Summer Loving (3 page)

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 best 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.

‘Want some help?’ shouted Lucille.

He laughed and walked over to us. I could see the water leaking from his black and red wetsuit as he approached us. I kept thinking how awfully uncomfortable that must feel. Lucille got up and positioned herself behind him, jerking at the long piece of fabric attached to the zip.

‘You’ve got a bit of this lead thing caught in the zip.’ she said. ‘That’s why it’s not coming down.’

She fiddled with it for a few seconds, and while she did so, I suddenly found myself making eye contact with this guy. He met my gaze with a bemused, quizzical expression. I felt as if my whole body had turned to water. I felt faint and dizzy, even though I was just sitting on the sand.

This, in case you hadn’t guessed, was Kirstan. I’m not sure if my mouth was hanging open or not, but I’m sure the expression on my face must have given an excellent impression of extreme stupidity. He must have known the effect he was having on me, the bastard, as I could see the amusement in his eyes and the slight smile passing over his lips.

It sounds like an awful cliché, but I’m pretty sure it was love at first sight. He was one of the most handsome guys I’d ever laid eyes on; black, wavy hair, piercing blue eyes, and a kissable mouth – you know – all the usual stuff. He gave off such a
vibe
, too, if you get my meaning. I didn’t know whether I was coming or going. I didn’t know who I was or where I was.

When Lucille had successfully tugged the wetsuit zip down to his waist and he’d thanked her, he walked up to me, crouched in front of me and gently touched the side of my mouth. I could smell the sea on him and I could feel my heart beating like a hammer in my chest.

‘Bit of doughnut there on the side of your mouth. It’s OK, it’s gone now. Chocolate, were they?’

‘What were? What were chocolate?’

‘The doughnuts you were eating?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I prefer the ones with the coffee icing, myself. Thanks, ladies. You can get back to eating now.’

And then he was gone. Lucille was laughing quietly to herself.

‘What? What is it? What are you sniggering about?’

‘You! God almighty, Sask. You’re so bloody transparent. You should have seen your bloody face! His too! Why didn’t the both of you just get a room?’ She shakes her head.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

‘Sure.’

‘What do you mean by
his
too
?’