by Judy Astley
In spite of the ‘Quiet Please’ notices on the wall, the strident tones of Angela making a fuss in reception would have been enough to shatter concrete. Beth lay seething in Treatment Room 4, swaddled in her foil and mud wrap as the bride’s mother slagged off Delilah, following up on ‘scraggy’ with ‘bony’. Bloody nerve – of course the girl was a bit thin – she’d been ill for weeks. And was that any way to talk about someone who would be a major factor in your only daughter’s wedding? Who would be smiling alongside her in the wedding photos? And all this from a woman who had laughed and revelled in the attention as she’d dropped her frock to the floor in the bar the other night.
‘And not only her . . .’ Angela as in full spate now, grumbling to poor Miriam about arrangements. ‘But her brother’s been coming on to my Sadie like you wouldn’t believe, angling for an invite, obviously. You’d think when Sadie said “family only” she’d have meant her own – not everyone else’s that she could pick up on the beach.’
Miriam’s reply could not be heard, but she was a woman used to guests being difficult – complaining that treatments were booked up leaving only inconvenient times, assuming you could swap a Life and Sole foot treatment or an Indian Head one at the very last minute, men thinking (wrongly) that their call would not be traced if they phoned from their rooms asking if, among the massage menu, there was one entitled Relief.
‘So that’s three manicures – French for me and Sadie, don’t know what the girl will be wanting. I hope she’s not a biter, nothing worse than a bridesmaid clutching a bunch of flowers with her fingernails all ragged at the ends. And hair – put Sadie down to go first, I think, then me. The girl can sort herself out – she’s got nice hair, I’ll give her that.’
Well thanks a bunch, Beth thought, wriggling indignantly under the foil. ‘The girl’, indeed. She needed to break out of her wrapping, go and give the woman a few home truths. At least her family knew how to behave and didn’t deliberately shed their clothes in public places or drunkenly slosh drinks all over themselves. The urge passed, which was just as well, she conceded, as how would she have looked, emerging mud-smeared and naked (apart from skimpy paper pants) from the treatment room like something that had rolled in a swamp?
‘How’re we doin’ in here, honey? Y’all relaxed now?’ The slow melodic voice of Juliana reminded Beth that yet again she’d wrecked the calming aspect of her treatment so far. But there was still the massage bit to go, time enough to chill during that if she could evict Angela from her brain.
Juliana carefully unwrapped the crinkly foil and inspected the odorous mud beneath. ‘You been sweatin’ here girl!’ she said. ‘That’s ex-cell-ent! You’ll be inches slimmer after this! Rinse off in the shower now, then we rub in the scented potions, and you’ll be smooth and soft – that’ll get your husband goin’!’ she promised.
Delilah’s archery lesson was over and she now sunbathed by the pool, watching Sam from behind her sunglasses. He was over by the Sundown bar chatting to Jim the barman and drinking water from a bottle. He had a towel round his shoulders and looked as if he’d just finished a class, so she guessed it must have been his turn to take the Legs, Bums and Tums session in the gym. She was trying to make out she hadn’t noticed him, just to see what he would do. Would he come over and talk to her? She hoped so – and he should do if he’d meant what he’d said. She hadn’t seen him since The Kiss and had spent every hour in an agony of waiting for whatever would happen next. What was it going to be? At worst, it could be an embarrassed half-nothing – the sort of pathetic keep-a-distance backtracking that boys at school did after they’d got you in a clinch at a party and wanted to rub it in that you’d be wrong to assume one snog meant you were going out, like permanently. At best it would be something moonlit and romantic on the beach late at night.
Somewhere in between the two was a haze of mild dread based on her own sorry lack of experience. There were girls in her year at school who’d done everything, according to hints they dropped. Two had left to have babies. Delilah felt way behind – she’d never given anyone a blow job, for instance. Suppose Sam wanted her to and she a) hadn’t a clue how to do it right, or b) felt mildly sickened at the thought. Or suppose he wanted to go down on her – was she ready for that? And how embarrassing would that be? Out of ten, probably a nine. She could feel her face going red at the thought.
Right now, though, he was still at the bar with Jim and she was still on her own on the far side of the pool. He couldn’t miss her – she’d made sure of that and had pulled her lounger away from the line along the terrace by the beach so that she was out there by herself, right on the pool’s edge, posing as a bikini babe concentrating on writing a postcard to her best friend. Not that she could bring herself to write more than Kelly’s address and ‘Hi!’; she didn’t want to risk Sam coming over, grabbing it off her and reading (out loud) something juvenile like, ‘I met someone and he’s, like, sooo completely gorjus’, even if that came close to what she’d eventually send.
She was in her red bikini, sprawled out for maximum effect on the pale blue seat cushion, on her front, propped up on her elbows which she kept as close in to her sides as she could without looking as if she was impersonating a chicken, so as to make the most of her pathetic cleavage. It was hardly worth calling it that, really, that sad broad vale down the front of her top. With luck, Sam was more of a leg man. Hers were stretched out elegantly behind her, one of them bent up with her long slim foot flexed and waving slightly as if she was wafting away a mosquito. Her tan was coming along well – luckily she was the type who went quite evenly brown, not all patchy and pink like Sadie was going. If Sadie’s wedding dress really was the full-scale white, she would look like a raspberry ripple in it if she wasn’t careful. And only a couple of days away now. Would Sam be there on Dragon Island with them all? He might be – suppose Mark had picked him out as best man? He’d be forced to kiss her then, if he didn’t before, because that’s what happened with the best man and chief bridesmaid.
‘Hey babes, how’re you going?’ And suddenly, in the one second she hadn’t been concentrating, Sam was there, squeezing onto the lounger to sit beside her and stroking the back of her thigh. She squirmed with a mixture of pleasure and nerves as his finger casually traced along the inside of her thigh, stopping just short of her bikini edge and fondling the soft skin there. She looked round quickly. Would her dad do something stupid if he saw where Sam’s hand had so nearly gone, like grab him and give him a thumping? She doubted it; her dad was a laid-back sort, hardly likely to throw Sam into the pool yelling, ‘Hey, get yourself cooled off!’ or anything equally mortifying. But you never knew – he hadn’t been faced with seeing anyone touch up his daughter before.
‘Hello Sam. I’m fine – just doing a couple of postcards.’
‘Oh, right. Hey, let me see what you’re telling them back home!’
‘Nothing about you!’ she was glad she could say as he grabbed the cards from her hand.
‘Nothing about anything! You haven’t got very far. What have you been doing all this time? I saw you – you’ve been here a while!’
Delilah felt caught out. ‘Nothing. Just literally nothing,’ she told him. ‘It’s too hot to think.’
He leaned close in and whispered. ‘Then come into the shade.’
For a moment she couldn’t work out if he was simply giving her sensible advice, then she looked into his eyes. Wicked thoughts were lurking there, she could tell. She smiled at him, waiting for him to suggest a suitable cooling venue, though exactly for what, she preferred to keep unclear for now. She’d wing it, somehow, when the time came.
‘I have to work the rest of the day and tonight,’ he said, taking her hand and kneading her palm gently with his thumb. ‘We could get together later tomorrow though, after the great Mango Experience weekly barbecue?’ He laughed. ‘You can’t miss that, it’s one of the highlights of your trip!’
‘Mmm,’ she agreed, nodding eagerly like a toddler pr
omised an ice cream. Why couldn’t she be like a grown-up, as if this was just a perfectly everyday kind of thing for her?
‘I’ll catch you in the Sundown bar, round about nine? I have to do the early greeting and seating shift but I’m off by then.’
‘Fine. See you around nine or so.’ She tried not to squeak, but to sound more casual this time, as if she might happen to be around then, but couldn’t be sure. Of course she’d be there, no question. Or rather big question, several of them – what would he expect from her, and was she up for whatever it was, really?
I must be very wicked, Beth thought, as Juliana smoothed dollop after dollop of unguents (sweetly scented this time) into her skin, because I’m getting no peace at all. In spite of the lavender candles, the subdued lighting and the hushed music (they were on to Sea Sounds now), Juliana was in full conversational flow on her favourite topic: the fickle nature of men.
‘On this island, they don’t want to settle down with a nice local girl. They wanna travel, find a rich lady from Miami and get a job over there.’
Beth made a few noises of sympathy, which was all she could do under the increasingly furious kneading as Juliana warmed to her topic.
‘And they never stay faithful neither. Too many holiday girls for that – they collect them like badges so they can spread the seed!’ Juliana’s hearty laugh almost blew the candles out. ‘I had a friend,’ she went on. ‘She had one man; three years he stayed with her, gave her two children. And one day she came home and he’s there doing his thing with a woman from Denmark. In my friend’s own home!’ She gave Beth’s thigh a slap to underline the outrage. Beth grunted her sympathy, which Juliana took as an OK to continue.
‘And on their bed!’ More slap. ‘So my friend . . .’ Rub-rub-slap. ‘My friend . . . she took an axe!’
Beth’s eyes flew open and she stiffened. ‘She did what?’ she said.
‘She took an axe and she killed him!’ Thump went Juliana’s big hands on Beth’s shoulder blade.
‘Like that!’ Whack on her lower back.
‘Dead!’ Juliana slathered on another palmful of oil. ‘You OK? We’re nearly done now, honey. You feelin’ nice and relaxed now?’
Was it likely? ‘Mmm. Er, yes I’m fine,’ Beth thought it wisest to say. She sighed, relieved it was nearly over. After this she needed to go and have a lie-down, or a swim, anything that really was restful. Juliana certainly put her all into her work. She’d hate to catch her on a bad day.
‘Course you know what, don’t you? You’re ahead of me, I can tell!’
Beth wasn’t, and wondered with some dread what was coming next.
Juliana laughed. ‘I can tell because you’ve gone tense on me!’
Oh really? Amazing, Beth managed not to say.
‘That wasn’t no friend I was talking about, not really – that was me!’
Beth almost held her breath in horror while Juliana did the final gentle pitter-patter with her fingers, and at last the little finishing-off bell was tinkling.
‘You enjoy that, honey? You’re looking good. Now remember, take care and for two hours it’s no sun, no drink, no tea or coffee, and drink plenty of water. I’ll leave you to dress now . . .’
But Beth was already on her feet, ready to go with her wrap and her sandals on.
‘Hey you’re fast! You gotta man to meet?’ Juliana grinned. ‘You know I better tell you something, case you go reportin’ me to Miriam and tellin’ all your friends. I didn’t kill him. Not quite,’ she admitted, leaning close to Beth and half-whispering, as if this was secretly more shameful than if she had committed murder. ‘I just gave him the big fright – and the Danish woman a big one too. Men need that sometimes, when they step out of line. You remember that, honey, if your man ever lets you down. You go get yourself a big axe and you remember what Juliana told you!’
14
Sex on the Beach
28 ml peach schnapps
21 ml vodka
cranberry juice
orange juice
Delilah twisted round to look in the bathroom mirror, studying the back of her knee where she’d been scratching. The whole area – from mid-calf to halfway up her thigh – was swollen with bites, livid scarlet, mottled and agonizingly itchy. She blamed her mother, whose brilliant idea it had been to go out that afternoon and wander round the swampy woods. Why hadn’t she warned her about the fifty zillion billion mosquito population that existed up in the rain forest, all hungry and desperate to munch on fresh young skin?
‘It’s only a twenty-minute trip in a cab and then a short walk in the rain forest,’ Beth had suggested to Delilah and Nick. ‘It won’t make you tired, Del, and the scenery is so beautiful, definitely not to be missed.’
Oh and it was, Delilah conceded, thinking of the great hanging liana tendrils, the slender waterfalls tumbling over the mossy rocks, the giant ferns and the unexpected orchids crowded onto twisted branches. It was fabulously beautiful, like something off wildlife TV programmes but with the added mildly delicious smell of something soggily rotting. It was also sweltering and steamy and frighteningly full of things that might want to kill you – weird monkeys (unseen but heard scarily cackling in the trees), huge lizards whizzing up and down branches, checking you out; mongooses scuttling through dripping undergrowth like long rats; the terrifying suspicion of snakes – as well as things that just wanted a nourishing nibble, like the mozzies.
‘Didn’t you use the anti-mosquito spray?’ her mother had asked, the moment she saw Delilah scratching and slapping at her legs as they followed the guide along the trail.
‘You might have told me I’d be eaten alive,’ Delilah had complained. ‘How was I supposed to know?’
Her mother had been typically sensible and worn trousers – her legs safely protected under her beige linen and her arms out of range under a long-sleeved white shirt. Even Nick had worn his combats for protection. All right for them.
And what did she let me loose in the jungle wearing? Me, her precious daughter? Delilah grumbled to herself as she rubbed ineffectively at the worst of the bites. A little pair of denim shorts and a sleeveless tee, that’s what. Why didn’t she say something before they left the hotel? Why didn’t she send me back to get something more covering? Does she want me to die of some mozzie-borne tropical disease?
A little corner of Delilah’s mind came close to admitting that something might have been said as they waited for the taxi: something along the lines of ‘There’s still time to run back to your room and put some trousers on’ or words to that effect. Unfortunately, Delilah had translated those words into critical mother-speak, as in ‘You’re not going out dressed like that, are you?’, had gone into a huff and refused to change. It wasn’t her fault. The hazards should have been explained more clearly. What use was a mother who couldn’t make herself understood?
Sam was going to love this, she thought miserably, imagining his hands on her skin, encountering nothing but ugly oozing lumps and bumps. How sexy was it (not) to have one big fat swelled-up leg and huge bites on the inside of both elbows? Great. And they’d only get worse, Delilah realized gloomily as she ran the shower at a cool and soothing temperature, quite probably there was another giant crop of bites lurking in her skin that hadn’t got round to showing themselves yet. She would be one huge scarlet splodge. Not to mention the next stage when they went blistery before turning into disgusting crunchy scabs.
‘Thanks a lot, Mum.’ Delilah scowled at the mirror. ‘Are you always going to pull stunts like this so that I’ll never, ever get it on with a boyfriend?’
The weekly Barbecue Night at the Mango Experience started early. The Frangipani restaurant was closed for the night and instead big circular tables were set up in front of the Sundown bar close to the beach, and a buffet was arranged in an open-sided marquee close to the pool. The idea was to get everyone to mingle, to have them sitting in random groups and bonding with strangers so that when they returned home they’d be able to spread the word ab
out what a friendly place it was. Sports trainers and spa staff joined in too, distributing themselves around, eating starters at one table, moving round to a main course at another, and having to smile and be scrupulously polite as guest after guest whinged that tennis courts had to be booked two days in advance and why didn’t manicures come under the All Inclusive tariff.
Guests liked to make an early start bagging a table for themselves and their friends and a cocktail or two at the same time, while the barbies were being fired up in big oil drums and the steel band tuned up on the terrace. A stage was set up for after-dinner entertainment and a limbo bar was already in place to which, following a demonstration of spectacularly costumed skill, guests would be invited to try their own luck.
‘There you are Lesley, your speciality!’ Len called to her as he carried a tray of drinks to the table he’d chosen under the tamarind tree.
‘I don’t know about that,’ Lesley demurred, taking a pina colada from Len’s tray and choosing a chair facing the ocean.
‘But you did really brilliantly last year!’ Beth told her. ‘I heard you were the winner by miles!’
Delilah looked at Lesley in undisguised amazement. ‘What, you, like, you actually go up on the stage in front of everyone and wiggle under that bar? Really?’
‘Yes really, Delilah!’ Lesley assured her. ‘I was a very bendy ballet dancer in my day, believe it or not.’
Delilah gave her another look, one that said she’d believe it when she saw it, but would, frankly, rather not have to be there when it happened.
‘You should try it, love,’ Lesley told her. ‘I could do with the competition. You might need to wear something longer than that little skirt though. I’ve come prepared – got my stretchy Calvins on. Last year there was a woman giving it a go in a micro mini-skirt and a thong and showing the whole pudding. We didn’t know where to look, did we Len?’ Lesley gave a hoot of laughter while Beth fired a warning glare at Delilah, wondering if they’d done the right thing.
