‘Still agony, thanks.’ Going topless without suncream, even for less than an hour, wasn’t the wisest decision I’ve ever made. ‘And you could keep your voice down.’ The teenage boys sitting with their parents at the next table are paying rather too much attention to our conversation for my liking.
‘Ooops, sorry! Right, shall we drink up and go? I’m gagging to get into that water.’
Swimming in the sea is the ultimate hangover cure. By the time I’ve swum out underwater and back again, past yachts, pedalos and windsurfers, I’m almost feeling human. Blinking in the dazzling sunshine, I join Poppy basking in the shallows.
‘That’s better,’ I grin.
‘You are such a waterbaby.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘Strange, slippery fish-like creature. Have you grown scales yet?’
‘It’ll probably look like I have when I start to peel. That’ll be attractive. Scaly bazookas.’
Poppy giggles, then frowns.
‘What is it?’
‘I’ve found something.’ She lifts a sodden scrap of pale pink fabric out of the seabed with her foot. I recognise it immediately.
‘It’s my bikini top! Yay! Oh, come back to Mummy.’ I grab it from Poppy and clasp it to my burnt chest, showering it with kisses. ‘How I’ve missed you.’
‘And you accuse me of still being pissed?’ Poppy manages to gasp through her shoulder-heaving laughter. ‘Oh Belles, what are the chances?’
‘If I’d only kept you on, things could have been so different…’ I’m still addressing the dripping garment.
‘Stop it…’
‘I’m never taking you for granted again.’
We sit down on the sand and let the waves break over our legs.
‘God, this is heavenly.’ A sudden thought hits me. ‘Why, when they had Carlota on tap, willing no doubt to pander to their darkest, slimiest fantasies, would they bother with us? I mean, look at me…’ I start to sing. ‘Short and burnt and old and ugly…’
Poppy bursts out laughing. ‘You’re neither short, old nor ugly.’
‘You can’t dispute the burnt bit though.’
‘I can’t dispute the burnt bits...’
And we both crack up again.
With red awnings and white table cloths, Bar Senequier, located right on the waterfront of le vieux port, is a St Tropez institution.
Poppy and I are sharing a bottle of rosé and people-watching in the setting sun. The mega-rich are starting to come out for aperitifs on their yachts, pretending not to notice that everybody on the shore is staring at them.
‘God there are some freaks here,’ Poppy mutters as yet another overweight, over-tanned middle-aged man lumbers by, clinking gold and oozing grease from his thinning hair to his Gucci loafers, an impossibly young and pretty girl on his arm. ‘It’s as though they think their money will stop the rest of the world noticing how grotesque they are. Well listen up, matey, it doesn’t!’
‘I know. Pascal seems a veritable hunk of sophisticated manhood compared to this lot.’
As we’re meeting Damian and a friend for dinner later, Poppy and I spent some time tarting ourselves up. We found out about the friend via text earlier, and Pops has high hopes for him being my elusive holiday romance.
‘Wouldn’t it be great?’ she said after reading the message. ‘We could all hang out in a cool little gang together.’
‘Loving the assumption that the friend’s going to be cool.’ I raise a cynical eyebrow.
‘Damian wouldn’t have an uncool friend, believe me Belles.’
Poppy’s channelling Bardot in a blue and white gingham shirt tied under her bust and faded denim cut-offs, showcasing her flat midriff and slender brown limbs. Not being quite so blessed, I’ve stuck to the fifties theme but gone for a full-skirted, wasp-waisted pink and white floral halterneck sundress, with my long dark hair loose around my shoulders. I think we’ve both scrubbed up pretty well; there’ve been several wolf whistles already – although they could all have been directed at Pops, I suppose.
Crowds of tourists of all nationalities chatter excitedly around tables, hoping to catch a glimpse of somebody famous. Delicious garlicky smells waft through the air, and the balmy evening is heady with the anticipation of another hedonistic night. So it’s with some reluctance that Poppy and I drag ourselves away from Senequier. Not much, though, as she’s dying to see Damian again and I’m pretty curious about his friend.
‘Tell me again about this hotel we’re meeting them,’ I say as we walk along the palm-tree-lined seafront, trying not to gawp at a ridiculous platinum blonde trailing a horrible yappy dog on a pink perspex lead.
‘It’s called Hotel La Ponche and has been around since the fifties.’ When I was in the shower, Poppy did some extensive Googling. ‘It sounds fab – used to be a hangout for Sartre, Francoise Sagan, Juliet Greco, Picasso… Old BB herself used it as a changing room when she was filming Et Dieu Crea La Femme.’
‘Wow. And his magazine’s paying?’
‘He’s reviewing it. Jammy git,’ Poppy laughs.
‘Says she, whose company’s putting her up in its glamorous apartment for a week.’
‘Touché. Oh gosh, isn’t this pretty?’ We’ve just passed a cluster of sea-facing pastel-painted cottages – now all housing expensive boutiques and restaurants – and turned left into an elegant square lined with trees. Some elderly men playing boules in its centre smile and wave at us as we walk by.
We amble through ever more higgledy-piggledy, Labyrinthine streets, fragrant with lavender and mimosa, until we find ourselves outside La Ponche, right in the heart of the Old Town. It’s a lovely looking building, all peach-painted stone, faded greeny-grey shutters and sloping tiled roof, with tables and chairs spilling out onto the pavement. Inside it’s equally charming, with fresh flowers, antique lamps and soft, muted furnishings.
‘Blimey. Stadium must be doing better than I realized,’ says Poppy out of the corner of her mouth. ‘A gaff like this wouldn’t want any crappy old men’s mag reviewing it.’
A handsome man is standing at the bar holding an enormous bunch of white roses and lilies. As we walk in, he chucks the flowers onto the bartop and rushes over to Poppy, scooping her up in a romantic clinch. They snog for at least a minute. Well, well, well. I’ve never seen my super-cool friend behave like this before.
‘Are you pleased to see me, or what,’ laughs Poppy, when she eventually emerges, flushed and giggling. ‘Let me introduce you to Bella. Bella, this is Damian. Damian, my best friend Bella.’
‘I’ve heard loads about you,’ I smile, holding out my hand.
‘Likewise,’ he responds, gleaming white teeth lighting up his lean brown face. He really is good-looking, with soulful dark eyes fringed by curly, girly black lashes, close cropped black hair and a lean, lightly muscled physique. ‘This gorgeous little chatterbox never stops going on about you.’ He kisses the top of Poppy’s head and tightens his arm around her bare waist.
‘God, poor you!’ I joke, trying not to look or sound surprised by their obvious intimacy. It’s lovely, and I’m thrilled for her, but it’s just – well, a bit of a shock, I suppose.
‘My mate Ben should be down in a minute,’ Damian adds. ‘Vain bastard was still “putting the finishing touches to his hair” when I left him.’ He puts on a camp voice and Poppy and I laugh, though my heart sinks slightly. Vanity isn’t my favourite trait in men.
But when Ben walks into the room, I know that even if he were to whip out a jewelled compact and start plucking his eyebrows, I’d still be putty in his hands for ever more. He has to be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. At least 6’3, with long legs, broad shoulders and beautifully worked-out arms, he looks like some sort of golden sun god. Streaky light brown/blond hair flops into eyes the colour of an English summer sky and his high cheekbones and pink, pouty lips would be the envy of any teenage fashion model.
There’s nothing effeminate about him, though. As
he smiles and comes over to greet us all, I practically faint with lust at his proximity.
‘So Bella, how are you enjoying St Tropez?’ he asks me in a beautifully modulated voice. ‘You’re looking lovely and brown already.’
‘Thanks! I was horribly burnt earlier but it seems to have died down now.’ Oh, fantastic Bella. Way to accept a compliment, you twat. ‘And I love St Tropez!’ I add quickly, before my mouth runs away with me completely and I start telling him about my soon-to-be-peeling tits. ‘Is it your first time here?’
We eat dinner on the hotel’s exquisitely pretty terrace, with its view over the sea to the glittering lights of the harbour. Over starters of Provencal soupe de poissons with croutons and rouille, we ascertain that Ben and Damian grew up together in the Welsh valleys, that Damian always wanted to write, Ben to act. That they moved to London together – Damian to read English at London University, Ben to go to RADA (which would explain the beautifully modulated tones).
Over mains of char-grilled sardines with thinly sliced potatoes cooked with tomatoes, garlic and fennel we establish that Ben’s fledgling acting career (commercials, fringe stuff and the odd part in The Bill) is supplemented financially by modelling. But he is charming, funny and self-deprecating, asking me loads of questions about myself and actually listening to the answers. And am I imagining it, or is there something, some sort of electricity, between us?
I feel myself coming alive in his company, my heart going like the clappers every time he looks into my eyes with those luscious baby blues. Poppy keeps giving me unsubtle winks and raised eyebrows from across the table, clearly excited that her ‘cool gang of four’ plan may be about to be realised.
As the waiter brings us coffees and cognacs (we think we’re sooo sophisticated), Ben says, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked a friend to join us later. I met her on a shoot, and I have to admit, I’ve got a bit of a major crush on her!’
What?! This wasn’t in the plan! Poppy and I exchange looks of dismay; Damian smiles apologetically.
‘Oh, here she is now.’ Ben bounds to his feet like an over-eager puppy. ‘Carlota, let me introduce you to my friends.’
And it’s with a certain resigned inevitability that we find ourselves face to face, once again, with the Girl from Ipanema.
About the Author
Lucy Lord is a journalist-turned-novelist who has written for The Times, Guardian, Independent, Evening Standard, Time Out and Arena. She signed a three-book deal with HarperCollins a couple of years ago and her first novel, REVELRY, came out last summer. The second, VANITY, is out now as an e-book, with the paperback following in July. TREACHERY, which completes the trilogy, is due out later this year. She lives just off London’s Portobello Road with her musician husband and enjoys reading, writing, lying in hammocks, long lunches on beaches and throwing parties. She hardly ever regrets her decision not to become a war correspondent.
Website: www.lucylordauthor.com
Twitter: @lucylord1
Visit the Sunlounger website at www.va-va-vacation.com/lucy-lord
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PACK UP YOUR TROUBLES
***
Chrissie Manby
Destination: Majorca
Kelly could not wait for the weekend. Unfortunately, it was only Monday morning. But for once, the five long days that stretched ahead did not seem quite so awful as usual, because at the end of them, Kelly was off on her annual holiday. Two weeks in Majorca. It would be utter bliss.
It was just a matter of biting her tongue until then. Of biting her tongue and rising above it and not letting her colleague Helen get to her in the way that Helen always did. Helen had been at Whiteley’s Accountants of Birmingham for eight whole months longer than Kelly. When Kelly arrived on a temp contract, Helen took it upon herself to take Kelly under her wing and show her how WA worked and Kelly was very grateful for the advice. A year later, however, Helen still took it upon herself to offer Kelly advice at every turn and not all of it – in fact, none of it – was welcome.
‘Did you colour your hair yourself?’ was a typical opening gambit.
Kelly didn’t colour her hair at all.
‘Only I was going to say, they didn’t get those greys at the back.’
Or how about, ‘I love that dress. Did they have it in a twelve?’
‘I’m wearing a twelve,’ Kelly told her.
‘Really? I thought vanity sizing worked the other way round. You know, labelling sizes bigger than they are.’
There wasn’t a pointed question that Helen couldn’t couch in concern. There wasn’t a compliment she didn’t serve backhanded. Three years of sharing an office with Helen had left Kelly constantly on guard for the next thinly veiled attack.
‘Where is it you’re going next week?’ Helen asked her.
‘Majorca,’ said Kelly.
‘Oh. I’ve heard it’s very nice,’ said Helen, but she screwed up her nose as she did so.
‘She’s fed up,’ said Gina, when Kelly met her in the staff kitchen. ‘Because Majorca’s where her boyfriend is going on his lads’ holiday. Without her.’
‘What? Gorgeous George? Holidaying with the boys? Without Helen?’
Gina nodded. ‘She’s livid.’
Kelly wasn’t surprised. A holiday with the boys did not fit Helen’s description of her dream-boat boyfriend at all. George was rich, handsome and ‘Utterly, you understand, utterly devoted’. When Helen was with George she never opened a car door or picked up a tab, she said. He had his own business (carpet fitting). He drove a brand new Merc. He was always buying charms for Helen’s prized Pandora bracelet (the solid gold ones). It was a matter of time before he popped the question. Just a matter of time. Helen was always adding to her wedding board on Pinterest when she should have been looking for client files in the cold, dark WA basement.
‘You’ll come to our reception, won’t you, Kelly?’ Helen would coo. ‘Perhaps I could sit you next to a nice man. I really don’t know why you’re single. Magazines always say that men secretly like a bigger girl.’
Friday afternoon arrived at last. Kelly was de-mob happy. Nothing Helen could say now would spoil her mood, because come Monday morning Helen would be back at her desk while Kelly would be on a beach. Helen would be drinking office tea while Kelly sipped a cocktail. All the same, Helen managed one last jab when she saw Kelly getting her luggage ready to go straight from the office to the airport.
‘Is that all you’re taking?’ she asked, nodding at Kelly’s trusty old wheelie case.
‘Yes.’ Kelly nodded.
‘I suppose it’s a good idea taking an old case like that. You can be sure no-one will nick it off the baggage carousel.’
‘There is that,’ Kelly agreed.
‘I just got myself a new case,’ said Helen. ‘A Lulu Guinness wheelie. A bit of an extravagance but I’m expecting to get quite a bit of use out of it in the next few years. George is taking me away for the weekend at the end of the month. First time he’s organised a trip himself. I think we know what that means.’ Helen raised her eyebrows.
Kelly nodded. Though she wasn’t sure she did know what it meant. She knew that Helen hoped it meant a proposal in the offing. It might just as well mean that George was feeling guilty about his lads’ holiday. Which Helen had still not mentioned, Kelly noted.
‘Have a good fortnight,’ said Helen as she left the office at two minutes to five. ‘You should be able to get a decent tan. Tans are quite slimming, you know.’
Kelly had no intention of wasting her holiday basting on the beach. She had hired a car to explore the whole island. She wanted to see the rugged west coast and the Tramuntana mountains and visit some of the ancient towns inland. She also had a hundred books to read on her Kindle. Helen had asked her several times if she wasn’t going to find
it boring, holidaying on her own. No chance, thought Kelly. A holiday on her own was exactly what she wanted. She didn’t need someone complaining she was being anti-social when she got stuck into a good novel. She was happy to be able to set her own timetable; go where she wanted, when she wanted. And eat exactly what she wanted without anyone raising a faux-concerned eyebrow.
From her first morning in Majorca, she knew she had made the right decision. The little apartment in Fornalutx was exactly her cup of tea. She loved to wake up to the bright sunlight bouncing off the white walls, turning her head to see the spectacular mountains through the window framed by bright pink bougainvillea. She walked into the village for breakfast and drank orange juice so freshly squeezed, its citrus tang tickled her nose. She sat back and watched a couple of local children playing at the village pump, sending up droplets of water that glittered in the air like sequins. It was so warm, she felt like she couldn’t move an inch. She didn’t have to. She could very quickly get used to this life.
But on the third day of Kelly’s holiday, a little before midday, the tranquil atmosphere of the village square was rent by the sound of unhappy British accents. Kelly looked up from her Kindle to see three young men in shorts and football shirts. One of them had clearly had too much sun the day before. His face was the colour of chorizo. The other two were complaining about their hangovers. And the distance from Magaluf.
‘You should have looked at the map, you bloody muppet,’ one of the young men complained. ‘How the hell did we end up in this graveyard? There’s nothing to do. No clubs. One bar. And you can hardly call it a proper bar. Where are we supposed to watch the football?’
Everything that Kelly cherished about the quiet village was a disappointment to the three men, who had been suckered into spending their holiday there by an Internet misunderstanding.
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