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

by Belinda Jones

‘But—’

  He turns and walks on, confidently ducking under a low-slung rustle of leaves, striking up a whistle as he disappears down some secret pathway.

  Darnit, I think as I call out to him.

  ‘Wait for me!’

  Of course he’s staying at a palace of a hotel. One of those floor-to-ceiling marble affairs with a gargantuan lobby appointed with out-sized flora and fauna and white linen sofas. He walks through as if he’s modelling the latest swimwear collection for Dolce & Gabbana. I squelch behind, hoping no one skids on my trail of drips.

  ‘Willow, it’s Jared,’ he raps on a double-door at the end of what seemed like an infinity corridor. ‘I don’t have my key.’

  The aptly slender blonde who opens the door doesn’t look nearly as surprised as she should to see her man appear with a sopping rag in tow.

  He motions in my direction. ‘This is Callie—’

  ‘Kelly,’ I correct him.

  ‘Either way, she needs a dry outfit, can you sort her out? I need to call Dwight.’

  He grabs a phone from the side console and heads into the bathroom, leaving me to turn apologetically towards Willow (basically a cross between Gwyneth Paltrow and Blake Lively.)

  ‘I’m so sorry to interrupt your evening.’

  ‘You’re not interrupting anything, I assure you.’

  ‘Just a towel would be great…’

  ‘Here,’ she places her hand on my wet shoulder to guide me, ‘You can use my bathroom. There’s a robe on the back of the door, help yourself to whatever you need.’

  As eager as I am to get clean and dry, I’m also a little wary, checking for cameras and peepholes. You never know with the excessively rich what games they like to play. I test the lock on the door one more time before quickly prising off my clothes and hopping into the shower. Of course Jared would have a Willow. It was too fantastical to think otherwise. But it was fun, nonetheless, to see male beauty up close, my own private viewing party under the stars. I should have taken a picture when I had the chance, what a nice little addition to Facebook that would have been. Almost as photo-worthy as Willow’s collection of potions, I think as I wrap myself in her heavy velvety robe. Look at all the exquisite glass bottles with chic French labels. Oh gosh – I remember reading about this Creme Royal moisturiser – it costs about £400 a pop because it contains twenty-four carat gold! I wonder if my skin would glow like Willow’s – or a dinoflagellate for that matter – if I applied a layer? My hand hovers over it but then I get a vision of it slipping through my fingertips and smashing on the floor so instead I ease off the top of her bottle of Hermès perfume and inhale, surrendering for a moment to the amber-scented luxury, pretending this is my hotel suite, my life. Oh if Adrian and Ali could see me now! Would it be so wrong to take a picture of someone else’s bathroom?

  As I reach for my phone, there’s a tap at the door. I freeze.

  ‘Hello?’

  It’s Willow.

  ‘Your outfit is by the door.’

  Gingerly I open it, like a wild animal accepting food from a human hand.

  It’s a beautiful peach beach kaftan – over my head it goes… Wow! One size really does fit all! I pull my hair into a top knot. If I tuck in one of the blooms from the lobby display I’m good to go! But Willow has other ideas…

  No sooner do I emerge, she begins draping an assortment of jewellery around my neck and wrists. It’s all a bit Liz Taylor ritzy for my taste but it keeps on coming – especially the bangles and bracelets, winking and chiming and clattering until I’m literally up to my elbows.

  I check around me for sacrificial pyres.

  ‘You know I’m just going to be sitting on the bus for an hour?’

  ‘You never know who you might meet.’

  ‘I pretty much do.’ I think back to my long-lost group. Pleasant enough but no one worthy of excessive accessorizing. ‘Besides, how would I return all this to you?’

  ‘I’ll be in San Juan tomorrow – I have a couple of business meetings but I’ll catch you in between. Where are you staying?’

  ‘The Gallery Inn.’

  ‘Oh!’ She stops in her tracks. ‘In that case…’ She then proceeds to strip me of every last strand, bead and bauble.

  Is this what it’s like to be de-frocked? What does she know about the Gallery Inn that I don’t? I did catch a glimpse of the resident parrots when I dropped off my case this afternoon, but I thought it was only magpies that liked to swipe glittery things?

  ‘Now this,’ she says lifting my wrist and sliding on an embellished leather cuff, ‘is more Gallery Inn style.’

  I say leather cuff but that implies one of those rock band toughies fixed with a popper-stud; this is softest suede with a panel of filigree copper and a gemstone centerpiece.

  I trace my fingertips over the handiwork. ‘It’s stunning, so original.’

  ‘Made right here in Old San Juan. Mildred Cortez. She’s my four o’clock. Look…’

  She leads me to her dressing table where there’s row upon row of variations on the theme, from elephant greys to mulberries, dusky pinks to mid-navys, each with its own unique appliqueing and design details.

  I love them all.

  ‘They’re not even that expensive, in your British pounds this simple one is about twenty-two pounds and the glitzier ones are thirty-five.’

  ‘Oh don’t get her started on those!’

  We turn and see Jared in the doorway, towel-tousled hair, loose linen shirt, reeking of aftershave. Which seems a bit much since he says he has to leave in five minutes to go and appease Dwight. I shuffle awkwardly as he pulls Willow to him, nuzzling into her a little more roughly than seems appropriate in company.

  ‘Um, I’ve got to return the boat…’ I dare to interrupt.

  ‘Concierge has already arranged it,’ he says as he squeezes her petite behind. ‘A taxi will be out front in five to take you to the bus.’

  ‘Oh! Gosh. Thank you.’

  He returns to his nuzzling, his hands now raking at her pale blonde hair. If we switched to black and white they could be the seemingly ardent couple in a Calvin Klein perfume ad. And yet…

  As I head for the door (I’ll see myself out!) I look back at Willow, feeling oddly reluctant to leave her. But she gives me a nod and says, ‘I’ll be with you tomorrow at noon.’

  When I first come to the next morning, I have the sensation that I’m still on the boat. I can see Jared as clearly as if I had taken a picture, but oddly he doesn’t seem anywhere near as attractive today. Eager for a new image, I open my eyes and revel in my surroundings. As much as I was dazzled by their marble palace, it’s an echoey mausoleum compared to this textural wonderland... Above me is a cranberry red and dark gold brocade canopy, beyond that a high black-beamed ceiling. My headboard is a floral tapestry; the chair beside the shuttered window is ornately carved and bound with brass-studded leather. If Zorro burst out from the wardrobe I wouldn’t be surprised. I just wish I’d packed a flouncy skirt to whip around in a dramatic fashion.

  I took a lot of trouble picking out a hotel (it’s the estate agent in me) and I had a feeling this property would have enough character to keep me company. This is the first time I have been on holiday by myself and I certainly enjoy feeling as if I am the invited guest of the painter/sculptress owner rather than just another name in the registry.

  I saw her briefly yesterday – Jan D’Esopo – she has to be in her seventies but she was so striking in her peacock-sheen top and blackest lashes I found myself cooing, ‘You’re so glamorous!’ before I’d even said hello.

  She invited me for sunset mojitos but I explained that I had to get the bus to the Bio Bay. Ironically, of the two, it is The Gallery Inn that fills me with more wonder. Passing through reception on my way to breakfast I see paintbrushes and fencing swords and the large white parrot she had on her arm yesterday. ‘Campeche’ reads the sign on his perch.

  ‘Hola!’ He startles me.

  ‘Hola!’ I reply.

&
nbsp; ‘Hola!’ he calls again as I turn to leave. This time I say nothing.

  ‘Holaaarrrgghhhhh!’ he emits the most blood-curdling cry.

  Christ! That is not a bird that likes to be ignored.

  ‘Miss Johnson?’ a softer voice calls to me.

  It’s the receptionist.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You have a visitor!’

  I look at my watch. Only 10.30am, who can it be? A remorseful Ali flying 4,000 miles to make her apology? A conservationist wanting payback for all the dinoflagellates I depleted? For a second I think it might be Jared, realizing he never did actually thank me for rescuing him.

  ‘Willow!’

  There she stands, fresh as a daisy in a white shirtdress and bold lemon-yellow necklace.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m so early! My morning meeting got pushed back and I didn’t have a number for you…’

  ‘That’s fine! I was just about to have some breakfast. Why don’t you join me?’

  No reply.

  ‘Willow?’

  ‘Is that Michelle Obama?’ She steps towards a glazed clay bust.

  ‘It certainly looks like her,’ I agree.

  ‘They stayed here.’ The receptionist confirms.

  ‘The Obamas? Both of them?’

  ‘Si. In Blanca.’

  ‘That’s my room!’ I exclaim. ‘That’s my room!’ I tell Willow.

  She laughs at my excitement. ‘Very cool. Just don’t tell Jared or he’ll be moving in, just for the kudos.’

  ‘Bit of a name-dropper is he?’ I whisper.

  She nods. ‘Sometimes I think he only asked me out because of the Leonardo Di Caprio connection.’

  ‘What?’ This is all too much! ‘You went out with Leonardo Di Caprio?’

  ‘It was nothing, one time to a Pinkberry in LA, but the photographs ended up everywhere and for a while that’s how I was known – Leonardo Di Caprio’s Mystery Blonde.’

  ‘Oh how awful!’

  She laughs again. ‘There are worse things, right? And it did give me the name for my jewellery company…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Arm Candy!’

  I smile. ‘If you can’t beat ’em…’

  ‘Exactly.’

  We barely take two steps towards the next atrium only to stall again.

  ‘Are you kidding me with this place?’

  I smile at Willow’s feigned exasperation. It really does seem to get more enchanting with every step. We’re in an open courtyard now with a soft coral velvet seating area one end, fountains in the middle and ferns spilling down from the wooden balconies above. We decide to have our coffee and warm blueberry muffins there, until we catch a glimpse of the multi-layered roof garden beyond the bowl of papayas…

  I feel a little teary-eyed as we step into the sunshine. I couldn’t have asked for more of a sanctuary. There must be a dozen variations of orchid embedded in the exposed brick wall leading down to what looks like a cross between an archeological dig, a Moroccan hideaway and a spa.

  ‘There’s a pool!’ Willow gasps as she takes in the turquoise waters contrasting with all the terracotta artworks.

  My eyes are on the canopied daybed, strewn with cushions and accented with a wind-tinkled chandelier.

  ‘Can we sit there?’

  It seems too good to be true.

  As we settle in to our respective corners, Willow emits an elongated sigh of contentment. ‘Jared would hate this.’

  For a second I think I’ve misheard her – she sounds so pleased about the fact.

  ‘Too eccentric.’ She wafts her hand. ‘He likes everything to be pristine. And soulless… Most days I wake up and I couldn’t even tell you what country we’re in…’

  She doesn’t sound bitter, just nonchalant. And extremely happy to be somewhere that reminds her of her own taste.

  For a few minutes we fall silent, not in an awkward way, more out of reverence for our environment – a chance to take in the balmy breeze, savour the scent of all the lovingly-tended flowers.

  ‘Imagine the thoughts you could have lying here…’ I say, cradling my cup of creamy-sweet Puerto Rican coffee. ‘The new futures you could dream for yourself…’

  Willow studies me for a second. ‘Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ I say, giving her a quick summary of my situation. ‘I just wanted to be somewhere different. Feel something different.’

  She nods. ‘And you haven’t heard from her yet?’

  ‘From Ali?’ I frown. ‘No.’

  ‘That’s odd.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, the adrenalin rush of meeting in secret would have worn off by now. The drama has subsided. Now they’re just a normal couple like everyone else. Their flaws and incompatibilities will become all the more apparent. She’ll need someone to talk to about it all. And you’re not there any more. She’s really going to feel that loss…’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’

  Willow tuts me. ‘It’s such a myth that men complete women or that they form our other half, as if they are all we need. Women need their female friends just as much.’

  And then her gaze drifts heavenward. ‘Is that a roof terrace?’

  ‘You want to take a peek?’

  Only now do I get a feel for the scale of San Juan – from this glorious vantage point I can literally see from shore to shore. Willow tells me that the old town is even more bijou – only six or seven blocks in each direction.

  ‘I love a walkable city,’ I say as I survey the rooftops with their laundry lines and deckchairs and potted plants.

  ‘You’ll be surprised how narrow the streets are down there but there’s always one side in shade, which you need because the heat can get pretty claustrophobic.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d be able to cope for more than a few days,’ I fan myself.

  ‘Well you can always step out to the perimeter and catch an ocean breeze.’ She points off to a large expanse of green beside the old fortress wall. ‘See those kites!’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I sigh, feeling for a second as if my heart is attached, zig-zagging through the sky, making a bid for freedom.

  On our way back down we pause to peruse a memory wall of photos taking us through Jan’s clearly remarkable life.

  ‘I’ve got to aspire to more than just getting by!’ I tell myself and then beckon Willow. ‘Look – she’s even done an ad for Puerto Rican rum.’

  The styling puts me in mind of Joan Collins and her Cinzano ads of the eighties but I’m not sure Willow would get the reference. Ali would. But Ali’s not here, I remind myself with an unwelcome pang.

  ‘You know there’s something I’ve always wanted to do but Jared said it was too touristy...’

  I cock a brow. ‘I’m a tourist.’

  I wonder if she’s going to suggest a horse and carriage ride or a visit to the old fort museum or a big plate of mofongo (whatever that may be) but she doesn’t.

  Instead she says, ‘Do you want to take the Bacardi factory tour?’

  ‘Do you get to sample the wares?’

  She nods vigorously. ‘And learn how to make an original daiquiri, before they invented blenders!’

  ‘What about your meetings?’

  ‘We have time – it’s not so far from here.’

  ‘But, I mean, you don’t want to turn up drunk!’

  Suddenly she looks gripped with excitement. ‘Why don’t we do everything drunk today?’

  ‘What?’ I laugh.

  ‘Oh please! I never get to have any fun.’

  I have to say, the notion isn’t entirely unappealing…

  It takes us less than fifteen minutes to cross the old town, up and down cobbled streets lined with Spanish Colonial buildings painted a whole gelateria of ice-cream colours – strawberry pinks and sorbet lemons, mangos, limes and mints. Such fresh happy hues!

  While I find myself slightly thrown by the vast modernity of the cruise ships in the port, Willow scoots ahead and buys our ferry ti
ckets.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ I reach for my purse.

  ‘Fifty cents.’

  ‘No, really?’

  ‘Seriously, it’s fifty cents. This is the local’s ferry.’

  I get quite a kick sitting alongside them, knowing that so many people have been suckered into paying tour operators $25 and up. As I’m sure I would have, had Willow not been my guide.

  A quick taxi ride takes us to the world’s largest rum distillery, and about fifty years back in time.

  ‘It’s so retro!’ I cheer as I take in the sixties architecture, pin-up girl artwork and assorted incarnations of that infamous bat logo.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Willow nudges me, as I busily snap away with my phone. ‘The bat is a symbol of health, wealth and happiness!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And Bacardi isn’t Puerto Rican at all – it’s actually of Cuban origin.’

  ‘Hence the rum and Coke of the Cuba Libre?’

  ‘Exactly! The company was founded there in 1862 by one Don Facundo Bacardi Massó.’

  ‘Ah-ha! So he’s the original Batman!’

  Willow giggles as we move through to the recreation of the distilling process.

  We have a good snoop around all the exhibits, learning all manner of crazy statistics along the way (did you know that if you lined up all 7.2 billion of the Bacardi cocktails drunk each year, you could circle the earth 9 times?). We watch the original daiquiri demonstration (simply rum, lime juice and sugar), admire the selection of vintage shakers and take a hearty sniff of each of the different aged rums.

  ‘I’m loving this Oakheart,’ I tell her, savouring the pervasive scent of the wooden barrel. ‘I’ve never even heard of it before.’

  ‘Maybe we can try it at the al fresco bar?’

  Ten minutes later I’m sipping from a little plastic cup mingling ‘Oak and Coke’.

  ‘God, I love it!’ I rave. ‘It sort of tastes like aftershave…’

  Willow rolls her eyes. ‘I think I’m going to try one of the fruitier ones. What do you think Wolfberry tastes like?’

  ‘Or Dragonberry?’ I point to the next bottle along.

  ‘Oooh Rock Coconut! That’s the one.’

  We take our little cluster of freebies over to a table and sit, enjoying the shade and the luxury of tipsy girltalk. The only time I get a bad feeling is when Jared’s name comes up, another passing example of his controlling/dismissive ways. (Apparently one of the reasons she didn’t seem phased by my appearance last night is that he has ‘trained’ her not to question anything he does. ‘Just go with the flow,’ he says. But I’m guessing it’s always his flow.) I sigh to myself – as composed and elegant as Willow is, there’s a fragility to her that concerns me, to the point that I want to ask, ‘Why don’t you just leave him?’