Marbella Beauty

by Oster, Camille

  “Hey,” he said.

  She lay on top of the bed, turning sharply at hearing him. “Alistair? What are you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d come see you.” He walked in and luckily there was a chair in the corner. It had clothes draped on it, but he didn’t care. This was awkward enough as it was to not sit. The room smelled like her. “What are you doing today?”

  “Mum wants to play a round of golf. Thought I’d go with her.”

  “You golf?”

  “No. Like a twelve-year-old, I get to drive the cart,” she said, sitting up. Her ankle was under her thigh covered with these slouching pants.

  “Come to lunch with me.”

  “I’ve got plans.”

  “Your mum hardly needs to you drive her cart for her.”

  “No, but I’m here to spend time with my parents.”

  “I suspect your mother would rather you have lunch with me. I guess some male attention is exactly what your mother thinks you need, judging by how quickly she makes herself scarce when I’m here.”

  “Speaking of: why are you here?”

  “Thought we could talk, have lunch and talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Maybe about why we keep on fucking whenever we’re in the vicinity of each other?”

  “Because we’re horny and have very little self-respect?”

  Alistair smiled and stood, walking over to her wardrobe and sliding the door over. There were only a few articles on hangers in there. Slowly, he rifled through. “Bit of a minimalist, aren’t you?” There was a silk dress in an oriental pattern. It had the tight little three-quarter sleeves she seemed to like. “What about this one?”

  “I never said I’d go with you.”

  Throwing the dress down on the bed, he walked over and lay down, propped up on his elbow. “Happy to stay here,” he said with a mischievous smile. “Privacy and a soft mattress. I have no complaints.” With a huff, she grabbed the dress and walked into the bathroom, firmly closing the door behind her. With a chuckle, he lay back, resting his head on his wrist. He’d love to stay there, spend the afternoon in her bed. A nice, leisurely afternoon would be something different from the urgent, hurried intimacy they tended to engage in. Closing his eyes, he let his mind drift away with the sweetness of it, and the scent of her all around him. He felt himself drift, feeling in no hurry whatsoever. In a way, it felt as if he’d already won. She’d acquiesced, had agreed to go with him. That was a pleasure all in itself.

  “Mum,” Terese shouted out in the hall as Alistair followed her out of her room. “I’m going to lunch.”

  “Okay, dear,” her mum said cheerily.

  “She could hardly contain her disappointment,” Alistair said wryly.

  “Shut up.”

  “Your mum adores me.”

  “She doesn’t know you.”

  “Although she sounds like a mum who worries she is never going to have grandchildren. Have you been giving her that impression, because she can’t fob you off on me fast enough.”

  “Seriously, I’m changing my mind.”

  Chapter 69

  Alistair drove quite far down the coast and Terese grudgingly crossed her arms. Part of the reason she was going was simply to avoid her mum’s questions. They were actually leaving Marbella. “Embarrassed to be seen with me?” Terese asked.

  “There’s this nice seafood restaurant down this way. Very Spanish.”

  “I like Spanish.”

  He looked over at her and she felt his eyes on her. It was strange sitting there next to him. He was the one she’d been avoiding for so long, the one she’d dreaded to see, and now here they were, driving down the coast together. Going to lunch. What did he want from her?

  “Is this where you take your dates?”

  “Are we on a date?”

  “God, no.”

  He smiled. It was one of those wicked smiles that slowly spread across his lips. Why did he have to be so damned beautiful? Didn’t she have a rule against dating beautiful men? Because they were up themselves like nobody else.

  Searching back through their interactions, she tried to establish his motive, but it eluded her. Part of her didn’t even know if she could trust him. This could all be a game to him; it had been before, once upon a time.

  Finally, they arrived. He pulled into a carpark next to a small Spanish villa by the beach. The bay was largely underdeveloped. A scattering of houses and the beach that had large boulders along it. The restaurant was a covered patio with sea views, with cheap plastic furniture and ashtrays on every table. “Really didn’t think this was your kind of place. Seriously, are you embarrassed to be seen with me?”

  “They do really good food. Besides, I would have thought you’d be all into authentic experiences. These people serve what they fish, use the local olive oil. Isn’t that your definition of cool? Aren’t you one of those food wankers where everything has to be local and slaved over by some octogenarian who only speaks the local language and has never left their village?”

  Terese gave him a scathing look. “Are you acerbic about everything?”

  “I am about pretentiousness.”

  “Have you met you? Pretentiousness is the bread and butter of this whole place. Why is it that the most pretentious accuse everyone else of it, but refuse to seem themselves that way?”

  “Are you saying I’m pretentious?”

  “Can we stop talking about this? I’ve had enough of you having a go at me. Yes, I think you’re pretentious. I think the whole of Marbella is pretentious.”

  “That’s an awful thing to say about your parents.”

  Closing her eyes, Terese sighed. Why the hell had she agreed to this?

  A waiter came and gave them menus. He certainly didn’t have the cheer and smile of waiting staff in Marbella—more a grumble as if he wasn’t entirely happy they were bothering him. The Spanish were like that sometimes, particularly with foreigners. She knew enough Spanish to read the menu and order. As did Alistair, apparently.

  While he was reading, she watched him for a moment, which was something way too easy to do. In crisis, was how he described himself. His blue eyes rose and met hers. On some fundamental level, he was changing into something, but apparently had no idea what. “What do you want?”

  “I’m going to have the sea bass.”

  “I mean from me.”

  He just watched her for a moment, his expression hard to read. “You mean besides the surprisingly spectacular sex?” He leant back in his chair, putting his arm along the knob at the end of the wooden backrest. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’ve got a bit of an obsession with you going on.”

  “Obsession?”

  “Everything about you bothers the hell out of me, but then I end up with my pants around my ankles most times, don’t I? Somehow we seem to end up there.”

  “We slept together twice. Hardly more than a one-night stand.”

  “Three times.”

  “Ten years ago hardly counts.”

  “So I thought spending time together will hopefully uncover why and resolve it, ideally before you leave.”

  “So what conclusions have you drawn?”

  “Well, we’ve talked about the whole you giving this place the finger. And probably because you’re a complete bitch, and apparently I find that quite sexy.”

  “I’m only a bitch to you.”

  “First of all, I doubt that, but also, why is that?”

  “Because you deserve it.”

  He bit his lip as if he was enjoying this conversation all too much.

  “And you seem to relish strongarming me,” she continued.

  Now he smiled.

  They were interrupted by the waiter, who brought their food. Terese had ordered a seafood pasta, and he got a whole fillet, covered with roasted tomatoes and herbs. It smelled divine. She couldn’t wait to taste it. Taking her fork, she wound the pasta around it. Flavour exploded in her mouth. It really was sexy.

  They ate
in silence. There were a few other people in the restaurant; including what looked like an older German couple. She suspected the big mobile home in the parking lot belonged to them. And a Spanish couple, a woman with too many gold bracelets, and an older woman with a violently blue beach wrap. An eclectic collection of people.

  “So why Berlin?” he said, twisting around his beer glass.

  “It was the agency that first attracted me. It’s a pretty cool place to live. Essentially, I’m a complete foreigner there and there are no expectations, you know? Everything’s there—shops, restaurants, art, travel. It’s got everything.”

  “Except your own society.”

  “Exactly. I can be ambitious. I don’t live by the constant comparisons here. I don’t care about the quality of the people I hang with, which parties I get invited to, which ones I don’t, and what that means. I just do what I want. I mean, you can’t really have a career in Marbella.”

  “You can in London. I thought London would be a bigger centre for someone in your industry. But then there’re all those expectations. The fiancés, the right house in a modestly countryesque village, the Range Rover and snotty little kids.”

  He wasn’t speaking about her anymore; he was talking about the things that had driven him away from London.

  “Everything planned out in practically minute detail,” he continued. “Every weekend the same. The right brand of everything. Fucking Agas. What’s this thing with fucking Agas? Who wants a stove that looks like in belonged a century back? Even the right breed of fucking dog. I don’t even want a dog. I don’t like dogs. Why do I have to have a dog?”

  This was why he’d returned to Marbella. She knew the pressure to conform as a teenager, but she’d never really got the pressure that was on him to be what was expected of him. It wasn’t really his parents either, because his mum was off in the Bahamas somewhere and his dad was never around.

  “So what are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I just want something where I don’t know exactly how my entire life will be.”

  She didn’t know what to say that didn’t sound contrived. “I’m sorry,” she finally said.

  “For what?”

  “I never realised there was so much pressure. I suppose I ducked out of it before it really hit.”

  “Hence, probably my obsession. You’re totally going it alone.”

  “It does have some drawbacks. At the end of the day, you’re not a part of the community. That part isn’t quite there and that’s the trade-off, I guess. Apparently, you can’t have it all.”

  “Do you want to go?”

  “Sure.”

  Alistair pulled out some notes and left them on the table. They left and emerged into the hot sun, walking across the parking lot, which wasn’t more than a patch of dirt.

  “I kind of admire what you’ve done,” he finally said when they reached the car.

  “Yeah, I was more or less running away. Partially from you.”

  He stopped by his car and turned to her. “Guess you didn’t get all that far. Running’s never the answer, they say. You have to face your fears.”

  “I don’t fear you,” she said defiantly. Their little reprieve of common understanding was over. It was back to this now.

  “Don’t you? Then why are you fighting so hard?”

  “As opposed to?”

  Grabbing her by the neck, he pulled her in until his lips stroked across hers. “This. We both know it’s there.”

  “Maybe because you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing and I’m leaving in a few days.”

  He stepped closer, claiming her in a deeper kiss. Heat seared through every part of her. Damn him for doing this. She seemed to have no defences against these kisses. Instead, her senses swam around, steeped in him—taste, touch, smell, even sound.

  Chapter 70

  The restaurant Cheryl found herself in was dark. The meal had been fantastic, but she still didn’t entirely know why she was there. As much as she hated it, she’d agonised over her dress that night, knowing he didn’t approve. In some sense, she’d also wondered what kind of wounds she’d suffer that night, even if he’d succeed in breaking her. No, she would be strong, no matter what he did.

  Part of her was fascinated by him, and another feared him. Her little business was for all intents and purposes in his hands, and she was dependent on him being fair to her when it was in his power not to be. She’d swore she would never be in a position of being in a man’s power, and through no fault of her own, here she was again.

  He was doing this to apologise for how he’d acted and what he’d said. So he’d taken her here, to this restaurant in Porto Banus. It had been utterly delicious, but they were done with the meal now and she felt awkward.

  “How about a walk?”

  “Sure,” she said, eager to not have to sit right across from him, wondering in what other ways he actively disapproved of her. “How is the construction going?” she asked when they stepped out into the warm evening air. “It looks an utter mess.”

  “It’s going well. Some squabbles with contractors, but that’s normal.”

  “Have you abandoned London completely now?”

  “More or less.”

  “I suppose with technology, location is less important.”

  “How are your boys?”

  “Good, probably tearing the house apart in my absence.”

  “Are they settling in well here?”

  “They’ve taken the move here in stride. I think as long as they’re together, they don’t really care where they are.”

  “They’re spirited young boys.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “I effectively missed seeing my children growing up. I regret that now. If I had spent more time with them, perhaps they wouldn’t have such a difficult time now. I am sorry I appeared to criticise you. It was a reaction to the things that were going on. Things in my life usually resolve themselves because I want them to, but with my kids, it doesn’t work that way.”

  “No, you have to deal with them on their terms, I’m afraid.”

  “And you. I find I have to deal with you on your terms.”

  “Damn right.”

  “Coffee?”

  “No, I probably wouldn’t sleep.”

  People passed them by as they slowly walked down the street, past shop fronts, bars and restaurants. Being with him was both comfortable and awkward. There was something so very commanding about him. He was used to having everything his way, and the world complied.

  “Would you like me to drive you home?”

  “That would probably be good. I can’t stay out too late.”

  He smiled at the statement. “You are not comfortable in my company.”

  “Are you surprised? You disapprove of me in just about every way.”

  “I have apologised.”

  “You have and I appreciate that, but you apologised for voicing your opinion. Perhaps I shouldn’t expect an apology for that. You are entitled to having your opinion, and why should I be offended by the one you hold of me?”

  “I don’t disapprove of you.”

  “Oh, come off it. I don’t need you to approve of me. I’m a big girl, I can survive the fact that you don’t like me.”

  “You mean the woman I keep asking on dates, the one I have built my office around.”

  Cheryl blushed, hating it when he pointed out what he’d done for her. For some reason, he wanted her to know. He’d also explained that he’d had no idea why he’d done it. It seemed he’d assigned a rebellious nature to her, and she didn’t feel it was quite deserved. What she’d done was survival more than rebellion, but perhaps someone who’d never been in that position wouldn’t understand.

  “I appreciate that I have been the beneficiary of your new efforts to be accommodating. Apparently, the world has room enough for the both of us. I understand it has been a painful learning curve for you.”

  He turned to her with a smile. “At least,
I am learning.”

  “Yes, well done. But I’m not a charity case,” she warned.

  “I never saw you as such.”

  “No, are you sure?”

  “Okay, perhaps I didn’t quite know how to deal with you, and I acknowledge I made a few mistakes. The accommodation gig is a new thing for me. In fact, it’s been a hell of a year.”

  Divorce, prison and single parenthood were a lot for anyone to take in a year. Perhaps she had been hard on him. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I’ve tried to live by that, anyway.”

  “You are quite admirable, Miss Waters.”

  “Okay, you really need to make up your mind,” she said, “because you are all tangled up in mixed messages. I can cope with any tack, just stick to it.”

  “I know I have been quite offensive in my disapproval, but I want you to know I don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Disapprove of you, except one thing.”

  “And what’s that?” Cheryl felt the hackles along her neck rise. Here is it was. She’d know all along this was coming.

  “Lipstick. I can’t stand it.”

  “All women wear lipstick.”

  “And I wish they wouldn’t. Such a complete barrier. Women’s lips are perfect the way they are, and with lipstick, they’re just not… kissable.”

  That wasn’t exactly what she’d expected, not in that context. Was he saying he wanted to kiss her, or was he talking more generally?

  Reaching up, he wiped the lipstick off her lips with his thumb. The touch along her lips sent warm sensations deep inside her. It was such a tactile, intimate thing. Did this mean he wanted to kiss her? her mind repeated. Oh dear, he was going to kiss her. Tilting her chin up, he leant down. Her eyes swam closed as the touch of his lips pressing to hers. It was soft and slow, and goose bumps rose all along her body.

  His lips moved against hers, the tip of his tongue running along the innermost part of her lower lip, begging her entrance. Was this a good idea? Did she really care at that point? He was kissing her. It had been such a long time since a man had kissed her.

  Arms wrapped around her, holding her to him. The scent and taste of him filled her. For a moment, she felt safe, she felt appreciated. His tongue stroked along hers and she felt it all the way down into her belly, stroking heat she’d tried to forget. Then it broke and he stepped away.