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

by Belinda Jones

  I am a goddess. I repeat it over and over in my mind.

  ‘Look what we have here,’ yells Christa. ‘A constipated mermaid.’

  James laughs a little too easily at Christa’s crass joke and I think of dropping him to a seven on The Secret Cinderella List. Fortunately, he glances coyly in my direction and I give him back the extra point for working his eyelashes so beautifully without the aid of Maybelline mascara. For as long as I’ve been at Velveteen I’ve thought James and I were two Bunsen burners about to go whoosh when we were properly ignited. I was just waiting for the spark but instead we tiptoed around each other like damp squibs. What if I lit things myself? Right here in Greece? Didn’t he need a girl like me in his life? Yes, he does is the correct answer. Sure, the last time we all met up in London he bought me a mojito and put an umbrella in it. (A mojito: seven. Added umbrella: eight. Throw in a smile: nine.) I’d thought that night it would kick off: the moment the heavens would align and James and I would fall into each other’s arms like two mojito-soaked star-crossed lovers.

  It didn’t quite happen that way.

  James spent most of the evening chatting to Christa and some random bloke and I drank so many mojitos that mint was seeping through my pores. Ethan eventually dragged me away and wiped my snotty nose with his sleeve. Okay, so I wiped my nose on him. One hundred per cent cashmere is far softer than any balsam tissue and that’s a fact. When I said I’d never find a prince charming he told me that I would. Seemed Ethan had a Magic 8 ball hidden in his pants all of a sudden. Ethan held my hair back in the alleyway while I threw up mint leaves. You see, I was even working fashion in my vomit. Diced carrots are so yesterday.

  Despite that disastrous evening, James remained high on The Secret Cinderella List and I was just watching him hawk-eyed, waiting for the big ten moment when I’d jump on his bones.

  Far below I can see the rocky cove of St Paul’s Bay where multitudes of tiny white parasols flutter in the breeze and, nestled between rocks, stands a white-washed Greek church. I smile, kick off the new pair of heels I’ve been given and dance like no one’s watching. That’s what my mother always used to say – well, when she wasn’t saying I owed her since she’d as good as given birth to a bowling ball and nothing was ever the same down below since. My dress trails behind me like a million silver stars. This constipated mermaid has got all the moves, I keep repeating as I twirl around the cracked pillars and skip barefoot along the stone steps.

  It seems to work because Ethan takes some dancing shots and stares into the back of the camera, slack-jawed. Admittedly, his open mouth could have been something to do with me pretending to ride a pony ‘Gangnam Style’. Ethan says, ‘You look bloody uh-maz-ing, like a silver water nymph, um… riding an imaginary Shetland.’ In my world the addition of the word bloody means he’s deadly serious, perhaps slightly shocked but serious nonetheless. He beckons Christa over and she gives a begrudging nod. The woman doesn’t even speak in case words choke her.

  ‘You could make the cover, Ella,’ shouts Ethan, giving me the thumbs up.

  ‘It’s not me, it’s the beautiful backdrop,’ I shout back, feeling a flush creep onto my chest like a frilly-edged pink bougainvillea.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ agrees Christa, rifling through the shoe suitcase and then muttering about Manolos going on walkabout.

  We finish the shoot by dusk and Christa attempts to say thank you but it comes out a strangulated squeak. Ethan finishes it for her.

  ‘Look, today started out a disaster but thanks to a virus and Ella we’ve done the best shoot ever. Even Christa agrees, don’t you?’ Ethan waits until she does an impression of a nodding dog. ‘We couldn’t have done it without you. What else can I say, Ella, you totally rocked it.’

  Hell, I’m so shallow I could listen to Ethan’s praise for as many hours as it takes to sew sequins onto a Strictly Come Dancing dress. ‘It was a team effort,’ I sigh, trying to sound gracious but secretly hoping the flattery keeps rolling in my direction.

  ‘Yesterday a fashion and beauty assistant, today a…’ says James.

  ‘Fashion and beauty assistant,’ repeats Christa. ‘One modelling job does not a supermodel make. Just ask Kate Moss; she started at fourteen. You’re positively geriatric in comparison. I think we need to stick to assisting because that’s what we’re good at.’

  ‘Cool it, Christa. Let’s celebrate Ella’s success,’ says James, adding, ‘I don’t think she needs her zimmer frame yet.’

  Nine point five! That’s a nine point five from me! Hallelujah! I just made up the point five because I can. I draw back my lips and give him a full flash of my molars, newly bleached thanks to some kit I found at the back of Velveteen’s beauty cupboard.

  ‘Enough already. Don’t say another word or we won’t get Ella’s swollen head on the plane.’ Christa smiles at me. ‘Perhaps we can finish off this fashion trip in style. We’ll meet in the bar later. The cocktails are on me. Well, they’re on expenses but it’s the same thing.’

  At ten-thirty Christa slinks into the bar wearing the ‘constipated mermaid’ dress. I swear she’s doing it on purpose: rubbing my nose in her superiority, her curvy Jessica Rabbit figure and her symmetrical face. She looks a million bucks as strings of fairy lights catch her dress and make the sequined stars zing and pow. Jesus, Christa is a whole galaxy, a constellation, a supernova. She glides down the steps like a Hollywood star, passes the pool and reclines on the vanilla-coloured sofa, surrounded by a lake of silver fabric. I swear James’ tongue is unfurling like a carpet and rolling across the marble floor at this very moment.

  Christa holds court for the next hour, consuming copious strawberry sunset smoothies and letting exotic fruit play on her moist lips. James is leaning so close to Christa that their lips are almost touching. Mind you, it’s the music. That’s what I’m telling myself. It’s so loud I can hardly hear myself think and therefore they need to get close to hear each other speak. I rise from the seat to holler to the hotel to turn it down when Christa leans towards me.

  ‘Ella, my darling,’ she says. ‘You’ve covered one pair of shoes in shit and lost another pair of shoes that cost the price of a small house. I don’t know how you did it or where you’ve put them. But let’s just say that if you don’t find the missing shoes I’m going to be rather disappointed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I stammer.

  ‘You were the last person wearing them and now I want the shoes back.’

  ‘Or…?’

  ‘Or I can’t employ a fashion and beauty assistant that loses expensive Manolos. It would be a liability.’

  Christa doesn’t wait for my answer. Instead she pulls James close into her body, her voluptuous sequined breasts heaving against his linen shirt.

  Zero! That’s a zero on The Secret Cinderella List.

  I feel Ethan bristle beside me and wonder if he’s seen my heart somersault from my chest and splatter across the cool marble. Christa, if she wasn’t holding James’ hand and nuzzling his neck, would probably be dancing on it at this very moment. I stare at them. Two beautiful people in love. And Christa in my constipated mermaid dress too. Spiteful cow!

  I stumble past the wooden bar with pots of rainbow umbrellas in varying degrees of being opened. Breaking into a run I make my way around the kidney-shaped pool and out into the maze of cobbled streets.

  Stupid Christa. Stupid James. Stupid shoes. Actually, scrap that, the shoes were special. Somewhere in the distance I hear people whooping and music filtering on the breeze and I run: all gangly limbs and copper hair sticking to my lipgloss. The small streets carry me up a stony pathway following a sentinel of olive trees towards the Acropolis. And I pray that I’ll find the shoes and then I’ll quit the job no matter how much I love it. I’ll tell bloody Christa Caruso she can stuff it because nothing is worth working with a bitch for. I’ve got it all planned out.

  The moon throws silver spotlights along my path and the sea beats a rhythm. Strolling gently, I move my body through the p
illars and stand on the edge of the world once more. Bruised clouds roll overhead and it grows dark for a second and I shiver with anticipation.

  ‘You’ll need this,’ a voice whispers, emerging from the shadows and wrapping a pashmina around my shoulders.

  As I turn, the moon rolls from the cloud and bathes him in a silver wash.

  ‘Did you follow me?’ I breathe, huddling into the warmth of the scarf.

  ‘No. I got here first. I had a hunch you’d come this way. It nearly killed me out-running you up here.’ Ethan walks away and reaches behind a pillar and carries something back to me. ‘Close your eyes,’ he says. When I do he pulls out my palms and places something into them.

  ‘The shoes?’

  ‘Yup, they’re yours Cinderella.’ An easy grin spreads across Ethan’s face.

  ‘I’m quitting,’ I venture, my eyes glittering with tears. ‘All the shoes in the world wouldn’t make me go back and work with the bitch-from-hell and her new boyfriend.’

  ‘Who is her new boyfriend?’ Ethan raises an eyebrow when I explain it’s James. His laugh is deep and throaty. ‘James isn’t her new boyfriend.’

  ‘They fondled like rampant rabbits,’ I say.

  ‘Do rampant rabbits fondle?’ Ethan asks, reaching for my hand. ‘Anyway, if you’d hung around for another minute you’d have seen James flirting with the very male waiter and Christa throwing up…’

  ‘Um… male waiter? And Christa throwing up?’

  The words hang tantalisingly in the air.

  ‘The baby,’ he says, nudging me. ‘Hasn’t she told you yet? She’s three months gone, and it isn’t James’s before you go off on that crazy tack again. She has a boyfriend and they’ve been together ages. Christa and James are just being touchy-feely, you know. It’s fashion, not passion.’ Ethan continues, ‘Christa will be leaving Velveteen in a few months to have her baby. Hormones have made her a right moody cow recently but she’s all right underneath it all. Anyway, I reckon they’ll be looking for someone to take her place for at least a year while she’s on maternity leave. After that who knows what exciting opportunities could come that person’s way.’

  My eyes meet his and he pulls me into an embrace. Soap. I can smell nothing more than clean soap. No classy expensive citrus aftershave like James’. ‘Why wouldn’t they want a girl like you?’ Ethan says, biting his lip. ‘I’m sure Christa will put a word in for you.’

  Ethan tells me to sit and pulls my leg gently towards his thigh. His fingertips brush the arch of my foot and I feel a soft moan escape from my lips as he fits the salmon pink satin shoe and wraps the ribbons around my ankle and up my leg. In the watery moonlight I see a tattoo on his wrist.

  PRINCE CHARMIN

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s not real,’ Ethan says.

  ‘Just as well,’ I reply. ‘It’s spelt wrong.’

  ‘I didn’t get time to scribble the last bit because I had to come looking for you. Anyway, I did it because I remembered you said you’d never find a real-life Prince Charming.’ Ethan opens his arms. ‘Hey presto!’

  I feel self conscious when I realise I’m blushing. ‘I was drunk that night. You should have ignored me.’

  ‘You were beautiful.’

  ‘I was sick.’

  ‘Okay, so you were sick. But it was beautiful spearmint sick.’

  We laugh and I allow him to thread his fingers through mine. I instinctively know I have found my ten on The Secret Cinderella List. Ethan’s soft breath blows on my face and he frees his hand to cup my chin. We hold our gaze until I feel the need to look away because it’s so ridiculously intense. Ethan nudges his nose towards mine until his lips are millimetres away. It’s then that I manage to manoeuvre my body out of his reach and Ethan looks disappointed.

  ‘Have I done something wrong?’

  ‘No,’ I whisper, unwrapping the ribbons of one shoe and freeing it from my ankle. ‘It’s just, I promised myself when I found a ten that I’d do a few things.’ He nods although it’s clear he doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about. I look down into my cleavage to check I’m not wearing my nude over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder. Nope, one neon pink lacy bra with turquoise bows, thank you very much. I allow myself a smug smile before wrapping the shoe ribbons around my wrist and then his until we’re cuffed to each other.

  ‘Kinky,’ he says. ‘Fifty shades of…’

  ‘Pink satin ribbon.’ I touch his lips with my finger to hush him and move my mouth into position.

  Ethan closes his eyes and cocks his head in anticipation of our lips meeting. Already my lips are tingling where they’re about to touch his. The kiss is inevitable. Everything collides inside me as I move my mouth towards his.

  In the distance a small church bell tolls midnight.

  At this moment, Cinderella is about to have a ball.

  About the Author

  Lara Williamson knows a thing or two about how to put together an outfit, having studied fashion design at university. She then went on to become the Beauty Editor at J-17 where she styled shoots, both in the UK and around the world. Lara has also contributed to ELLE, New Woman, Sky, Closer and more!. Lara won The Jasmine Award for Best Article in a Youth Title and recently received an Honorary Mention in Undiscovered Voices. Her debut novel A BOY CALLED HOPE will be published in 2014. Born in Northern Ireland, Lara now lives in London and spends a lot of time daydreaming, tap dancing, writing, accessorising and saluting single magpies. Not necessarily in that order.

  Twitter: @LaraWilliamson

  Visit the Sunlounger website at www.va-va-vacation.com/lara-williamson

  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.

  SIGNS FROM SYDNEY

  ***

  Tiffany Wright

  Destination: Sydney

  Chapter One

  To: Sammy Green

  From: Amy Anderson

  Subject: London – Sydney!

  Just wanted to say a final farewell (or should that be ‘G’day Sydney’?) before I head off to sunny Australia. Don’t miss me too much! Make sure you email me with all the goss from the UK! You and Max MUST come to visit soon! Miss you already. Amy x

  ‘Madam. You really do need to turn that off now.’ The air hostess hovers over me, her blue eyes almost unidentifiable amidst her blue eye shadow. Muttering my apologies my finger hovers over the off button and I watch as the air stewardess sashays away, content that she’s done her job effectively. Looking around furtively to check that no one is watching me, I remove my finger from the off button and look at the display on my phone.

  There, in the top right-hand corner of the screen is that little icon telling me I have an answer-phone message. Oh, maybe it’s Ray telling me he can’t wait to see me! The air stewardess is now occupied at the other end of the aircraft so I slowly bring the phone up to my ear and bury my head in my lap, on the pretence of looking in my bag for something.

  ‘Amy? It’s Ray.’ I smile to myself. He’s probably wishing me a safe journey.

  ‘If you get this before you take off, you should hear me out as you might not want to come to Oz when you hear it.’ The service on my phone jumps slightly and I can only just make out the end of the message.

  ‘I made a mistake when I came here – I got drunk and there was this girl… But it’s over now. I promise. I love you. Please forgive me?’

  As the plane starts it descent down the runway, I look out at the UK landscape, the place I have lived all my life. It’s a typical British day – the skies are grey and the clouds look like they are about to burst with the weight of rain. A small smattering starts to trickle down the window as the aircraft picks up speed and takes off into the skies. My fists are clenched tightly in my lap and I can feel silent tears dripping down my face. Just ten minutes ago I was on this plane about to head to Sydney to see the man I thought I was going to
marry. Now, I don’t know what I’m doing here. By the time we start to crawl into the air, the British landscape below is blurred with my own tears.

  My gorgeous, sandy-haired boyfriend has been having sex with someone else. The image of him in bed with another girl slams into my mind. Him running his fingers through her hair, her hands stroking his body with lust, oblivious to the birthmark on the top of his thigh or that scar on his chin that he got from playing rugby when he was ten. Her body writhing up against him, bathed in sweat. Who is she? What does she look like? My mind starts to do cartwheels as I imagine all of the female actresses Ray has worked opposite since he moved out to Sydney. Why did I have to date an actor? Why did he have to land this huge role in the most talked about Australian soap opera? Why?

  Oh god, I think I’m going to throw up. Scrambling up from my seat I dash towards the tiny toilet cubicle and holding my hair out of my face, I retch into the metal bowl. The pain at the back of my throat is almost therapeutic – punishing me for being so stupid to have let my boyfriend move half way across the world without me. It’s my fault, I think as I retch violently again, if I had gone with him when he first asked, this would never have happened.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too Ray.’

  ‘So you’ll come with me? We can get a flat looking out over the Sydney Harbour Bridge. We can go surfing at the weekend.’ I make a face at him – he knows I’m incapable of surfing.

  ‘And,’ he taps me on the nose and pulls me closer to him, making me laugh as his breath tickles my neck, ‘you can eat as many of those bloody Balmain bug things as you like!’