joy after my shot of misery. The fields of sugar cane, fragrant warm air, the turquoise sea, the promise of rum punch. What’s not to like? Maybe it’s relief or perhaps I’m all cried out, but a sense of calm is growing in me and for the first time since The Text I can breathe properly. Simon senses it too, his insane grin matching my buffoon face, his hand constantly squeezing mine, as I ooh and ahh from the cab window.

  The suite is perfect; a huge round thatched villa, with its own patio and a fan idly rotating in the ceiling above the huge double bed. Awkward? Not really. Simon and I have known each other since we were kids. This won’t be a problem at all. We lie in bed, telly on but muted, supplying our own commentaries like we did before He-Who-We-Don’t-Talk-About moved in. Greg never got into that game, no matter how much I tried.

  Like the wedding, I thought I had everything nailed down. Being a fashion-show producer makes you fairly punctilious about detail. Only my planning hasn’t accounted for our villa being in direct view of the hotel’s wedding gazebo. Turns out I have to witness a daily parade of glowing couples arrive and depart as man and wife.

  Personally, I think it’s only natural that I become a wedding stalker. From my perch outside the suite, lychee punch in hand, I give the two Bulbul birds who share our patio a running commentary: Day 1 – Jimmy Choo, Louboutin; Day 2 – Emma Hope, Brian Atwood; Day 3 – McQueen, Zanotti, Jimmy Choo again. Having spent so long shopping for mine, I can identify wedding shoes from a hundred paces.

  Then, Day 4 – Miu Mius. My Miu Mius! The next bit is all rather foggy truth be told, but I’m aware of my fists clenching, feet stamping, wailing and snot. Rarely a good look, I find.

  ‘Right, that’s enough!’ Simon barks, grabbing my legs and flinging me over his shoulder.

  The shock instantly halts my hysteria. Scooping up my bag he marches through the coconut grove to the hotel reception and orders a cab.

  ‘You can let me down,’ I snivel. ‘We’re getting odd looks from the other guests.’

  Simon neither cares nor obliges, letting me hang there for a while, the blood running to my head. It helps, actually. Once bundled into the cab Simon agrees something with the driver and we sit in silence as Ashok drives.

  ‘Gotta let it go, Fia,’ he says quietly after a long while. I can only nod. ‘From now on, no more moping about the hotel. We’re going to see everything.’

  I sniff in response. I’m happy for him to take over. I need the intervention. I feel stuck and that tightness in my chest is back. I want to be able to breathe again.

  ‘Sofia?’

  ‘Everything,’ I agree, nodding and relaxing back into the seat, hoping that the scenery will do its thing.

  Finally we park up, Ashok picking up his newspaper and settling in.

  ‘Where are we?’ I ask.

  ‘Wait and see,’ Simon says, taking my hand and pulling me along with the other tourists until we reach a fenced area. T
he aroma is... an acquired taste and I try to control the instinctive flaring of my nostrils. That’s not a good look either.

  ‘Clock that!’ he laughs, pointing. Three massive tortoises are slowly ambling towards us.

  ‘Oh my giddy aunt,’ I breathe, stunned. ‘They are nearly as big as my Mini.’

  ‘And they smell as bad as Ned’s place.’ I’ve been to Simon’s brother’s flat. The assessment is fair.

  ‘They’ve got to be as old as your Nan.’

  ‘Oi,’ Simon bumps me with his hip, outraged. ‘Nan’s got at least a decade on these guys.’

  I knew that animals could be therapeutic, but spending the afternoon with these ancient reptiles is spot on. Watching them just be is enough to let the morning’s tension subside. I look at them, their creased faces, and wonder if I'll be that wrinkly when I'm ancient. Which gets me to thinking about growing old with someone. That’s what I was signing up for with Greg, wasn’t it? And for the life of me, I cannot imagine it. It’s a complete blank. Si and I, on the other hand, we've always joked about terrorising the Saga cruises together in our old age.

  Why hadn’t I thought about it before? Before the wedding, that is. Right after the proposal, for example. I think I just got swept up in the idea that Greg had actually asked me. He’d surprised me. And then there was all the planning, obviously. I didn’t really stop to think about what marriage entailed.

  My thoughts are broken by something nibbling the back of my leg.

  ‘Argh!’

  ‘Gotcha!’

  ‘Simon. I thought you were a tortoise.’

  He closes his eyes, opening them slowly and languidly chews an imaginary leaf. It makes me snort with laughter. His tortoise impressions keep me giggling all the way back.

  *

  The crater lake of Grand Bassin is as still as the proverbial mill pond and there are very few tourists, yet still the whole place feels full to me. Full of spirituality, I guess. We’ve arrived at the Hindu temple after many hours of hiking in the Black River Gorges. The waterfalls and views were breathtaking. This though, the lake and the white temple, is equally beautiful, albeit in an entirely different way.

  Simon goes to sit on the shore, leaving me to walk around the lake, alone with my thoughts. The last three days have been full-on and eye-opening. In fact, truly awesome in every way. Had this been my honeymoon, we would have stayed by the pool, perhaps gone for a wander along the beach at most. And look at what I would have missed. Maybe that is the key to getting over this: appreciating what there is, as well as what there isn’t. Rather than just watching other people’s weddings and lamenting what I missed, I am connecting with everything around me instead. And perhaps I am also appreciating now that there were things missing from what Greg and I had. I don’t know if it is an epiphany as such, but when I make it back to Simon, I know that my heart feels like it has caught up with my body again, rather than trailing behind me.

  *

  ‘Right, I know you have needs, Fia,’ Simon announces with a wolfish grin, which makes me blush. ‘Much as it’ll kill me, you can have a shopping day.’

  Yay! Doing what I do for a living means it’s a treat to be able to immerse myself in clothes without a clipboard and stopwatch in hand. And so begins a day of alternative sightseeing, starting with a brand new out-of-town shopping centre, where Simon begrudgingly admits he needs more swimwear. Apparently, the seven minutes he’d had to pack wasn’t sufficient.

  ‘Come out so I can see you,’ I call through the curtain of the cubicle.

  ‘No need, these'll do.’

  ‘Yes need,’ I insist. ‘You want a second opinion.’

  ‘Really Fia, I'm a grown-up. I can buy stuff without guidance.’

  ‘Pfft’ I snort. ‘Out. Now.’

  He sighs resigned, which is just as well as he knows better than to argue fashion with me.

  ‘Relax’ I say, ‘I'm a professiona...’ I grind to a halt as he emerges. Now, I’ve been seeing Simon topless for years. Really. Between the ages of ten and eighteen he wore only shorts all summer long. And of course he's been wearing shorts around the hotel pool, but I haven't really had a good look. I haven't studied him, because he's Simon and well, you don't generally study what you already know, do you? But right now, assessing the swim shorts, the way they hang on his hips and accentuate the toning that he’s clearly purchased from some shop I’ve missed, I am acutely aware that I’ve been blind and that my jaw is somewhere level with my knees.

  ‘That bad, huh?’ he says, his brow furrowed.

  ‘No. Not bad, not at all,’ I fluster, my throat feeling claggy. How pathetic am I, getting all adolescent over my best friend? How ridiculous. I blink a couple of times and pull myself together. ‘So, in my opinion, as a professional, you understand’– and not some leery girl – ‘they were made for you. Buy them.’ I turn away and furiously peruse some bikinis, because I can’t stand there gawping at his obliques any longer.

  I still feel out of sorts in the cab as we drive on to Curepipe. This is proper shopping, in a proper town with the locals. There is colour everywhere, with a full spectrum of saris on offer in the small shops. I love it, not least because it takes my mind and my eyes off Simon and his torso. Simon, for his part, is a complete angel, patiently carrying the bags as they accumulate.

  ‘Amazing,’ I groan, falling into the back of the cab, exhausted yet deliciously content. Simon slings an arm around me as he closes the door. ‘You were so right. You knew exactly what I needed.’ Grinning up into his face I add, ‘You know me so well.’

  ‘I do,’ he nods, obviously pleased.

  ‘Thank you, mate,’ I say, giving him a huge smoochy kiss on the cheek. ‘You are the best’.

  ‘Nah,’ he says, ‘you're the best’. At that precise moment I know that I am happier that it’s Simon with me on this trip than anyone else.

  ‘Si?’

  ‘Mmm,’ he murmurs as we both watch the landscape passing by.

  ‘I think we need a rest day. It’s all been so jaw-droppingly awesome, I think I need a break to take it all in and mull over what I've seen so far. I want to savour it.’

  ‘Are you ready for that?’ he asks. I note the hint of concern in his voice. Lordy, have I really been so volatile? Possibly. So, am I ready? I consider it for a moment and realise that I haven't thought about the wedding or lack thereof for well...days. And now, actively thinking about it, I don't feel misery or anything remotely touching hysteria.

  ‘I think I’ll be okay,’ I say carefully, trying out the words and then I smile to show him I mean it, because I do. I really do.

  *

  We throw ourselves into lazy mode, sleeping late the following morning, surfacing only to transfer to sunloungers by the beachside pool. I can tell Simon is watching me for signs of a relapse, but it's okay. I feel good. I don't even look at the wedding gazebo as we leave the villa. Not so much as a sneaky peek, nor even a snarl in its general direction. See that? That’s progress right there.

  I drag our loungers across from the poolside, down onto the beach. Kicking off my sandals, I dig my toes deep into the warmth of the sand. So comforting. Then I'm off down to the sea. Skipping, no less. Standing thigh deep, my fingertips play the surface like a keyboard, as I sway from side to side in a state of bliss. A shout from the beach brings my attention back. Simon is standing by the loungers watching me. I don't know how long I've been daydreaming out here, or how long he's been there, but it gives me a glowing feeling, bringing me out in a huge grin. That slow smile of his spreads across his face and that’s how we stand, looking at each other, until he breaks the gaze.

  ‘Beer?’ he calls, holding up his bottle of Phoenix.

  ‘Lychee punch, please,’ I reply, sinking down into the water so that it skims my chin. It's simultaneously refreshing and soothing. Lying back, I scull for a while, revelling in the clear blue sky. Hear that England? A sky without clouds. Who knew?

  Eventually, I return to the sunloungers, the he
at instantly beginning to dry the pearls of saltwater that cover me. Looking over, Simon's lounger is empty.

  I hear a loud giggle from the pool bar, where I see Simon talking to a woman. I say giggle, but really it is more of a horsey bray, and she's wearing the most hideous swimsuit I have ever seen; a couple of strategic patches and a whole lot of string criss-crossing her body. It’s how Ann Summers would truss a Sunday roast, I imagine. She clearly hasn't thought about her strap marks.

  She seems to find Simon remarkably funny, braying some more and throwing her head back each time, her long curls swishing. (He is funny, mind you, or at least he’s always made me laugh. Dry wit, that's his thing, and a strong touch of gallows humour.) She keeps touching his arm. That and the hair swishing is so obvious. Surely Simon won't be taken in by it? He's savvy enough to know when girls are flirting with him.

  A sense of dread fills me that he could fall for her moves. Yet, why should it bother me? Simon is on holiday too. He might want a holiday fling. Just the thought of it worsens the feeling; it's now a deep-seated pain in the pit of my stomach. And it worries me, because I don't understand it.

  Hunger. Maybe it’s just hunger.

  Grabbing my sarong and beach-bag I scurry over to them.

  ‘Si, fancy an early lunch?’ I smile at Braying Woman and turn back to him.

  ‘Sofia, this is Helena.’ We nod at each other and smile, but hers doesn’t reach her eyes and mine feels like a grimace. What is that about? I can do professional pleasantries, I live doing professional pleasantries. I do enthusiastic and interested in my sleep.

  ‘Helena works on Fast Lane.’ He’s almost panting like a delirious puppy. Si loves all those car shows.