‘Mine too,’ Sibel admitted. ‘Hen partying is exhausting.’
Lisa got to her feet and pulled Milly up. ‘Save some strength for tomorrow – we’re booked in for massages at the hammam.’
Back in her room, Nat sat for a full fifteen minutes on her bed, staring at the dark green medicine. Coming to Marrakech had been the start of her recovery but could she count on her happiness lasting once she found herself back in England, with the wedding only days away? Dan was the best man, for goodness’ sake; there was no way she could avoid him. She was even supposed to dance with him, although Milly had said she didn’t have to.
She’d left her shoes up on the roof, to give her an excuse to go back up there in case she got caught. She didn’t have to drink the potion if she didn’t want to, she reasoned as she padded up the narrow stone steps. No one even knew she had it.
The lanterns were still lit, sending a soft glow across the rooftop and the air was still warm. Around her, she could see the ornate shapes of other buildings silhouetted against the night sky. The sky was cloudless and a crescent moon shone down, brighter than she’d ever seen it before. Inside the gazebo, she could make out her sandals. She checked the time; it was a few minutes to midnight.
Leaning against the wall, she gazed at the bottle in her hand. Now that she was on the roof, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to remove the tiny stopper and drink the liquid inside. But what would happen if she did? Would she shrink the size of a mouse, like Alice? Or would she float off in some narcotic-induced dream? There was only one way to find out.
Before common sense could get the better of her, she lifted the bottle to her lips and drank. It tasted of mint and was curiously warm on her tongue. She felt it trickle to her stomach and blinked as an almost instant glow spread out from her middle. Whatever else it did, so far the experience wasn’t unpleasant.
She placed one hand on the wall and closed her eyes, her face lifted to the stars. Another wave of warmth washed over her and she smiled. Maybe she’d head back to the stall again tomorrow for another little bottle.
The door of the roof clicked open behind her. Nat opened her eyes, the smile slipping from her face. What was her excuse again? She scanned the rooftop until she saw her sandals. That was it; she’d left her shoes there.
‘Natalia?’ a low voice called and she turned to see Luc making his way towards her. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Fine,’ she replied, and her voice sounded strange to her ears. ‘How are you?’
He stopped a few yards away and regarded her. ‘I am well. Am I disturbing you?’
Nat opened her mouth to tell him she’d only come for her shoes but the words died in her throat. The lamplight was playing softly across his golden tan and catching on the coppery tints in his untidy hair and she was filled with a sudden desire to know more about him. In England, she would have escaped down the stairs but this was Marrakech. ‘No, not at all, I was just admiring the stars. They’re the same ones that I see at home but somehow I never notice them there.’
Scooping up her sandals she crossed to the gazebo and sat on one of the sofas. Luc followed and sat beside her, and she noted that he was close enough to reach out and touch.
‘There are no street lights here to dim their beauty,’ he said. ‘I find them impossible to ignore.’
Nat smiled. The glow had reached her fingertips now – she was amazed Luc couldn’t see it – but she felt completely in control. Whatever the medicine contained, she was sure it was nothing bad. ‘Tell me about yourself.’
She listened as he explained that he was in Morocco on business, scouting out properties for a development company. He was twenty-nine years old, an only child and ordinarily he lived in Cannes but spent a lot of time in London. Watching his lips, she waited for him to mention a girlfriend but he didn’t, and she saw no ring on his left hand. She gazed into his blue eyes. ‘Are you single?’
He didn’t even blink. ‘Yes. Are you?’
‘Yes.’ Emboldened by the warmth coursing through her, Nat leaned closer. ‘I think I’d like to kiss you. Would you mind?’
This time, Luc’s mouth quirked into a tiny smile. ‘I wouldn’t mind at all.’
Feeling as though she was playing out her wildest fantasy, Nat leaned across and, ever so slowly, brushed his lips with her own.
For several long seconds they sat with their mouths pressed chastely against together. Then Luc’s lips parted and his tongue touched hers, tasting of wine and spices. As the kiss intensified, Nat let her fingers tangle themselves in his hair and gave herself up to the delicious heat consuming her body.
They broke apart, staring breathlessly into each other’s eyes. Nat twisted around until she straddled him, bending her head to kiss him again and again. She moaned as he nuzzled at her neck, while her clumsy fingers fumbled with the tiny buttons on his shirt.
‘Natalia,’ he whispered, placing his hands over hers to stop them. ‘We should go inside.’
It took her a moment to come back to herself and remember where they were. Reluctantly, she nodded. A tiny part of her was shocked at how brazen she’d been but it was washed away by the overwhelming sense of rightness she felt. Whether it was down to the potion or location, she didn’t know; she only knew that she didn’t want it to end there.
She got to her feet, savouring the memory of Luc’s lips on hers. He swept up her sandals and led her towards the door. Inside, she gave into another tingling burst of desire and pushed him up against the cool terracotta wall.
‘Your room or mine?’ she whispered, punctuating the words with feathery kisses.
‘Mine is on the ground floor,’ he replied, caressing her cheek. ‘Yours is closer.’
Once inside, they stripped away the layers of clothes by the soft glow of lantern-light. Naked, they tumbled onto the bed and began to explore each other’s bodies. Eventually, just as Nat felt she might explode from anticipation, Luc climbed on top. He lowered his mouth to hers, then hesitated.
‘I don’t have any condoms.’
Nat wrapped her legs around him and fired a thankful glance at the boxes on her bedside table. ‘Believe me,’ she murmured with a smile. ‘That is not going to be a problem.’
*
Breakfast was laid out in the courtyard, a feast of pastries, fresh fruit, yoghurt and Moroccan pancakes, with freshly squeezed orange juice and steaming hot coffee to drink. The others exclaimed over the melt-in-the-mouth bread still warm from the oven, while Nat kept quiet and hugged the knowledge of the night before to herself. Luc had snuck away with the call to prayer, leaving her with a promise to return that night. Muscles ached that she didn’t even know she had and she would probably crash spectacularly around lunch-time, but it was hard to care when she was floating on a tide of Luc-induced bliss.
‘I love it here,’ Milly said with a contented sigh, as she finished the last of her pancakes. ‘In fact, if it wasn’t for the small matter of the wedding in two weeks’ time, I might not go home at all.’
‘How are you feeling today?’ Sibel asked Nat. ‘Any better?’
Nat fought the blush creeping up her cheeks, made worse by the appearance of Luc at the archway to the courtyard. ‘Er – nothing that a good massage won’t cure.’
Lisa followed her gaze and let out a low whistle. ‘Who is that?’
‘Another guest, I expect,’ Nat said, forcing herself to sound casual. She glanced at Milly. ‘Speaking of guests, is that offer of a plus one still available for the wedding?’
Milly blinked. ‘Of course. Who will you bring?’
‘Oh, I expect I’ll find someone,’ Nat said, smiling.
‘But what about Dan?’ Sibel asked, staring at Nat as though she’d grown horns.
‘Dan?’ Nat repeated, thinking again of the previous night and the promise of many more nights to come. ‘I think I’ve wasted enough time thinking about him, don’t you?’
About the Author
Tamsyn Murray lives in leafy Hertfords
hire and has written short stories for My Weekly, Yours, That’s Life – Fast Fiction, Allas and The Weekly News. She has written three funny, paranormal romance novels, the most recent of which was shortlisted for the RNA YA Romance Novel of the Year. Tamsyn is currently working on her first full-length adult book, under her sassy-sounding pen name, Holly Hepburn. In the meantime, her e-novella, CUPIDITY is available now for just 77p!
Website: www.tamsynmurray.co.uk
Holly Hepburn website: www.hollyhepburn.com
Visit the Sunlounger website at www.va-va-vacation.com/tamsyn-murray
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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LA POSADA AMOR
***
Emily O’Neill
Destination: Mexico
Bending in a pair of artery-constricting skinny jeans while balancing on patent heels was proving trickier than a Cirque De Soleil scene. My outfit was designed for show, less so for the after-show roadie duties. I’d just finished playing my ‘singalonga’ set at Loco Lizard in downtown Cancun and the bar was heaving, air thick with alcohol, after-sun and pheromones galore. I couldn’t wait to escape.
‘Tacos and beer at our favourite?’ I shouted optimistically to Javier, who was waiting for me with an outstretched man-paw beside his convertible Beetle.
Together we chased the stars up the road to Puerto Morelos – less loud and lewd, more lazy local flavour. It was a pulse-slowing haven after the bustle of the city, and in just twenty minutes we were smoothing our wind-whipped tangles and taking our perches at the bar.
It was four years since Javier and I had first fallen in love over a Tequila Sunrise and the comedy Tina Turner act, Tina Turnip. He was the entertainment manager who had booked me and my guitar to entertain the revellers in the late bar of a big corporate tuxedo-heaving function. My ‘entertainment superpower’ was that I could play and sing anything requested due to my freakish talent for memorising music. If you could outwit me, I parted with £20; if I was victorious, you popped £5 in my pink trilby hat.
I made good money that night but Javier was the real prize. With semi exotic parentage (Mexican amigo meets Bedfont beauty), the man had skin that looked so good I (often) imagined it would taste like a Caramac Bar. He even had an exotic name (sometimes I loudly called him Dave across busy bars just to annoy him). ‘Javier and Crissy’ – we joked that we sounded like a pretentious hair salon. He was the only man since my love-cockroach of an ex, Nick, that I wanted to lovingly maul. But the tragedy was he would never want someone like me. Not because I was too unladylike (my Granddad said I walked like a farmer crossing a ploughed field), but because I was a girl. With girl boobs, and other standard issue girl bits. Not a boy with all that dangly stuff, and that, alas, was what Javier liked. God knows I tried to convince him otherwise. From the simple, ‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it’, to the desperate temptress tones of, ‘I could do things to you that you’ve never even dreamed of’. In response he would tell me that he loved me dearly and if he was ever struck by the wand of the Heterosexual Fairy he would gladly rip my Spanx off. And that was good enough for me. I had no intention of budging from my single-person suite at Heartbreak Hotel; I’d set up a direct debit and would never be checking out.
Every summer we would meet up in Mexico: he would run the Loco Lizard and I’d wear a cheap bikini by day and earn pocket money with a guitar and heels by night. We had an apartment that overlooked the sea, and for six sun-baked weeks feasted on the freshest fish, tacos, burritos, tortillas (all those foods that you never know the difference between on a menu), watched pelicans scooping their dinner from the waves, while sitting cross-legged on our Magic Wall, and pottered around the fishing village like a little old couple in perfect retirement.
Javier had the occasional fling and we would temporarily become The Three Amigos, but summer in Mexico was always ours. I never wanted or needed a ‘normal’ boyfriend. Well, perhaps I wanted one but I just couldn’t risk it. Cockroach Nick had put me off straight men for life. He was the drummer in the band that played at my sister’s wedding. He used to be lovely. And then he wasn’t lovely any more, he was simply a cheater. The final notch on his drumstick, the one that unravelled the lies of our pathetic relationship, was the bedding (or probably ‘alley-waying’) of the new singer in his band. I almost felt sorry for her. No doubt she would be top-trumped by the next bridesmaid/barmaid he could add to his trophy-underpants drawer. I vowed then that I would never again be another man’s trophy-underpants. Never.
Puerto Morelos had been such a tonic after the break up. You only have to linger here a few days and you recognise everyone, with a cheerful ‘Hola!’ or ‘Como Esta?’ from friendly faces. The beach on one side, rows of colourful semi-outdoor rustic restaurants and cute bars lining the square, it’s as sweet as a ripe peach. You can walk the pier at 2pm and spy sea treats the fisherman have hooked and pick your own dinner to cook. It’s easy to tell when those leather-faced sailors have docked with their nautical wares; the sky overhead darkens with wheeling birds, fat pelicans, soaring gulls, all jostling for leftovers as the fishermen stand on their boats filleting glossy wet fish for waiting pier shoppers.
Tonight Javier and I were at our favourite haunt, La Posada Amor (The Love Inn). A long amber slab of polished tree trunk served as the bar-top, and a Tiki-style thatched roof and dangling multi-colour lanterns kept us in the cosy glow of our palm-fringed fairy grotto. The bar cat waddled by, her belly bulging with kittens that were due any day now, much to my elation. I named her ‘Poco Chica’ (little cutie) while Javier picked ‘Putita’ (little slut). He could be charming like that. As Ernesto mixed us the best Tequila Sunrise in town he told us we were in for a treat tonight – ‘See, see, Los Banditos’, he motioned across the tiled dancefloor.
Setting up in the candlelight was a trio; two guitarists and trumpet player, all in traditional Mariachi dress, with shiny red cravats peeking from ruffled satin shirts, short black jackets and slinky trousers. They looked like swarthy, sexy Zorro types and I nodded appreciatively at Ernesto, as though I was an Aztec Queen accepting his sacrificial offering.
‘Ready?’ Javier asked, eager to begin our usual critique of ‘new talent’.
I reached for my drink.
‘The young guitarist with sideburns?’ Javier questioned.
‘Out of ten? I’d give ’im one!’ I answered in my finest Carry On innuendo.
Javier noted this on his imaginary clipboard. We enjoyed the use of invisible props during weighty topics of conversation like this.
‘And the trumpet player, señorita?’
‘He’s got the horn, but I don’t think it’s for me.’ I gave an over-sized wink.
‘And lastly, your score for the singing amigo?’
I stroked my chin like a James Bond villain, deliberately over-contemplating. ‘He’s just a lava lamp; pretty to look at, but not very bright.’
‘Oh trés catty – saucer of milk for the girl with the split ends,’ Javier whispered louder than a shout. ‘Well, I think he’s mucho gorgeous. And that stubbly chin would be a wonderful exfoliator.’
I gave the singer a second look. Javier did have a point. There were some exceptionally cute dimples on display when he laughed and I found myself sucking a little too fiercely on my bendy straw as he caught me looking his way. And then they started to play.
We were expecting traditional lilting Mexican folk-fare when suddenly they broke into a Mariachi version of Lady Ga Ga’s ‘Poker Face’. Javier and I looked at each other in slack-jawed amazement. Had we slipped off our bar stools to some camp Mexican heaven?
‘This is even better than Tina Turnip!’ I cheered.
‘And Shirley Bossy!’ confirmed Javier.
Fuelled by limb-loosening booze, we swung, salsa-ed and careened with utter disregard for health and safety, singing along to t
he medley of Pop Goes Mariachi classics, all beneath the sparkling ceiling of the night sky; the stars our Swarovski pin-spots, the fat yellow moon our giant glowing glitter ball.
Each time I swirled close to the guitar of the singer, his eyes tracked me and he smiled between lyrics. I could hear my heartbeat every time our eyes met.
The band encored with a waltzing rendition of ‘Sweet Child Of Mine’ and then Javier and I returned to our spot at the bar, collapsing with achingly happy faces and ragged breathing. The trio, meanwhile, headed to the other end to collect their lime-wedged beers, hollering ‘Salud!’ and chattering zealously in Spanish.
All the while the singer was facing me. He had floppy dark brown hair that I wanted to mess up, full lips with a Cupid’s bow that I wanted to trace with my wet bendy straw, and grey-blue eyes that I dared myself to stare into just that little bit longer than appropriate. Each time we made eye contact, it was me that surrendered first, and I saw he was smirking slightly.
‘Señor Javier,’ I leant in to confide in my friend, ‘the tequila is making me lust after the serenading minstrel. Make it stop!’
‘You could always try talking to him.’
‘Talk to him?’ I scoffed. ‘My Spanish is shocking – you just want cheap laughs.’
Javier tutted me. ‘You have to take a chance at some point, Crissy. How many times do I have to tell you this?’
I looked away.
‘Come on,’ he pushed my cocktail towards me. ‘Let’s drink to bagging that man. Or any man for that matter!’
‘Okay, here’s to…’ I paused and crunched an ice-cube for inspiration, ‘to bravery, sexy singers, and tequila! Let’s drink to them all!’ I bellowed, toasting the entire bar like I was an extra from the Oom-pah-pah scene in Oliver.
At this point my musical Zorro departed from his man-gaggle, walking past a little closer than necessary, leaning in and whispering, ‘I’ll drink to that too,’ with a perfect English accent.
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