‘I don’t fancy him. I don’t like him and I’ll never see him again anyway. Look…’ I get my phone out from my woven beach bag and delete Elias’s messages along with his number.
‘There. Now I don’t even know how to contact him. He’ll be off to Andalusia, or wherever he’s going by this time tomorrow, and he’ll sail off into the sunset with his rich boss.’
Carol and Soraya look a bit shocked as they spread out on their sunbeds near the pool bar, with a nearby palm tree for shade. I am hoping the loud music coming from the bar will deter any further conversation.
I kick my legs around as I huff and puff on my yellow and white stripy towelled sunbed. I can’t get myself comfortable, and I begin to regret having my little tantrum. I have just met the most gorgeous captain of a yacht, and even if there is no romance, he could have provided some great inspiration for my book. The truth is that Carol has hit a nerve; I’m never this narky.
I wriggle about, turn away from my friends and grab a crime novel out of my bag. Who needs romance when you can read about gritty murders? But, as I calm down, I realise I shouldn’t have deleted all record of Elias from my phone. After all, I have a book to write, and I need inspiration. Elias was wonderful inspiration. Half an hour later, I can take no more.
I turn to Carol and Soraya.
‘Does anyone know how you retrieve a deleted phone number?’
Chapter Nine
Since none of us are handy with finding deleted things from phones, I decide to do some work in the sunshine. I rummage around for my notebook to start planning a plot I can write about.
Maybe this is where I have gone wrong. Until now, I haven’t really planned out my book. Instead, I tried to write different things, and nothing worked out. Yes, that is what it will be. However, ten minutes later, my mind keeps drifting off to why I deleted Elias’s number.
I throw the notebook back in my bag. I’m not going to be able to write anything and I’m not going to be bumping into Elias again.
Agitated and fidgety, I look around at the Monaco jet set posing around the pool and wonder how much time they’ve spent in the gym and how many biscuits they must have sacrificed to get bodies like this. I would think it must be a full-time job. Even the best genes couldn’t give the toned triceps these women have. I self-consciously suck my tummy in as one of the women walks past me in a gold bikini. I would look like one of those round toffee pennies that you find in a box of Quality Street if I tried wearing something like that. Thank goodness for plain black swimsuits with tummy control.
A few hours later, once we are all rested, have had a good swim and can take no more of the fierce sun, we walk back up the hill towards our apartment. The walk feels harder than usual after a few hours in the sun, but after a quick siesta, we get ready for Soraya’s big birthday dinner, still feeling the effects of the UV rays.
‘Does my nose look burnt?’ says Carol.
‘I’ve got a fab new concealer. Try some,’ says Soraya, as she kindly avoids telling her the truth. Someone is going to have a peeling nose for the next few weeks.
‘I think I burnt my shoulders,’ says Soraya.
‘Yup, I’ve burnt my inner thighs,’ I admit.
‘How on earth did you burn there?’ says Carol.
I don’t admit that I was lying on the sunbed in a very strange position so that all the gravity went in the right direction and made my cellulite look less visible. Soraya will only tell me off for not loving my body. It’s easy for her to say.
‘Dunno, it’s weird,’ I say.
Tonight, Soraya is wearing a stunning red strapless dress that shows her figure off beautifully and perfectly complements her dark hair. She looks sensational. In fact, when Carol puts the special birthday tiara on her, you’d be forgiven for thinking Soraya was a beauty pageant contestant. Although, Soraya would undoubtedly have an issue with that, since she doesn’t feel that people should be judged on their appearance and thinks beauty pageants are unnecessary in this day and age.
As we have a glass of the French wine from the fridge, we hear a beep.
‘Ah, there’s the taxi,’ says Soraya. We thought perhaps we would have Paulo at our disposal, although that would be very generous of Gianni, who is already kindly lending us this amazing flat, but there has been no sign of him since he dropped us off that night. I suppose Gianni must have given him the rest of the weekend off.
Through the twinkling streetlights of Monaco, we head to the restaurant in Nice that Andrew has arranged for our special evening. We make our way along the hairpin bends on the corniche roads, gasping at the ocean and the steep drop below us. The taxi driver takes the bends sharply with a terrifying confidence. At every turn, I pray there are no cyclists who could be knocked over by us.
‘What a view,’ says Soraya, looking down at the huge drop below.
‘It’s like a movie, isn’t it? You can just imagine someone like Audrey Hepburn in a vintage sporty convertible driving along these roads with her headscarf staying perfectly on her head. Unlike me in Elias’s car this morning,’ laughs Carol.
Did she have to remind me of Elias again? I get angry with myself for thinking how I might have to look for a phone shop to see if someone can help me restore my deleted messages.
We pass through Cap d’Ail, where little sailing boats and yachts are scattered around the sea like confetti. Then we arrive at Eze-sur-Mer with its white sandy beaches and medieval architecture. I wish we had time to stop here, but the taxi driver carries on through the seaside resort of Beaulieu-sur-Mer and onto Villefranche-sur-Mer. Finally, we are welcomed into Nice with its palm tree-lined promenade. Since it’s a bustling Saturday night, mopeds whizz past us, alongside Ferraris and small French cars.
When the taxi pulls up outside our restaurant, I can’t get over the views. The waterfront restaurant balances on a rocky promontory that is lit up from beneath. There are diving boards at the side of the bar for the more audacious. I watch as someone dives off into the sea below. I think I will be sticking with the eating and drinking.
A waitress leads us to a table on a large balcony that is laid out with bright yellow sunflowers and perfectly co-ordinated pale blue plates. The twinkly lights hanging above us reflect onto the silverware, and our table teeters on the edge of the Mediterranean beneath us. It is absolutely perfect.
