Summer Loving
Nicola Yeager
© Nicola Yeager 2013
Nicola Yeager has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2013 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
One
There’s something exhilarating about opening a box when you know it contains an expensive dress from a top designer. Perhaps that’s why they make the bloody things so awkward to open; some idea that the longer it takes you to release the criminally costly contents, the more you’ll relish the anticipation and the more you’ll appreciate what’s inside, if and when you finally get to it.
It makes it into an event, rather than a box opening, I guess. Something like that, anyway. I’m not an expert in packaging psychology, though I’m sure such people exist somewhere, bless them.
I’m afraid that doesn’t really work for me at all. When I was a kid, I couldn’t understand why they bothered with all the damn wrapping paper in the first place, beautifully designed and festooned with ribbons as it may have been.
My main memory of Christmas mornings or birthdays is of ripping off the packaging as quickly as possible - I feel awful now, as I’m sure my parents had taken a lot of trouble with it all. The floor would end up looking as if a pack of wrapping paper piranhas had been at work and hadn’t bothered to tidy up after themselves.
Franklin, my boyfriend, looks across our hotel room at me and smiles. He loves buying me gorgeous, expensive things and he loves to see my face when I open them, so despite my urge to go and fetch a carving knife, blowtorch or a pair of vicious-looking industrial scissors, I slowly remove the big, black ribbon and place it carefully on a chair.
I smile at him. He smiles back. I’m trying to be as elegant as possible, despite ‘impatient’ being my middle name.
I turn the box every which way to see how I can get the posh-looking silvery paper off. Finally, I spot an almost invisible seam along the side and slide a fingernail along a long strip of silvery tape. This action allows me to remove the primary wrapping, which I fold carefully and place on top of the ribbon. It’s difficult, but I’m trying to show that I have respect for the wrapper’s art.
I’m now holding a very attractive black box in my hands. It’s a lovely box, as lovely boxes go, and I run a finger across its surface, the more to appreciate the quality of the cardboard and the blackness.
I just know that I’ll be keeping this box. Not for the rest of my life or anything (I’m not that mad), but there’s an etiquette with boxes that contain wonderful gifts. You can’t just stuff them in the bin straight away. It’s as if what’s hidden inside has bestowed some of its value and aesthetic loveliness on the actual box and wrapping paper and they need to be treated as part of the gift.
Perhaps the box and the wrapping could be seen as the gift’s parents or something (maybe I am that mad). I’ll probably keep them all for two or three days and then discreetly bin them and watch with regret as the cleaner takes them away to their inevitable fate, whatever that may be.
It’s only now that I notice the designer’s name on the box. Balmain. A very expensive, luxury brand, as I’m sure you know. The reason I didn’t notice the name straight away is because, like the box, the name is in black. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always found black writing on a black background very difficult to read, let alone spot. The writing is also very small, which makes things even harder. At least the name is on the top of the box, though, even if it is subtly hidden away on the bottom left corner. I guess they don’t have to trumpet who they are when you’ve already bought one of their products.
It could be subtler than that, of course. Maybe they don’t want you to know who they are. How cool would that be? A company that makes exorbitantly-priced designer clothing, who prefer to remain totally anonymous.
Franklin raises his eyebrows at me, willing me to proceed to the next stage of the unwrapping process. I widen my eyes with anticipatory glee and open the box. At least the cover isn’t cleverly taped with sly pieces of adhesive like Ferrero Rocher boxes are nowadays. If it was, I think I’d have to bite my lip to avoid swearing loudly.
Whatever it is that’s inside the box is shrouded in black tissue. I lift it out, as if I was lifting a baby (not that I’d ever lift a baby- Yuk!) and place it on the pink marble table next to where I’m sitting. The box joins its relatives on the chair and I attempt to pull apart the tissue without damaging it, which of course is totally impossible.
It’s a dress and it’s black. For a moment I think it’s made of velvet, then when I hold it up to get a proper look, I realise that it’s actually suede, but a light suede, not the heavy type that you’d get in, say, a pair of Clark’s Desert Boots. It’s slinky and sensual. Franklin smiles as he watches me run my hand down its soft surface.
‘I thought you could wear it to dinner this evening, my dear. You’ll look ravishing.’
I think of all the things that I can say in return, trying to pick the most apt.
‘It’s marvellous, Franklin. Absolutely beautiful. Can I try it on now?’
‘Of course. Why else do you think I’d have spent all that money and taken all that trouble to have it delivered, you silly girl?’
I smile politely, take it into the bedroom and take of my skirt and blouse until I’m standing in front of the mirror wearing only my knickers. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Franklin watching me. I pull the dress over my head, pull it down and smile as I see my reflection. It’s short and very, very sexy. It has big shoulders, which I’m not usually keen on, but this time I’ll make an exception. I inhale deeply. I adore the smell of new clothes.
It feels soft against my body and has a deep plunge front, which stops just below my breast bone. This is definitely an item that you wouldn’t wear a bra with, and I’m sure that’s why Franklin chose it. In fact, I know it is.
By the way, when I say that Franklin chose it, I don’t mean that he travelled to Paris and spent several hours in a boutique browsing a few dozen different items with my figure, colouring and taste in mind. I mean that he gave instructions over the phone of roughly what it was he wanted to someone who then chose something that was close to what they thought he’d been describing. For this item, he would have said something like ‘Black, top draw manufacturer, shows her legs and her bosom without looking too tasteless.’
Well, this one is classy. It shows off my cleavage without being too tacky and is very short - with a slit up the front of left thigh that’s so high it almost shows my knickers. They’re very good, these people in the shops. They have to be. They deal with wealthy clients like Franklin all the time.
There’s a little designer touch at the waist, too, with two small leather straps, decorated with gold buckles. It’s very chic and very daring. I immediately know which shoes I’ll be wearing with this - my Jimmy Choo black velvet ankle boots. No need for stockings. The combination of the dress and the shoes will show off my legs, which are lightly tanned at the moment, like the rest of me.
I look around for my Chanel clutch bag. It’s on the table next to the bed. I pick it up and hold it in front of the dress next to my thigh. Good. It matches.
I return to the main room and do a twirl.
‘Can you zip me up, darling?’
Franklin gets up and fiddles around behind me for a few seconds, the
n pulls the zip up in one smooth movement. I can feel his breath on my shoulder. I turn to face him. I know he’s pleased with this dress. I can tell by his expression.
He likes to see me looking sexy and he likes other people to see me looking sexy, too. He gets a kick out of it. He likes it when we walk into a room and all the men and women’s eyes are on me. He likes people to be jealous of him when they see he’s escorting a beautiful, well-dressed woman who’s probably young enough to be his daughter. Maybe even his granddaughter.
‘I had it sent from Paris yesterday. I told them over the phone what I wanted and they said they had just the thing. A courier brought it over this morning. You are a spoiled little girl. What are you?’
See? I’m used to hearing things like this now. A few years ago, I might have said something like ‘A courier? Are you mad? You had someone bring this dress all the way from Paris to Portugal? How much did that cost?’
But I don’t say anything like that, even though I’m still thinking it.
We don’t live in Portugal, by the way, just in case you were wondering. We’re on holiday here in a marvellous five star hotel called The Rico Paraiso Lerdo. The best in the Algarve, Franklin tells me. It’s even got its own golf course, which is the main reason that Franklin picked it, I suspect. He’s a bit of a golf nut and has already been out on the course for a few warm up sessions. I have no interest in golf whatsoever.
We’ve got a lovely suite. Cool and quiet with air conditioning that you can’t hear, which makes a change from the hotel we stayed in in Naples a few months ago. We had to make a complaint.
Our suite is decorated in what I suppose could be called a Moroccan style, which is a bit unusual, considering we’re not in Morocco, but Portugal has a lot of Arabic influences in its culture, so it’s not too surprising. It has polished stone floors and colourful, exotic furniture. I love walking around it.
We’ve already been here for three days and I’ve spent most of my time sitting by one of the pools, working on my tan and occasionally swimming. I love swimming. I didn’t learn until I was about twenty-two, so it’s still quite a novelty for me.
Franklin loves to watch me swimming, particularly when I wear the Prada bikini that he bought for me when we were in Greece a few months back. It’s black, very revealing and the briefs are so high on the hip that I had to get a Brazilian before I could wear it in public.
Franklin, it has to be said, certainly doesn’t swim and doesn’t sunbathe very much either. One of his doctors told him that it wouldn’t be healthy for his skin at his age, which is fair enough, I suppose. Usually, he sits at a table reading and sipping a glass of Medronho, his favourite Portuguese liqueur. I tried it once, but I didn’t like it. Tasted like marzipan, I thought. Once you’d had a mouthful, you couldn’t really taste anything sweet for the rest of the day.
I try to get in about three half hour sessions of sunbathing a day. I’m fully aware of the damage it can do to your skin and I certainly don’t want to end up looking like a bronze scrotum by the time I’m thirty. I use an SPF 50, usually, which I think blocks out most of the bad rays. I hope it does, anyway.
I kiss him on the cheek. ‘Thank you, darling. I love it.’
‘You should do. It cost enough!’
I close my eyes as he kisses me on the mouth and strokes my hair. He smells of mints and after shave. Considering that this dress was just a gift for the sake of being a gift, I wonder what he’s going to get me for my birthday this year. It’s in two days and he hasn’t said anything yet, or asked me what I’d like. If he does ask me, I think I’d like a new watch. I saw a gorgeous Jaeger-LeCoultre in some magazine a few weeks ago. It said in the advert that it embodied a free-spirited and spontaneous personality. That’s not really me anymore, but it’s still a lovely watch.
There are three fabulous restaurants here and tonight we’re going to the ‘poshest’ of the three. I can’t imagine what the food will be like. The other two were sensational. I suppose this is why he got me the dress. Or maybe he just felt like buying me something. I have to say, though, that I never really feel comfortable eating food wearing very expensive clothing. I’m always afraid that I’ll drop something off my fork onto whatever I’m wearing and it’ll be ruined forever. Sometimes, I’d just like to wear a pair of cut-off jeans and have a pizza in front of the telly, but those days have long gone.
I can’t imagine what you’d do if you spilled some oil-based sauce onto a dress made of black suede. Scream, maybe? I don’t think a suede brush would help much. Franklin is very fussy about things like that. He’s a little short-tempered and can get really annoyed if you make any sort of mess when you’re eating. Sometimes I can see that he’s grinding his teeth and balling his hand into a fist. He’s used to the best and everything has to be perfect for him. Knock a glass of red wine over a pristine white tablecloth and you’ll see a side of him that is best kept hidden from view!
Half an hour later, when we walk into the restaurant, the Maître D bows and scrapes; almost every eye is on Franklin and me. This dress is certainly having the effect he was looking for. When Franklin is dressed up in a suit, he looks almost ten years younger. It reminds me of when I first met him.
I’d finished a degree in geography at Stirling University and had found it difficult to get a decent job. I’d spent almost three years temping, and although I had a lot of fun, I didn’t seem to be going anywhere, plus the money was pretty rotten. I applied for several jobs that I’d seen advertised in various papers, but it was only when I applied for a job as a cartographer at a petrol company that my luck appeared to be in. Yes, I know that sounds like a boring job, and you’re right, but at least the money was fairly good, compared to what I’d been on before.
This was Franklin’s company. He’d built it up from virtually nothing and after lots of cruel takeovers, it was now one of the premier oil exploration companies in Europe. Before you ask, he doesn’t go out and search for the oil himself with a spade or something. He’s a businessman.
I didn’t come into contact with him very much for the first few months that I was there, but I had noticed him looking at me in the corridors occasionally.
I didn’t really think of him in that way, if you know what I mean, but could see that he must have been a moderately attractive man when he was younger, though I guessed that he was well past his mid-sixties by the time that I first encountered him. When I finally met him, he turned out to be much nicer than I’d imagined, in no-nonsense, brusque way. He was charming, polite, clever and took a keen interest in what I was doing. It was a change. It was a relief.
A month later, I got an email from him asking if I wouldn’t mind popping into his office for a few minutes, whenever it was convenient. He didn’t waste any time. He was spending three weeks in Greece on some sort of working holiday and wondered if I’d like to join him. It was simple; he wanted female companionship and I was female. I needn’t worry about my job. In fact, I needn’t worry about money again.
It was like a bloody business proposition and I took it. I remember walking down the road after work that day laughing out loud to myself. I was a bit stunned, as well. Did these things still happen in real life? So there it was; over a six month period, I’d gone from being a lowly temp working for a company that made milk cartons, to being a kept woman. It was as simple as that.
Of course, I still told my parents that I was working at the company. Doing rather well, in fact. I had to make up something that would explain all the clothes and the wonderful holidays that I seemed to be going on all the time.
Just as we sit down at our table, I notice another couple come in. The man looks a little younger than Franklin, but with more hair and a lot more weight. The woman is something else. If I was being threatened at gunpoint to guess her age, I still wouldn’t be able to do it with any accuracy. She could be anywhere from late twenties to mid-fifties. She’s so brown that the whites of her eyes look luminous. To say her skin was sun-damaged wouldn’t be the
half of it. I can tell immediately that she’s had some work done on her face. Her fingernails are long and look fake.
She’s covered in jewellery, most of it gold, and wears this amazing short, white, sleeveless dress thingy, a bit like a professional tennis player’s. If she suddenly sprang from a wardrobe on Dr Who, you’d jump, I swear it.
Next: her boobs. I’m sure you’ve seen photographs of various celebs where it’s glaringly obvious that they’ve had a boob job. Hers are like that. They’re just too big and too round. I’ve never been very good with accurate guesses at other women’s bra sizes, but I think we’re looking at something in the region of 44EE. She’s stick thin (lots of gym time, I suspect) so that you fear that she might fall forward onto her face at any second with the weight of them. I don’t know why, but I keep thinking about basketballs. She’s wearing an unsuitable bra which pushes them up a little too much.
She’s loud and animated as she chats to her husband or whatever he is and waves her hands around. He’s ignoring her, though, and is more interested in looking over at us. He narrows his eyes and looks quizzically over at Franklin and then smiles. I’m thinking, ‘Oh my god they’re going to come over here’ and no sooner has the thought formed than they’re on their way over. The man’s smile cracks into a grotesque laugh.
‘Excuse me – is that Mr Franklin Seth-Smith OBE that I spy before me?’
Franklin uses the table to slowly push himself up to a standing position and walks towards the man holding his hand out.
‘Tybalt, you old criminal. How are you?’
Just a little aside. I’m sure that one day, if my life radically changes overnight, I might have children. I can almost visualise being in a hospital bed and the nurse bringing my little bundle of joy over to me. It’s a boy.
‘What are you going to call him?’ I can imagine her saying.
‘Tybalt,’ I reply.
‘In which case,’ she would say, ‘I am taking that baby away from you as you are plainly not of sound mind. I shall now call the police.’
Summer Loving Page 1
