I mean, really. Tybalt. How could they?
‘How long have you been here?’ Franklin asks Tybalt.
‘Got here this afternoon. Had a chance to play yet?’
He’s talking about golf, no doubt.
‘A few holes. Just acclimatising at the moment. Listen. Are you about to have dinner? Why don’t you join us?’
And now he’s going to talk about golf all through dinner. Great.
I look up at Tybalt and give him my most pleasant smile. This should be a cue for Franklin to introduce us all to each other, except he doesn’t. Whenever he meets another powerful man, I tend to cease to exist. He hasn’t even acknowledged the presence of the woman yet, whoever or whatever she or it is.
‘Don’t mind if I do, you old rapscallion!’ says Tybalt.
‘Sit ye down, sit ye down!’ says Franklin, waving Tybalt and fiend to the two vacant seats at our table. Why do men lapse into vaguely bawdy, archaic language with each other? Don’t they realise how dumb it sounds? It has echoes of a faint ribaldry that isn’t really a part of their lives and never will be.
Tybalt gives me an appreciative glance, which is mainly aimed at my cleavage. If I was out at dinner with a ‘normal’ guy, god forbid, and Tybalt did that, he’d probably find himself on the receiving end of a possibly fatal punch to the groin. But in the world I now live in, I have to put up with it and Franklin will be pleased by it. It’s what Franklin wants; other men admiring his trophy girlfriend’s boobs.
A quick word about my boobs. I know I had a little pop at Tybalt’s bronzed alien woman just now, but the truth is I’ve had a boob job, too. Yes, Franklin paid for them and yes it was Franklin that persuaded me to have it done.
When I met him, I was a pert C cup and now I’m a fuller, attention-grabbing DD. It was a costly op and the cost is one of the reasons that people never notice it. At least that’s what I like to think.
This is not a cop-out on my part, but I’d always, always wanted bigger boobs. It wasn’t to attract men particularly (though I’m sure that played a part), but I just felt they’d look good on me. I’m fairly tall (5’ 9”) and have wide hips and a big ass. I just felt that I could be more in proportion with bigger boobs, that’s all. Anyway, it’s nothing now. Everyone does it.
On top of that, it makes me look stunning in a bikini. I’d always wanted to be one of those women that people can’t take their eyes off and now I’ve done it. They’re fake, but they make me feel sexy. Naked, believe me, I’m really something.
Tybalt sits next to Franklin and nods at me. ‘And who is this beautiful creature, you old sod. Aren’t you going to introduce us?’
Franklin smiles. ‘This is Saskia. Saskia Lucas. Saskia – this is Tybalt Dymond. We’ve crossed swords in the past during various business deals. Tybalt is now in luxury property. You’ll see his name in the back pages of any Condé Nast magazine.’
Tybalt takes my hand and kisses it, ‘Very pleased to meet you, Saskia. That’s a beautiful dress, if you don’t mind my saying so!’
Alien woman coughs impatiently. Tybalt gets the hint.
‘And this is Estelle. Estelle – you must have heard me talk about Franklin. One of the original Pirates of the Caribbean! If he boards your corporate ship, you know you’re in trouble!’
We all laugh at this incomprehensible, embarrassing and desperately unfunny comment. Without warning, Estelle makes a sudden grab at my wrist and peers at my watch. WTF?
‘Oh my god! You’re wearing a Roger Dubuis! Look! Look, Tybalt!’
She jerks my arms toward Tybalt so he can get a better look. I think I’m getting a Chinese burn from the friction. I’m clearly just a thing to which this marvellous watch is attached. Tybalt is more interested in the wobble of my boobs.
‘This is the one I was telling you about. The one with the amethyst and spinel face. Not that I’m hinting or anything!’
She laughs. It sounds like a vacuum cleaner being dragged backwards through a cheese grater. When she’s recovered from this laugh (although I haven’t yet), she thrusts her own watch in my face. Black leather strap, diamonds everywhere and a diamond butterfly on the face.
‘It’s the Van Cleef & Arpels Papillon. Lovely, isn’t it?’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, ‘well done.’
Franklin’s eyes flash dangerously at this comment. He doesn’t like me being rude to his friend’s women, even if the rudeness is over their heads. There are a very tight set of rules in my world now, though the old me still tries to break through and break them.
We order dinner. Tybalt orders obscenely expensive Champagne. I think he’s showing off. To who? Franklin? Me? I wonder if he’ll put this meal on his bill. As we eat (I had a delicious Cabrito Assada with a cucumber and tomato salad) he and Franklin talk about golf. They talk about golf courses that they’ve been to and other tedious golf related stuff.
Maybe there’s something wrong with me, but I can’t find any enthusiasm for this particular sport at all. Estelle listens keenly, pretending to be interested. I hate women who pretend to be interested in their man’s sport. It’s always a sell-out, whoever they are or whatever background they’re from.
‘So do you play, Saskia?’ Tybalt has turned his attention on me again. He’s addressing this question to my cleavage, which I’m pretty sure isn’t going to reply. It certainly doesn’t play golf, either.
I take a sip of Champagne. ‘Golf? No. I’ve never got the hang of it.’ There’s a subtext in that comment, which is to do with women not being good at things. Franklin and his friends like and approve of that type of remark and I’ve become quite good at it.
‘Well, it is more of a man’s sport, I suppose. What sort of sport are you interested in? Do you like any indoor sports?’ He gives me an arch look. I ignore this question as if I don’t understand it. That’s another one of the unspoken rules.
I’m actually thinking ‘God, what a sleaze ball!’ For no apparent reason I start thinking about an old boyfriend of mine. I don’t like thinking about him normally, as he broke my heart. I’ve pushed him so far down that he rarely resurfaces nowadays. When he does, it’s like a pain I can feel throughout my whole body.
We were together through the whole of my gap year. I was living in Cornwall. His name was Kirstan and he was a surfer. He liked to describe golf as ‘the sport of corpses’. I laugh slightly as I think of that phrase. Tybalt picks up on this straight away. Underneath the faux chivalry is a rampant insecurity and an unpleasant aggression, which I’m sure Estelle knows about only too well.
‘Sorry – have I said something funny?’
‘No! I was just thinking about something someone said to me a long time ago.’
Franklin frowns at me. ‘Perhaps you could share it with all of us, Saskia, if it’s that funny.’
God, this is like being in bloody school. ‘Perhaps you could tell the whole class!’ I hate him sometimes. I swallow the hate and try desperately to think of something that will explain my brief snort of laughter. Something innocuous that will get a laugh and put everyone at ease again. But I can’t. I’m going to have to come clean and damn the consequences. I take a brief, feminine sip of Champagne.
‘Well, you were saying that golf was more of a man’s sport. I just remembered someone telling me that it was the sport of corpses.’
There’s a terrible silence. Can you cut silence with a knife? I think you could cut this one. I take a big gulp of Champagne and smile. I think I’ve just killed dinner. Tybalt and Franklin ignore me completely and go back to their golf chat. Estelle leans over.
‘So tell me about yourself, Saskia. How long have you and Franklin been together? Tybalt is always talking about him. He has great respect for him as a businessman and so do I.’
Really? Do you? I’m just about to answer when she changes the subject. My fault. I can’t stop myself looking at her boobs. Up close, they’re just so, so big. And she notices. Damn!
‘First Choice Clinic, Harley Street. The b
est there is. I must say, Saskia, yours are so very natural looking. Where did you go?’
I’m shocked, as if she’d slapped me across the face. No one has ever commented on the work I’ve had done that bluntly before. Is she guessing, or can she tell just by looking? I swallow hard before I reply.
‘I went to the same place as you. First Choice.’
‘They’re marvellous, aren’t they? Just one and a half hours in theatre and all the swelling gone after two months. Scar reduction there is marvellous, absolutely marvellous. The best.’
I’m about to put a forkful of food into my mouth, but my appetite is not what it was a few minutes ago. I think back to the uncomfortable recovery period that I experienced. Not a nice memory. I really, really don’t like talking about this, but I try to remain polite.
‘Yes, they were very good. Very nice people. Very understanding.’
‘I first went there because I had inverted nipples which Tybalt didn’t like. I was a C cup at the time. Tybalt said that while I was there I may as well get implants, so I went up to a DD. I stayed with that for two years, but I started to get restless, and so did Tybalt. Now I’m F cup and I’ve never been happier.’
So, my guess wasn’t that far off, then.
‘So, Saskia. Are you going to go bigger? You’re a very beautiful young girl. What are you now? 34C? You’re quite tall, aren’t you? I think you could carry off an E. If your man is paying you should get all you can. Men love it. Tybalt never leaves mine alone.’
The phrase ‘too much information’ pops into my head.
‘Well, I don’t have any plans at the moment. I guess I’ll have to see how it goes.’ I say, wondering if I could just run away without anyone noticing.
Estelle laughs. ‘Don’t wait too long, babe. Men like these; they’re always looking for a younger model. You have to keep their interest.’
She guzzles down the rest of her glass of Champagne and pours herself another one. ‘Have you looked into vaginal tightening? I can give you a telephone number.’
As we drink more and more Champagne, the atmosphere gets more relaxed and by the time we order coffee I’m feeling a little happier and not a little drunk. Estelle is screaming with laughter at something that Tybalt has said and Franklin says to me ‘Did you hear that? Did you hear that, Saskia?’
I did, but still don’t understand why it was funny. I laugh anyway, which is what Franklin wanted. I’d laugh at anything at the moment. Estelle complains about how hot it is. I’m thinking: you’re in the Algarve, its July, what the hell do you expect?
Franklin eyes Estelle and I can see his eyes pass across her boobs. He’s a little drunk, like I am.
‘I must say, Estelle. You’re one of the most buxom women I’ve seen since we’ve been here. I hope you take that as a compliment!’
Estelle giggles. It’s a weird, high-pitched sound, like a bagful of mice being poked with a sharp stick. Franklin laughs a little too loudly. We’re all friends here, so comments like this are allowed.
Tybalt gives Estelle’s left breast a quick squeeze. Did I say squeeze? Grope would be a better word. ‘All bought and paid for, old chap. She’s looking magnificent, isn’t she?’
‘Oh stop it, Ty.’
But Tybalt isn’t going to stop it.
‘Ten thousand for the pair and money well spent!’ he laughs, his eyes passing across my cleavage once again.
I don’t like the way this conversation is going. If Franklin starts talking about my surgery in that way, I’ll punch him, I swear I will. I try to think of something I can talk about which will get us all off this subject. Ah. I know.
‘I was just thinking – why don’t we all have breakfast together tomorrow morning?’
This is actually the last thing I want. I’d rather be trapped in a lift all night with Tybalt. It seems to have worked, though. They all look thoughtful and nod their heads.
‘I think that’s an excellent idea, my dear.’ says Franklin. He turns to Tybalt, ‘What time do you and your good lady rise in the morning?’
This gets a big laugh out of Tybalt. Estelle joins in a few seconds later.
‘We usually breakfast at around eight-thirty,’ says Tybalt, raising an eyebrow as if he’s just said something both funny and sexy. ‘Tomorrow morning, we shall sup together!’
All this archaic speech again! Maybe the thought of being medieval gentlemen appeals to them in some subconscious way that I, a mere female, can’t fathom.
‘OK.’ I say, ‘We’ll see you down in the breakfast room in the morning. I’ve had a lovely time, it was very nice to meet you both, but I’m going to have to go to bed. I’ve got a bit of a headache – must be all the Champagne!’
‘Headache, eh?’ grins Tybalt, ‘Well, we’ve all heard that one before!’
‘She’s always got a bloody headache.’ says Franklin, laughing knowingly.
More laughter. I stand and both men stand at the same time. I air kiss Estelle. ‘Lovely to meet you, babe. I can tell we’re going to be good friends. So much in common.’
I certainly hope not, babe. When Tybalt gives me a goodbye kiss, its close enough for my boobs to touch his chest, which is what I know he’s been after all evening. Yuk.
Just before I go to sleep, damn Kirstan pops into my consciousness again. It’s as if someone has stuck a javelin straight through me and twisted it, it’s so painful. I can’t imagine what he’d think of Franklin and Tybalt. Just their names would be enough to set him off for half an hour. I slide my hand across the cool sheet and imagine that his strong hand will be there to meet mine, giving it a squeeze before we both drift off into unconsciousness.
Two
‘Would you like some more coffee, my dear?’
I push my cup over to Franklin and he pours another coffee, my third so far this morning. Breakfast here is like every other European hotel breakfast: bread, croissants, meat, jam and all the usual suspects. I’d hoped to get a proper Portuguese Breakfast, whatever that may be, but I guess you’d have to go into one of the villages for that and that’s not the sort of thing that Franklin does whenever he goes on holiday. Too much inconvenience and unpredictability. Too many foreigners.
It’s a lovely, warm morning with just a slight, salty breeze coming off the sea. The sky is a deep blue, like you see in the Mediterranean countries further east of here. I’d like nothing better than to run down to the beach, sit on the sand and have a couple of doughnuts with a flask of coffee, but I know that even the suggestion of that would have Franklin raising his eyebrows in that way of his. Perhaps I’m being unreasonable. Maybe you grow out of that sort of thing. Maybe this is better.
We’re having breakfast on a veranda on the third floor. It’s one of five breakfast areas and is designed to give you a good view of the wide expanse of beach and of the sea. It certainly does that, but it seems such a waste of the beach, which is tantalisingly close.
I was dreaming about Cornwall last night, which is hardly surprising, as I’d been thinking about Kirstan, or should I say trying not to think about Kirstan.
I’d planned to travel to France or somewhere like that during my gap year, but hadn’t really thought through what I was going to do when I got there. Work as a waitress? Be an au pair? Busk? Lap dancer? Who knew? Suddenly, school was over and I still hadn’t sorted anything out. Luckily for me, my older sister Lucille came to the rescue.
She’d been working in St Ives for two years at that point (As a photographer! She did physics in university, for god’s sake! I couldn’t believe it!), and she’d rented this huge place with no furniture in Polzeath, overlooking the sea. The bedrooms were the only rooms that had curtains. She’d said if I didn’t sort myself out soon I’d end up staying with her and being her housekeeper, cleaner and all-purpose slave and she was right.
Despite the lack of the usual comforts, it had a sort of bohemian air to it, particularly with Lucille’s beautiful, eerie photographs on all the walls in clip frames. I felt relaxed in a way that I�
��d never experienced before.
I was lucky enough to get a job working in the restaurant of the Tate St Ives after two weeks and was looking forward to a year of doing nothing except reading, getting drunk with Lucille and taking long beach walks while admiring the sea birds. I might even help Lucille with her photography. Maybe help her develop her pictures or something. It didn’t look that difficult, though she assured me it was highly skilled and that I would probably poison myself with the chemicals or burn a hole in the floor.
*
Franklin makes a face. ‘Is your coffee alright, Saskia, my dear? Mine tastes a little – I don’t know – too bitter, if that’s the right word. I’ll call the chap over.’
‘Mine’s fine. Maybe it’s the salty air.’
‘Maybe. But I doubt that you’re right.’
He raises a hand and barks at a waiter, ‘Por favor!’
Lucille and I would buy Danish pastries or doughnuts from the supermarket late in the afternoon and take them down to the beach with us in the morning and eat them with coffee, watching the surfers slice across even the choppiest of waves. As someone who couldn’t even swim at that time, I could never understand the appeal of surfing. It just looked so unnecessarily dangerous. And cold. The water always seemed freezing to me whenever I went in for a paddle. At the time, I didn’t understand about wetsuits and how they worked.
‘It’s this coffee,’ says Franklin to the waiter, ‘It tastes, er, different from the last couple of days. Could you get me another cafetière, please? Hurry it up.’
‘Certainly, sir. I won’t be a moment.’
And off he went.
*
One day, when Lucille and I were finishing our breakfast doughnuts and coffee, we saw one of the surfers approaching us, carrying a bright orange surfboard. I’d noticed that board being ridden way out at sea about half an hour earlier. You couldn’t really miss it. Perhaps, I thought, that was the point.
The wind was blowing the fine sand across the beach and his eyes were closed as he attempted to unzip his wetsuit from the back. He was having problems. The wind was trying to whip the board out of his hand as he struggled with the zip and I could see that the high-speed sandstorm was making it all too much for him, blinding him and attempting to take his balance.
Summer Loving Page 2
