‘You mean, apart from me?’
‘It’s herbier than you.’
‘Ah . . . that’s the sage. Lovely, isn’t it? It’s associated with a long and happy life, according to legends, anyway. That, and treating mouth ulcers.’
I know that my second excursion to the sun deck today won’t be much better than the first, as now I’m simply lying down and stressing about when Cosimo’s going to ring. Not that I can really do much until he does.
I find a spot on the edge of the sun deck and order a drink from a passing waiter. Ideal as it isn’t that I’ve got to work, I can’t deny this beats sitting at my desk in London. I pull out a pad from my beach bag and start jotting down a potential quote for Cosimo to supply to the Daily Sun. But I scrub it out, and come up with something else, before repeating the exercise, then ripping off the page and dumping it in the bottom of my bag, deciding it’s better if we can suss out what they’re going to run first. I pick up my book. Perhaps distraction is the best tactic after all.
‘Here is a small fact . . .’
I glance up and spot the gorgeous woman with the clipboard, fussing over a group of people by the pool. A bit like me, none of them looks like they quite belong here. Though I’d struggle to define why this is beyond the Next T-shirt worn by the young guy with Einstein hair, and the fact that the girl with the streaky red lipstick keeps her suncream wrapped in a plastic Boots bag.
I lower my eyes again to my book.
‘Here is a small fact . . .’
A soft breeze whispers past and lifts up my chin. My skin prickles with interest. Because Harry’s joined the group. And he hasn’t got a top on.
I feel an increasing sense of agitation as I peer over my book at him. Unthinkingly, I reach up to touch my necklace and when I register its absence, experience a swell of unease, abhorrence almost, at what I’m feeling. Because there’s no doubt I’m feeling something.
I focus hard on my page, looking at the words without actually reading, until I become aware of Harry engaging in conversation with another new member of the group – an older guy with a walking stick, and knees that clearly haven’t seen sunlight since the mid-1980s.
Clipboard Barbie is finding it impossible to quell her heaving bosom and, nauseating as it is, it’s easy to see what’s motivating her. Men with muscles have never held much appeal to me on the basis that their owners usually spend so long admiring themselves, they haven’t got time for anyone else. So I can only think that I’m struggling to keep my eyes off Harry’s torso because, after five years of singledom, it’s natural to find some fascination with the male form.
I realise that these new, or rediscovered, stirrings feel like the return of a long-lost, slightly mucky friend one half of me is glad to see, even if the other doesn’t like her that much. Of course, I’m not saying I haven’t felt hot and bothered once in the last five years. But those moments have been rare, and prompted by old favourites such as the rainy day bit in Dirty Dancing, or an especially diverting scene in True Blood, rather than by a real-life human being.
Yet, as each time I catch a glimpse of Harry’s body, all I can think of is how gratifying its strong lines are, how distracting its masculinity. He has an honest-to-goodness six-pack. And I know that if I closed my eyes, I could so vividly imagine kissing it I can almost taste the sunshine on his skin. So I don’t close my eyes. I open them wide, trying to think of a way to halt the cloudburst rising in my pelvis.
‘Well, you missed a treat!’ Nic’s smiling face appears above me.
Meredith’s generous shadow suddenly eclipses the sun. ‘We’re going to have to go again – it’d be right up your street, Imogen.’
‘Really?’ I cough, pulling myself together as I take a sip of my drink to cool down.
‘Undoubtedly.’ Meredith takes a seat next to me. ‘Big place, lots of history, very photogenic. Of course, the hunky tour guide helped.’
‘It’s a church – you’re not supposed to be drooling over the tour guide,’ I point out.
‘God won’t mind,’ she says confidently. ‘He wouldn’t put men like that on earth if he didn’t want women to drool over them.’
I glance up as Yellow Bikini Lady arrives at a sun bed on the other side of the pool, this time sporting a blue rhinestone swimsuit that’s even smaller than her previous efforts. ‘You should’ve seen the car she arrived in earlier,’ I whisper.
‘Oh, that waiter I got chatting to the other day mentioned them – they’re regulars. Russian, apparently.’
‘I heard the concierge mention his name,’ I say. ‘Venedictov or something.’
Meredith Googles him on her phone. Her eyes widen. ‘Alexander Venedictov.’ She looks up.
‘Is he a movie star, too?’ asks Nicola, stretching out on the sun bed next to mine.
‘No, he’s one of the world’s most infamous crime lords,’ Meredith replies casually. ‘Can I have a sip of your sangria?’
My eyes widen. ‘You’re kidding? We didn’t have that at the Hotel Sunshine in Zante.’
‘Exciting, eh?’ says Meredith.
Nicola suppresses a smile and picks up her phone as a text arrives. ‘My mum says hi to you both.’
‘Aw . . . say hi back,’ Meredith replies.
Nicola’s still close to her parents, who always struck me as jolly, salt-of-the-earth sorts with a door that was forever open and a kitchen that smelled of freshly baked scones. They adore Nicola with the peculiar intensity that some parents feel when they have an only child; it’s no exaggeration to say that when she was growing up, they’d have preferred not to eat for a week than fail to fulfil any wish on her Christmas list.
‘So, Imogen . . . how’s our man?’ Nicola asks, with a nod towards Harry that’s heavy with implication.
I frown, mock-menacingly. ‘I don’t like this new, pushy Nicola.’
‘I’m not pushy,’ she laughs. ‘I just get the impression he likes you.’
I start spluttering. I don’t say anything in particular, simply forcing out a series of derisive grunts, before adding insouciantly, ‘What makes you say that, as a matter of interest?’
‘I can see it a mile off. He’s looking over now.’ She nudges me.
I tentatively lift up my eyes. Harry waves. I almost fall off my sun bed.
‘Wave back,’ Meredith hisses from between a fixed smile.
I lift up my hand and wave, unable to sustain it for longer than a couple of seconds before hastily peering at my book to catch my breath.
‘Here is a small fact . . .’
Meredith shakes her head before waddling off in the direction of the Ladies, and I take the opportunity to raise a subject with Nic that I’ve been meaning to since our first day on the beach.
‘So, what was the deal with Mr Brayfield and the conversation with your mum in Sainsbury’s? Last time I looked, you didn’t have a boyfriend, and weren’t in the market for one, either.’
She groans. ‘Please never mention that to Jess, whatever you do. She’d go ballistic.’
‘Has your mum ever made up an imaginary boyfriend for you before?’
She shakes her head. ‘This is the first I know about.’
Nicola adores her parents and she adores Jessica. Sadly, the two parties do not adore each other. In fact, despite she and Jess having been together for years, they still haven’t even met.
I would never have predicted this peculiar set-up. It’s not as if Nicola’s mum and dad are right-wing loonies or overzealous religious nuts. They’ve always seemed normal and nice; old-fashioned maybe, but no more excessively strait-laced than anyone else’s parents.
Even Nicola was surprised by their reaction when she finally came out to them. They didn’t hit the roof. There was no shouting or threats. Her mum simply sat with her hands clasped and head bent, weeping gently, as her dad tensed his jaw and failed to utter anything fitting.
Nicola was convinced that they were simply in shock and that if she gave it time, things would be ironed ou
t. Nine years on, she’s still waiting for that to happen.
Her parents’ approach – to pretend it isn’t happening – is a policy to which they’ve stuck resolutely over the years. Even when Nicola failed to ever turn up at home with a boyfriend; even when, as a student, she was spotted by her dad leaving her flat holding another woman’s hand. And even when, nine years ago, she attempted to introduce them to the only significant other she’s ever had: Jessica.
It was then that they had their first big row – a voices-raised, doors-slammed kind of conflagration; the sort that peppered my teenage years when I lived with my parents but which had, for some reason, eluded Nicola’s family.
Weeks went by, then years and, despite the issue continually rearing its head between Jessica and Nicola, they still haven’t met.
Whether they think that this strategy will magically transform their daughter into a card-carrying hetero and make her marry the next handsome prince that comes along, I have no idea.
‘Anyway,’ says Nicola, clearly wanting to change the subject. ‘Why wouldn’t you go and talk to Harry, Imogen? What is it you’re afraid of?’
It’s suddenly a question I don’t know how to answer. ‘Nothing,’ I reply, defensively.
The truth is closer to everything.
She raises an eyebrow. Nobody is immune to Nicola’s eyebrows. All she needs to do is lift one slightly and you’re ready to confess anything.
‘Okay, fine.’ I exhale. ‘I’m afraid of making a fool of myself with someone who’s out of my league. I couldn’t stand next to him without people thinking I was his ugly sister.’ Nicola tuts. ‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how to speak to a member of the opposite sex about anything other than work or what my gas meter reading is. And I’m afraid of being attracted to someone I don’t know, I’ve hardly spoken to, is quite clearly a ladies’ man and whom I’m never going to see again after this week.’
There’s one more thing to add to the list, however; I know it, and I’m pretty sure Nicola knows it, too.
She looks at me. ‘He might be attractive, but that doesn’t automatically mean he’s a ladies’ man, and that wasn’t a conclusion I came to. Besides, even if he was . . . Imogen, can I speak candidly?’
‘Of course.’
‘You need to chill out about Harry, about being scared and about what this is really about – Roberto.’
I look down at my hands.
‘This isn’t a big deal,’ she implores. ‘This is something very simple – chatting to a man and seeing where it goes. Which may be nowhere. Or you may get a snog out of him.’ She smirks.
‘Who says I want a snog out of him?’
She throws me a look. ‘I’m simply saying it’d be no bad thing if you had one. Don’t think too hard about this, Imogen.’
I look over to where he’s reclining on a sun bed. ‘There is no way that man and I are ever going to snog.’
‘Why not? What have you got against him?’ Meredith asks, as she reappears and sits on the edge of my bed.
‘It’s just not going to happen for a multitude of reasons, not least that he’s so far out of my league we’re in different time zones.’
‘Imogen, I assure you – he’s not.’
I need to say at this point that I haven’t got body dysmorphia, I’m not fishing for compliments and I’m not trying to claim that I have a face like a dropped pie. At some indefinable point in the distant past, you might have put Harry and me together. But not now. I have let myself go, gradually and willingly.
‘Ladies, I am not asking you to contradict this to try and make me feel better but, for the last couple of years, I’ve looked like a “Before” photograph on This Morning. And that’s before we even get to the black eye and chewed-up feet I’ve accumulated in the last day or two.’
Meredith takes a deep breath. ‘Okay. I’ll admit it, then. You haven’t done yourself any favours on that front in the last few years, it’s true. But it’s nothing that isn’t easily rectified. Imogen, you have natural assets in abundance,’ she continues. ‘And I’m not just talking about those boobs of yours.’
I cross my arms.
‘Is it such a bad thing that you’re attractive?
‘Don’t try and bully me, Meredith, it’ll never work,’ I mutter.
‘Hey, I’ve got an idea!’ She grins.
And that’s when I know I should be really worried.
Chapter 20
Meredith has clearly seen Pretty Woman one too many times, a fact that becomes apparent when she strides along Passeig de Gràcia, a boulevard whose sole raison d’etre appears to be sucking up unspeakable amounts of people’s salaries. This is haute couture heaven: row upon row of understatedly poncy designer shops, with prices capable of melting your brain.
‘I can’t afford any of these shops, Meredith,’ I say, even if being here underlines how serious an overhaul my wardrobe requires.
‘I’m paying,’ she insists, pushing open a heavy, glass door to lead me to my fate.
‘No, Meredith, you’re not,’ I begin, but before I can finish my sentence, the shop assistants are all over her like an acne flare-up. She might be wearing Mamas and Papas’ finest, and have a penchant for junk food, but the Prada piranhas have a sixth sense that Meredith knows how to spend money when she wants to.
I can’t deny the clothes are beautiful: there’s everything from Alexander McQueen to Vivienne Westwood, Givenchy to Sonia Rykiel. But I won’t be moved: as Meredith whips out her credit card, I snatch it away. ‘Meredith, thank you for offering, but let’s just go to H&M. Please?’
She frowns, takes back the card and reluctantly slips it back in her purse. ‘Have it your way.’
We leave the shop, turning our backs on the three assistants, who look like they may just cry.
Outside, the city’s beautiful crowd strut along in Versace dresses and sunglasses that cost more than my car as we head for somewhere more suited to my budget: the Plaça de Catalunya.
There’s an eclectic mix of styles here: Grecian-haired beauties in high heels rub shoulders with tattooed counterculture hipsters in baggy pants. All of whom look good, in their own unique way. By which I mean cool, chic, effortless. Harry would look at home here, I know it. I’m starting to think Harry would look at home anywhere.
I look down at my own ensemble – another ubiquitous pastel vest top, khaki shorts and flip-flops – and sigh. ‘Where am I going to start?’
Meredith leads us into a shop that’s eye-wateringly on trend. Obviously, I want to look fashionable – why wouldn’t you? – but I’ve never felt more old-fartish than now, surrounded by shoppers with that elusive Catalan ability to wear anything and look cool.
Nicola homes in on a black top that is revealing to a stupefying degree, the sort of thing Rihanna might throw on when in a particularly fruity mood. ‘That’s nice, don’t you think?’
Meredith contemplates it. ‘Ooh, yes. But a little safe, maybe.’ Nicola, to my astonishment, agrees.
‘Hang on a minute,’ I protest. ‘That’s safe? What sort of evening of debauched Bacchanalia do you think I’m about to have if that’s safe?’
Nicola laughs, clearly under the mistaken impression that I’m joking as they head for another rack.
Over the next half hour, my two best friends, commandeered largely by Meredith, stride around gathering up armfuls of garments and thrusting them in the direction of the assistants, while I scuttle around in an increasing state of disquiet. I am eventually led to a spacious changing room and confronted by an array of clothing as vast as it is, in all cases, disturbing.
Despite Meredith’s vehement reassurances, they’re really not me. She tries negotiating gently with me on this subject, arguing that I need to try something new and keep an open mind. I make the mistake of arguing back, to which she responds. ‘So, what IS really you, Imogen? This?’ She gestures to my outfit, without apology, and I’m forced to concede the point.
‘Just humour her,’ Nicola whispers, grinning.
‘I don’t appear to have much choice.’
She links my arm reassuringly as Meredith strides ahead. ‘If it means anything, I think she knows what she’s talking about. Fashion-wise, I mean.’
‘There’s no doubt she always looks amazing, no matter what she wears,’ I agree. ‘The same does not apply to me.’
Nicola shakes her head. ‘Stop doing yourself down, for God’s sake. Besides, you don’t know anybody here apart from us. Why not do as she suggests and wear something a bit more daring?’
I end up agreeing to buy more of the items than I’d have predicted. And while I take Nicola’s comments about being daring to heart, it’s the pink camisole Meredith is intent on teaming with skinny jeans that causes the most controversy. The trousers are so tight around the backside you couldn’t risk breaking wind in them without doing yourself an injury. And as for the top . . .
‘That looks like underwear,’ I say. I can’t deny it’s beautiful, but there’s simply no way I’d wear it outside the privacy of my own bedroom.
‘It’s not underwear, it’s a top,’ she replies.
‘Meredith, I’m not wearing that. Not by itself.’
She frowns. ‘Just try it.’
‘I’ll look like a slut.’
‘You say that as if it’s a bad thing.’ She sees my expression. ‘Oh, I’m joking. Come on, give it a go. If it doesn’t work, I’ll find you something else.’
The top is designed for one thing only: displaying a cleavage. Which is fine for most women. Unfortunately, in my case, everything shows off my cleavage – I’ve got Arran jumpers that manage the job. So when I pull on a top that’s deliberately designed to look sexy, it has an alarmingly magnifying effect.
I look in the mirror and tell myself that it takes a certain type of woman to pull off this look; a woman I’m not and never will be. And yet, something makes me take it to the till and pay for it, even if the likelihood of me actually wearing it tonight, or indeed ever, is negligible.
Despite the shopping trip leaving me undeniably exhilarated, I return to the hotel full of trepidation about Meredith and the sinister toolbox of beautifying products she can’t wait to unleash on me.
The Time of Our Lives Page 12
