by Judy Astley
‘Don’t take any notice of Angie.’ Cynthia caught up with Beth as she peered towards the sea from the edge of the terrace. ‘I heard what she was saying – half the hotel did! She’s an evil old bat, loves to stir. Michael had a fling with somebody not much older than Sadie, and Angela thinks he’s on the permanent lookout for young blood. It’s warped her.’
‘Something certainly has,’ Beth agreed. ‘I didn’t like what she was getting at. Delilah is only sixteen.’ And not, she added to herself, wearing much in the way of clothes.
‘Well, sixteen, lucky her! What a fabulous age!’ Cyn laughed. ‘I had a ball at sixteen. I kept several boys on the go at once. I could get any of them I wanted.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Just like that. They’d come running.’
Beth gathered that she was supposed to be impressed, although she thought she detected a small note of sourness in Cyn’s triumph. At sixteen Beth had been more interested in clothes and music than boys, though she had fantasized that Adam Ant would ask her to apply his warpaint for him.
‘Of course I was just a trophy,’ Cyn continued. The bitterness was definitely there this time. She sounded like a let-down teenager, albeit rather a conceited one. They just wanted me for how I looked,’ she went on, ‘so they could brag to their mates. Men, huh? Do they ever change?’
Beth wasn’t sure what to say, other than that she rather thought they did. ‘But Bradley’s not like that, is he? You got lucky there.’
‘Oh Bradley’s a sweetie. But you can’t expect fireworks after all these years, can you? You have to make your own.’ She opened her bag, pulled out her cigarettes and lighter and inhaled deeply on a duty-free Marlboro Light.
‘Is that what you’ve been doing? Making fireworks?’ Beth asked. Cyn nodded, looking serious. Beth wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t rocket science to work out that a woman who’d been used to having men fall at her feet might want to recapture that heady power. Perhaps it had been the same sort of thing for Ned.
‘Well you’re not the only one,’ Beth told her. ‘There’s a lot of it about.’
Cyn’s eyes widened. In the dark they looked as if they belonged to a tiger with its lunch in sight, rather than a human. ‘What, you? When?’
Beth laughed. ‘You sound as if it’s the most impossible thing you could imagine! Well thanks a lot!’
‘Oh I didn’t mean . . . oh you know, it’s just you and Ned, you seem so secure.’ Her hands shook as she put her cigarette to her lips again and her eyes were sharp and glittery. ‘It just shows, I mean you never can tell, can you?’
Beth suddenly twigged that very much the wrong end of a stick had been grasped. ‘No, no, Cyn, you’ve got it wrong. I didn’t mean that I’d . . .’ she started, then abruptly stopped as she heard a shriek and a crash from the far side of the terrace. Through the crush of party guests she could just make out Angela standing up, wiping the front of her dress with a napkin. Bradley was trying to help her but was being pushed away impatiently.
‘Bit of accidental spillage over there by the look of it. Again.’ Beth pointed across the pool. ‘Your dear sister-in-law looks like she’s dropped her drink down herself.’
‘Pissed old bat. She never could take more than a glass or two.’ Cynthia dropped her cigarette and pushed it into the sand with the toe of her elegant gold sandal. ‘I’d better go and rescue Brad. She’s one of those who is a fighter when she’s drunk. God knows what she’ll start saying. I’ll see you later.’
Beth watched Cynthia walk around the pool, conscious that she’d taken away with her entirely the wrong impression. The chance would have to come up later to put her right. Or maybe she’d just let it go. It didn’t much matter, and, although she’d been about to, she really didn’t want to tell her all about Ned. It had just been one of those woman-to-woman moments, and now it had passed.
She turned to go back to the party. She could see Gina and her mother talking to Lesley and decided to go and join them. Glancing back towards the shore she could also see Delilah now, wandering along the edge of the sea carrying her shoes and talking to Michael. The two of them stopped and pointed at the stars. It was one of those nights that was so clear you think you must be seeing every single one in the universe. The more you stared, the more of them came into sight. Delilah and Michael were coming towards her now, so she waited. Delilah lost her footing and slid sideways on the loose sand and Michael grabbed her arm to steady her. Beth hoped Delilah’s unsteadiness wasn’t because of that punch. It was strong, heavy stuff. Delilah would be OK with a glass or two of wine, but this potion was something else. She’d probably be horribly sick on just one glass of it. As, she imagined, would Angela.
‘So spliff’s really, like, easy to get here?’ Nick asked Sadie as he accepted the expertly rolled joint she offered him.
‘Course it is,’ she replied with suitable scorn. ‘It’s like tradition.’ She watched him take a couple of drags, then he handed the joint back and she inhaled greedily, narrowing her eyes. What a very pale face she’d got, Nick observed. She must be one of those who took all that government advice on skin cancer to heart. Not the info about smoking though. Or perhaps she just burned easily and didn’t want to look blotchy on her wedding photos.
‘It’s excellent. Top quality,’ he commented. ‘I’ve got a mate whose mum grows it in her greenhouse. That’s not bad either, but there’s nothing like a smoke on a beach.’
‘Nah – and how often in England can you do this? Even in the middle of summer it’s never quite warm enough.’
Nick giggled, a childlike splutter that made him think of drains gushing in the rain. ‘We’re talking about the weather! How Brit!’ He couldn’t seem to stop chortling. Suppose he never did? He’d be chortle-man. Giggle-boy. No matter, it would wear off by morning. Unless it didn’t.
They’d made themselves a comfortable and private little enclave there on the beach, safe from over-inquisitive eyes. They weren’t far from the pool terrace where the party was fading as guests wandered up to the restaurant for dinner, but all the same, they didn’t want members of the management catching pungent drifts of what they were smoking. Mark had pulled together four loungers and shoved a couple of open beach umbrellas deep down into the sand so that they now formed a low roof over the seats.
‘Keeps the smoke in,’ he’d explained to Nick before ambling off back towards the bar without another word.
‘He doesn’t do smoke,’ Sadie said, as Nick was wondering what had made him leave. ‘He’s more a pint and a whisky-chaser sort.’
‘He doesn’t say a lot either, does he?’ Nick wasn’t sure how comfortable he was with this – it had felt like Mark was tucking the two of them in for the night. All they needed was a couple of blankets and a bedtime story . . . or a DVD, some popcorn and . . . no, no use thinking that way – the Felicity days were long gone.
Sadie laughed. ‘No, you’re right there. Mark’s more of an all-action type.’
Nick picked up more than a hint of nudge-nudge in that reply.
‘That’ll be a good thing then, seeing as you’re marrying him in a few days’ time,’ he said. He nodded his head and it seemed not to want to stop. Giggle-man, noddy-man. He could see, beneath the low rim of the umbrella, the white foam of the sea’s edge trickling up the sand and back again. Scary stuff, sea. Why did it do that going-in-and-out stuff? There must be a reason. That was the thing with dope – sometimes you got just this close to working out the meaning of everything, and then it slipped away.
‘Yep. We’re getting married.’ Sadie was nodding too. Nick watched her, wondering if she was getting the nodding-too-long thing as well.
‘Why are you getting married?’ Nick had to ask. He was genuinely puzzled; they weren’t much older than him. Sadie wasn’t pregnant; at least he assumed not, she was all flat and smooth down the front. Girls didn’t drink rum punch and smoke dope when they were pregnant either, did they? Even if they were stupid and didn’t care and were completely selfish cows, wouldn’t it m
ake them feel sick?
‘Dunno. We just planned it all and then suddenly it was happening.’ Sadie turned and glared at him. ‘We do love each other, you know.’
‘Hey, I never said you didn’t. It’s just, all that “forsaking all others” or whatever it is in the contract.’
Sadie was silent for a moment, then, inhaling a bit more of the joint, said quietly, ‘Well that depends if there’s been any others to forsake.’
‘Huh? Whoa! What, like it’s just been you and Mark? Like, you’ve never . . . not with anyone else . . . ?’
‘Yeah. So? What’s wrong with that? Though I only meant me. I know Mark’d been around a bit before we got together.’
‘Ah!’ Nick whispered to her. ‘So you don’t know what you’re missing. You know what, Sadie?’ He moved closer across the lounger towards her. ‘You know, you’re going to wonder about that for evermore. You’re going to be asking yourself, and I promise you this, you’re always going to be asking yourself if there’s something you’re missing out on.’
Sadie shifted towards him and chucked the roach down in the sand between the lounger’s slats. ‘You know what, Nick?’ she whispered, so close now he could smell her perfume. It was Ghost, the same as Felicity’s. It was causing some serious stirring.
‘You’re, like, so wrong,’ Sadie murmured, so close now he’d barely have to move a centimetre to kiss her. ‘I won’t be wondering at all.’
Oh God, old people dancing. Her own parents. How could they do this to her? Delilah sat on a stool at the bar beside Nick and felt utterly mortified. Her toes literally curled in horror. It wasn’t that they looked worse than anyone else – in fact they weren’t too dire for people who should be old enough to know better. At least they didn’t clear acres of space around them by waving their arms over their heads like Len. Looks like a sheep, dances like a sheep – that was Len, with whoopy sound effects thrown in now and then in case it hadn’t been noticed that he was enjoying himself. It was just that, really, there were some sights that a vulnerable teenage girl shouldn’t be compelled to witness.
‘Did you think it would be like this?’ she yelled into Nick’s ear over the blaring of the Rolling Stones.
‘Yes. Especially when they got all tanked up with that punch earlier,’ he shouted back. ‘And it’s always the same when “Honky Tonk Women” gets played. There’s something in those opening notes that gets the oldies remembering their down-and-dirty days.’
‘Ugh.’ Delilah shuddered. ‘They should have forgotten all that years ago!’ She was beginning to appreciate her bridge-playing grandmother. That was what grown-ups should be doing: sitting around quietly in places like Madeira playing calm card games, not jumping around like they were in the Glastonbury mosh pit and embarrassing themselves and everyone else.
‘You’re right there. Or possibly not . . .’
What did he mean by that? Delilah looked at where her brother was looking. Gina seemed to be the one on the sharp end of his focus. You couldn’t miss her in the shiny, tiny white halter-necked dress and with that long pale sheet of hair. In the half-dark with the disco lights flashing (disco lights! Another weird old-people thing!) you could hardly see her hypertanned flesh, just her teeth now and then as she smiled, so the dress gave the impression it was slinking around as if by itself.
Delilah watched her brother watching Gina. Gina was dancing with Sam, quite competently too, Delilah would have to admit, which was pretty agonizing for her. Such a fit bod, he had, that Sam. She seemed to be sliding herself up and down his body – it must be an American thing – either that or she was a pole dancer back home. How to compete with that? Beside her, Nick inhaled hard on his cigarette while Delilah planned making a move on Sam.
‘You could grab her for the next one – but if it’s a slowy, be warned – she slicks glitter all over her skin and it’ll come off all over you,’ Delilah suggested, nudging him. ‘But get me a drink first, won’t you? I fancy some of that fake champagne.’
‘How many have you had?’ Nick asked, his eyes still on Gina.
‘Only one. I like it. Go on Nick, please, the barman knows I’m not eighteen and he keeps offering me lime soda.’
‘Aah, poor baby! OK, just the one. Go and sit over there where he can’t see you.’ Nick indicated a group of vacant sofas and went to the far end of the crowded bar, returning a few minutes later with an opened bottle of Cava. Delilah perched on the arm of a sofa, fearing she’d disappear from Sam’s view if she was low down in the seat.
‘This should keep us going for a while,’ he said, pouring a glass for each of them.
‘God, look at them all,’ Delilah said, watching Michael now as he was doing what he’d probably call ‘groovin’ on down’ with her mother. ‘You know what, Nick? These holidays where they all get together every year, I reckon they’re all a bunch of swingers.’
‘Swingers! That’s a good one Del, excellent thinking!’ he laughed. ‘Do you think that us being here is cramping their style?’
‘God I hope so,’ she groaned. ‘But I can’t speak for the others. I mean look at Angela.’ Angela, whose dress had been soaked by drink earlier in the evening, was now wearing what looked like a huge silk sarong. She must, Delilah decided, have believed all those magazine articles about how a large square of fabric, carefully folded and tied, can make a Stylish Dress. Perhaps she hadn’t read the instructions properly – it seemed to be working its way loose as she flailed about to ‘Ride a White Swan’.
When the music slowed, the inevitable ‘Lady in Red’ almost had Delilah, in spite of her Sam quest, heading for the door, but, oh joy, he and Gina were suddenly there by her sofa.
‘Are you two available for dancing?’ Gina asked, grabbing Nick’s hand and tugging him to his feet.
‘Oh go on then, twist my arm.’ Nick gave in, though not unwillingly. His hand, Delilah noticed, instantly slid down on Gina’s naked shimmery back to where her tiny dress ended. She wouldn’t be surprised if more than just his hand ended up covered in glitter. What a schmoozer.
Sam expertly moved Delilah across the floor and slid his arms round to the small of her back, making her tingle. She looked around, to check her parents weren’t watching, and gave herself up to being clamped deliciously close against Sam’s body. Oh perfect, she thought – if it could just go on like this the whole night. Could he tell how she was feeling? She must be giving off stacks of hormonal messages. He definitely was. As his mouth brushed softly against her ear, she could feel something that was a lot more scarily impressive than the contents of Oliver Willis’s boxers being pressed against her.
Across the floor, she watched Angela attempting to crush Ellis the dive master to her ample front. When the music stopped and he pulled away, her dress finally gave up the fight and fell to the floor, revealing a full-on-frilled and laced black basque and matching French knickers. Cheers and whistles broke out and Angela gave a plump and gracious curtsey to her audience.
Oh Jeeze, and I joked about swingers, Delilah thought, I really wish I hadn’t.
10
Splash and Crash
56 ml amaretto
168 ml cranberry juice
56 ml orange juice
14 ml strong rum
What a horrible dream. Delilah woke with an aching head and a dread of opening her eyes and facing what she’d seen in her sleep: hordes of ancient, truly ancient people going crazy on an Ibiza club dance floor. What a collection of creased, flecked skin, sparse grey hair and wizened limbs all flailing around through her sleep hours. One of them had been Gina’s mother Dolly, only with a pale, hollow skull instead of a face: a dancing skull, wrapped in sparkly black stuff, whirling thin, glittery arms in the air.
It wasn’t light yet; the clock told her it was only 5.30. So she wasn’t over the jet lag then. By the time she was, it would be time to go back home. She snuggled down into the bed and closed her eyes, trying to give herself something to think about that would send her back to sleep. Thoughts of Pr
ince William usually worked but she’d now discovered a rival for him. Tricky one for Delilah, this. Who would she rather wake up next to? Prince William or hunky Sam the Mango-fitness-man? They were such opposites: fair William with his baby-pink, puddingy English features and his innate gawkiness, contrasted with brown-skinned, gleaming Sam with his super-toned body and utter elegance. She loved the way he moved – kind of lazy but certain. Simply watching him walk across a room made her feel quite limp and heated. William she now pictured as something of a clumsy puppy, appealing and sweet but a bit annoying. Sam was more like a lean, lithe cat. It was no contest – she’d never been a dog person. She would be sad to see William go, but it seemed to be time. He’d been up there at the front of her wish list for so long she felt as if she was losing a much-treasured childhood friend. She thought of his big, eager smile and tried to get back the feeling she’d had for him, but it just wasn’t there any more.
She supposed, as she lay stretched out on her back staring at the treacle-coloured roof slats, that this was a growing-up moment. It was goodbye to juvenile fantasy and bring on the real-life experience. There was just one small niggly thing that got in the way. Sam was fit, buff, desirable, no question, but it was totally stupid that as a couple they’d be Samson and Delilah. What had her parents been thinking of when they named her? Were they being completely loopy? Were they on something? Didn’t they think? How come Nick got a perfectly normal – even boring – name, chosen after an ancient uncle, yet she got the biblical nutcase? Surely there’d been women in the family that they’d admired, or whose names they liked a tiny bit? Helena would have done perfectly well, after Grandma, or even just Helen to avoid confusion, but Delilah. She could just see the wedding, hear the splutters of laughter echoing all round the church as the stupid words came out: ‘Do you, Samson, take thee, Delilah . . .’
Delilah now came to the really big question, the one that was about reality this time. If she got the chance, say she was on the beach late at night all by herself with Samson, bit of a moon shining but not too much, no-one around, they’d had a couple of drinks, would she go with him to that big old sofa she’d seen at the back of the water-sports hut and actually do it? She might. She just might. Thank goodness for that fumbled practice run with Oliver Willis back in the summer. She’d never imagined, the day it all went off in his scuzzy bedroom with the curtains closed against the dusty August daylight, that she’d be really glad they’d had that quick and slightly disappointing non-event. After the great build-up (two months of going out, loads of intense snogging, some quite exciting groping) all she’d got out of it had been glandular fever and a certainty that sex would have to get better than that. This could just be the chance to give it another go.