by Judy Astley
Back in Surrey, Nick and Felicity had heaped up on the hall table the many DVDs that needed to be returned to Blockbuster. There would be a fine, to which, as it wasn’t her house, Felicity was unwilling to contribute.
‘I’m still at college,’ she argued, as she pulled on her coat and prepared to emphasize her non-connection with Nick’s debts by going home to her own bed for the night. ‘I don’t have any spare money at all. And even if I did . . .’ She hesitated, realizing it might be prudent not to blurt out that spare money should be shoe money.
‘If you did . . . what?’ Nick scooped the DVDs into a Sainsbury’s bag as he mentally clocked up the expense of having posted each of these movies into the machine in his bedroom only to watch a few short scenes beyond the opening titles. Time after time it had proved too much: no contest, really, on just about every occasion. It was stonking US box-office-record-breaking epic versus the sight of half-dressed Felicity idly scratching her long, creamy, naked thigh as she lay beside him in one of her gorgeous dick-magnet laced-thong knicker numbers. The times he’d started watching a film, then just hadn’t been able to resist rolling her across their carton of popcorn and crunching her into the duvet. Surely she wasn’t going cold on him now? She always seemed keen enough, made all the sexy noises, went down, on top, backwards, any old way he’d ever dreamed of. It was just . . . the other night, when they were well under way and in the background Johnny Depp was yelling in the face of the storm and doing the thing with the sword, he could have sworn that her eyes, though apparently half-closed and fully concentrating, were actually focused on the Depp action over his shoulder.
‘If I did have money,’ she said, opening the door and huddling into her furry hood against the vicious wind and rain, ‘well, I can think of better things to blow it on than staying home half-watching a bunch of films.’
‘You love films!’
‘But to go out to see them, not to stay in every night just to lie on your scuzzy bed watching stuff on your titchy telly. If we went out to see movies we might just get to watch them all the way through before you leapt on me and ripped my pants off.’
‘But you always seemed . . . You never said. Why didn’t you say? We could go out if you want to.’ They could if she chipped in a bit anyway, he thought. She might be still doing her A-levels at college but he was in the real world, saving for the big trip. The two of them stood facing each other in moody silence by the open front door. The wind was blowing crinkled leaves in, all over the carpet. That would be more mess to clear up later. Mrs Padgham had already put him on a final warning after throwing a hissy fit about the state of the kitchen. ‘I’m not here to pick up after you,’ she’d grouched (Nick had wisely managed not to suggest that a certain amount of picking-up-after might be in a cleaner’s job description), ‘that dishwasher does have an ‘On’ switch, you know, even for boys.’
‘You never fucking asked!’ Felicity stamped past him and down the steps. ‘Other people ask.’
Other people? Nick chased after her and grabbed her arm as she unlocked her mother’s Fiesta. It was only nine o’clock: was she really going home? He’d assumed she was bluffing. It would be a criminal waste of an empty house and the free-sample massage oils he’d picked up in Boots in his lunch hour.
‘What other people?’ he demanded. ‘Who? Just tell me where you want to go and we can go there. And then . . .’
‘And then what?’ Felicity put her hand on her hip and raised her eyes heavenward. ‘Let me guess, Nick. Umm . . .’ She put her finger to her lips, acting annoyingly cute, pensive. ‘Oh . . . er, got it! Back here, would that be? For, oh yes of course, more steamy lad’s-mag sex? Where do you want me next? Up against the wall? Hanging out of the window while you shag me from behind and make that snuffly noise into the back of my neck?’
Nick put his hands up, surrender style, and backed away, hurt and deeply shaken. He’d got something wrong that he hadn’t even begun to suspect. Perhaps he should have, perhaps taking her out to dinner or something would have been a good idea. They could have gone to that little Italian and then afterwards . . . except they couldn’t have an ‘afterwards’ now, could they? Not without her accusing him of rushing her through the zabaglione so he could get his hands up her skirt. It was all spoiled.
There was a breezy rush as Felicity started the car and skidded off fast across the gravel. She didn’t even look at him. There had to be more to it than how they spent the evenings. She’d never complained before. She’d got someone else, that was the bottom line, some other bloke. That had to be it. She’d pulled some college sod who smarmed her and flattered her and let her go on about her uni choices and whether the thing in the play was all Lady Macbeth’s fault. Over, that’s what he and Felicity were. He was dumped, no doubts, no questions.
Lonely, dejected and sorry for himself, Nick mooched back into the house and slammed the door on the cold damp night. Just don’t let anyone tell him, he thought as he went to the fridge and pulled out the last can of beer, just don’t expect him ever to believe that Felicity really preferred deep, meaningful conversation to the other. Not possible, not Fliss.
And also, he thought as he swigged down the beer straight from the can, what had she meant? What snuffly noise?
‘Sam! How are you doing?’ Beth ran up the polished mahogany steps of the Thai-inspired Wellness pavilion to greet the tall, sheeny-muscled youth who was adjusting the volume of the early-morning ambient music. His hair was finely plaited in shoulder-length cornrows, finished off with clattering beads. She could see that Delilah was admiring them, geeing herself up to deciding to get hers done.
‘Beth – hey, good to have you back! Welcome home! I kept your mat warm,’ he said, giving her a warm hug as he handed her a spongy exercise pad ready for the floor exercises.
‘And this is my daughter, Delilah.’ Beth laughed as Sam leapt back a good four feet in mock shock, then got down on his knees to plead with Delilah.
‘Whoa! Delilah of the powerful scissors! Don’t touch this Samson’s hair, beautiful lady, I’ll do anything you ask!’
Delilah smiled at him, looking shy. ‘You’re not really a Samson?’ she asked.
‘Sure am, sweetie. My mother wanted me to be a big strong guy and thought the name would help. She hates my hair like this but I tell her, hey what d’you want?’ Delilah laughed as he tweaked at one of his gleaming black strands, all wound through with red, yellow and green thread. Sam handed her a mat and Beth led her to a cool spot close to the open side of the pavilion, where long white muslin curtains fluttered in a welcome breeze. Other guests were assembling for the class and standing around flexing their hamstrings and choosing spaces for their mats. Among them was the bride who’d carried her dress from the plane the day before, trailing sullenly behind her mother. Both of them looked pale and pasty and extremely grumpy, as if they’d started the day with an argument. There was no sign of ‘Michael’.
‘Haven’t seen the happy bridegroom yet, have we?’ Beth whispered to Delilah. ‘I wonder what he’s like?’
‘Gone, probably,’ Delilah giggled. ‘Run off with someone who’s more fun, which would be, like, anyone.’
Beth, obscured in the pavilion’s mirrored wall by the bride’s mother in front of her, watched the bits of herself that were visible as the exercises started. She could see her left leg pointing forward as Sam settled the class into a slow calf-stretch. Without being able to see the rest of her body, she felt as if the leg didn’t belong to her and she could look at it objectively. It wasn’t too bad, fairly curvy and not flabby. The base of fake tan helped. Delilah’s leg was the next one along in the line. By comparison it looked almost tragically thin, a mixed result of both her youth and her illness. Delilah had certainly proved it was true that staying in bed made you grow. There must be at least another two inches of her – all length, no width – since the beginning of the glandular fever. No wonder she’d been so exhausted.
‘Don’t overdo it, Del. Just lie on your
mat if you get tired,’ Beth whispered as they slowly rolled their heads down in the direction of the floor and she trailed her fingertips across the top of her feet.
‘Don’t fuss!’ Delilah hissed back, then looked towards the main entrance as someone clattered up the steps.
‘Sorry I’m late everyone! Hi Sam, sweetie!’ Gina arrived, whizzing into the room wafting a scent of something expensive. She wore tiny tight white jersey shorts and a matching cropped-off sports top, very cutaway at the shoulders. She grabbed a mat from the pile and settled herself quickly right at the front by the mirror and only inches from Sam. The bride’s mother, ousted backwards, huffed and shifted crossly, but Gina simply gave her a broad and innocent smile and a cheery, all-American ‘Good morning!’
‘OK, to the floor now everyone – feet straight out in front and stretch down, head towards knees.’ Sam looked around the room. ‘No, it’s bending from the hips I want, not your shoulders, honey,’ he called to Delilah, crossing the floor to take hold of her arms and pull them gently forward towards her toes.
‘That’s as far as I go,’ she complained, though obediently wrapping her hands round her feet and wriggling her hips down for more leverage.
‘That’s fine, much better, give it time and relax down now.’ Sam grinned at her, returning to the front of the class where Gina, supple as a cat, had parted her legs in order to nestle her chin all the way to the floor. Beth glanced up, watching Gina effortlessly fold herself in half like a Marmite sandwich.
‘Hey look now folks, this is what you’re aiming at!’ Sam told the rest of them, as one by one the group raised their heads to admire Gina’s suppleness.
‘She always does this,’ Beth muttered to Delilah. ‘You wait, at the end she’ll be staying behind to practise her splits and getting Sam to “help” her.’
‘Gross,’ Delilah said, rolling back flat to the floor for the next exercise.
Beth pulled her knees up towards her chin, wrapped her arms round her legs and rocked gently as instructed. Her spine snuggled itself into the mat and the floor beneath as she languorously uncurled, sent her right leg to lie on the floor and raised the left one high, grabbing hold of the back of her calf and pulling down. She felt as if her blood was coursing fast into every sinew, and that muscles were loosening properly for the first time in months. In front of her, she caught sight of Gina’s left leg, rising high then going all the way on down till it lay against Gina’s ear. How did she get to be so bendy? Had she been a child star gymnast – did she represent the USA in some long-ago Olympics? Or was it from years of highly adventurous sex? Impossible not to think about that, what with Gina so obviously taunting poor Sam, and her crotch practically pushed into his face.
Unwelcome thoughts about Ned and his mystery woman came to mind, however much Beth tried to stop them by concentrating on getting her hands over the baby-pink soles of her feet. She was doing her best; she honestly believed Ned when he promised it was all over months back, and she’d promised herself, after the initial fury and a cool spell of only the crispest communication between them, that she wouldn’t rake it all up again. What would be the point? Delilah and Nick would be bound to pick up the atmosphere and worry they were about to become maintenance children. She especially didn’t want to drag it into this holiday – the one where everything was supposed to fall back into place. So no pressure there.
All the same, as she watched Gina effortlessly change legs and haul her other foot down so far she could kiss it, if she, Beth, was able to do physical tricks like that, would he have felt the need to go off and experiment with someone else? Or was the urge to copulate on extra-mural premises so very much more basic than a matter of having fantastic sex: some thrill sparked off by a different perfume, different shape, different conversation? And if it was conversation, was it down to the fact that much of Beth’s evening chat repertoire involved sharing with Ned World Wide Wendy’s unpalatable plans for buffalo fricassee, or wondering if they should opt for Newsnight or Satan’s Supermarkets?
‘And . . . relax now, legs down together on the floor. Lying flat out and still, close your eyes, just concentrate on breathing and feeling the peace. Melt that body into the ground.’
‘Mmmm,’ Gina moaned voluptuously. Sam switched off the music and everyone adjusted their limbs into flat relaxation. There was no sound but the gentle swoosh of the drapes, the soft splash as the stream from the hillside met the water of the ornamental lake over which part of the pavilion was built, and the deep, even breathing of at least six different nationalities gathered together to doze on this dark wooden floor. Then came a loud snort like a huffing horse and the bride’s mother shook herself awake with a start, sitting up abruptly and staring around, wide-eyed.
‘Yo, we have a sleeper!’ Gina sat up and pointed at the woman. ‘Here’s the snorer, everybody!’ No-one, Beth thought, could ever describe Gina as quietly spoken.
The bride tittered and her mother glared around her as everyone turned to stare.
‘You’re supposed to be totally relaxed,’ she hissed at Gina. ‘That’s if you’re doing it properly and not just here to show off and flex your muscles at the hunky instructor.’
‘Hey, sorry and all!’ Gina pulled her hair free of her elastic band and shook it out, flicking her head right back so the hair cascaded prettily across her shoulders. ‘No big deal, lady – don’t wreck the chill vibes!’ But she was talking to a broad hunched back as the bride hustled her decidedly un-chilled mother out of the building and in the direction of breakfast at the poolside restaurant.
Beth could feel Delilah giggling beside her, and Gina came over to the two of them. ‘Come on you guys, let’s get breakfast,’ she murmured. ‘We’ll take a seat close beside that uptight witch and I’ll give her the bad girl’s guide to eating a weenie.’
Oh God, please don’t, Delilah prayed silently, hoping and hoping that a weenie was only a sausage.
5
Beachcomber
42 ml light rum
14 ml Triple Sec
14 ml each of lemon and lime
dash of sugar syrup
14 ml grenadine
Oh the bliss of being so idle. Beth lay stretched out on her lounger with her eyes shut, her book face down on her tummy. The huge cream canvas parasol shaded her face against the ageing ravages of the sun and factor fifteen was slicked all over her body and limbs. She could hear the nearby slap-slap of flip-flops on concrete, a hard, rhythmic splash as someone being sporty in the pool swam up and down, and the rise-and-fall ripples of chatter from the tables by the Sundown bar. She could smell the sweet coconut tang of suntan lotion and taste a hint of sea salt on the breeze.
Better than work, this, definitely, she thought. Far, far better than spending the morning experimenting with herbal seasonings for Savoy Cabbage Flemish Style (Savooikool op Z’n Vlaans) to a background chirruping of Wendy detailing how effectively HRT was boosting her libido. Why was it, Beth wondered, that whenever Wendy stirred a gloopy, steaming sauce, she felt compelled to discuss bodily fluids of some kind? From a past medieval existence, was she missing the arcane visceral contents of a cauldron? Ned had a theory that she’d hit on her winning formula for international extreme cuisine after casseroling her own babies’ placentas. If that was the case, Beth fervently prayed she wouldn’t return to her original inspiration and expect her to help testing out concoctions such as caul pâté or umbilical soup. Surely there was only so much the nation’s couch cooks could take?
‘Hot, isn’t it?’ Lesley, alongside with a Jilly Cooper and sipping a glass of iced water, wafted air in front of her face with her sunhat. ‘Think of all the poor souls back home, bundled up against the cold and the day getting dark before the afternoon’s half gone. Hee hee!’ she chortled gleefully.
‘I’d rather not think about home,’ Beth told her. ‘We’ve left Nick and his Felicity floozy in charge of the house. I hope they’re OK.’
Would they be? Suppose there was a sudden wintry freeze-
up and all the pipes burst, sending water from the loft tanks cascading through the ceilings? Suppose a gang of vicious burglars followed Nick home late at night and beat him to a pulp for the plasma-screen telly?
‘They’ll be all right. Don’t you worry about it.’ Lesley waved away her concerns. ‘Anyway, there’s not a lot you can do about anything from here, is there, even if they have trashed everything you own. Just relax and forget about home. That’s what you’re paying for.’
‘I’m trying, I’m trying!’ Beth insisted, wishing domestic arrangements hadn’t crossed her mind. That was the problem with the one-in-charge role, it was so hard to switch off. ‘But I can’t help imagining Nick making a late-night bacon sandwich and forgetting to turn the grill off. We could be going home to a pile of cinders and an insurance company wriggling out of paying, on grounds of leaving an irresponsible teenager in place of me.’
‘Well you can stop that right now or you’ll worry the whole fortnight away. Beats working, this, though, doesn’t it?’ Lesley echoed Beth’s earlier thoughts, stretching her arms into the breeze and yawning. ‘It’s just after lunch, home time. If I was back in Guernsey I’d be ironing a whopping great pile of pillowcases. What about you? You’re still working for World Wide Wendy, aren’t you? What’s she up to?’
‘Oh the usual,’ Beth told her. ‘Wendy’s now working on the cuisine of Belgium. There’s a new book on its way, with a TV one-off called Horses for Courses.’
‘You’re joking!’ Lesley spluttered. ‘The woman gets worse!’
‘I wish I was joking,’ Beth sighed. ‘But it seems the more crazily off-putting the title, the more people rush to buy it. I think we’re only doing one horse recipe though; the Belgians seem keener on endless endive and vegetable soups.’
‘I’d always had Belgium down as chips and chocolate. I watched Wendy’s last TV series. Len wanted to see it because he thought Eating about the Bush sounded rude. How typical is that?’
