She shook her head. Then took a picture.
‘What are you doing?’ I squeaked in horror.
Tilly turned the camera and showed me the screen.
Nope. Definitely not the look we’d been aiming for to showcase these pieces on my blog. Moments ago I’d been dressed in a full-length, organic cotton sundress, its laced bodice giving way to a floaty, bias skirt, all in the softest shade of lemon. My shiny, deep auburn hair had been swept artfully to the side, softly teased curls contrasting with the colour of the fabric. The image on the screen now showed that there was absolutely nothing artful about my current look. The dress was plastered to my body, its pale colour and fine fabric meaning that it had helpfully gone completely see-through the moment it got wet. My hair had returned to its natural poker-straight state and clung in strands to the front of the dress and my upper arms. I peered at the screen again for direction, then reached up. A piece of seaweed had wound itself around my hair and was now clinging to the side of my head, just above my ear. Tentatively exploring my hair with my fingers, I brushed against something slimy. Biting back a squeal, I tried again. Forcing my hand to close on the slippery tail, I yanked and felt it give. Flinging the offending piece of seaweed back towards the waves, I turned back to Tilly.
‘Has it all gone?’
She peered around my head, moving me by the shoulder to check the back, ‘Yes. All gone.’
‘Thanks for your help.’ I raised an eyebrow and grinned at her.
She looked at me, a sheepish look on her face. ‘Sorry. Seaweed gives me the willies. It’s all slimy and yucky.’
I shook my head at her, still smiling.
‘What are we going to do about the dress?’ Tilly asked.
I glanced down. She was right. There was no way I could walk about like this. Brighton might be known for its laissez-faire attitude but I personally drew the line at swanning about in an outfit that now left very little to the imagination. I leant across and took the bags and equipment off her.
‘New plan. I’ll go and find us a more inconspicuous spot and you nip across the road and grab us some coffees and something to eat. We can go over some stuff here until I dry out enough to not get arrested.
‘Sounds good.’ She turned to go. ‘And I’m sorry about the seaweed thing.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said, handing her two reusable takeaway cups. ‘Now, off you go. I’ll be over here.’ I waved the bags in the general direction of where I was headed.
‘OK. Back in a bit.’
I sat down and pulled a pair of flip-flops from one of the bags. Slipping them on, I made my way across the pebbles to a spot that looked good and sat myself down. From one of the bags, I pulled an Oriental-style parasol and opened it, shading my pale skin from the strengthening sun. Whilst my brother had inherited my dad’s ‘one glance at the sun and I’m handsomely golden’ genes, I’d inherited my mother’s pale Irish colouring wholesale from the red hair to skin the colour of fresh cream. ‘Golden’ wasn’t a word I associated with my skin when it came to the sun. ‘Red and blotchy’ would be nearer the truth if I ever bothered trying to acquire anything resembling a suntan. Which I didn’t.
If I was honest, it didn’t really bother me. Despite all the usual carrot top, ginger nob and other wholly inaccurate connotations my redhead status had inspired at school, Mum had always kept me positive about it all. Of course, when all my friends had been wearing tiny shorts and crop tops, their golden tans making their hair look blonder, legs longer and teeth whiter, there had been moments I’d ached to be the same. But, as I got older, I realised that I couldn’t change what I’d been given so it would be better to embrace it rather than fight it. And in recent years, celebrity had been on our side. With Prince Harry and Ed Sheeran flying the flag for the men, plus the advent of theMad Menphenomenon and actresses like Emma Stone and Julianne Moore, redheads were cool! I mean, we’d always known we were cool, but finally –finally– the world at large was also now getting the message.
2
I’d played on this aspect for my blog, Brighton Belle – I saw it as part of my USP. A lot of the blogs were run by gorgeous brunettes and beautiful blondes and, whilst a lot of beauty advice can be applied to everyone, I’d had quite a few emails from young redheads who were getting teased at school or just didn’t know how to make the best of their fabulous colouring. Tilly and I shared the task of replying to emails and comments, but I always replied personally to these ones because I knew exactly what these girls were going through, and I’d ask them to let me know how they got on, if they chose to take my advice. When replies did come back, with the sender clearly in a happier place, it always made me a little bit teary and I’d send Mum a quick email, telling her about it.
People sometimes accuse bloggers of being vain, and that it is all ‘me, me, me’. Some comments were downright nasty. The Internet could be a wonderful thing, but it certainly had its dark side too, allowing people the opportunity to be incredibly unpleasant whilst hiding behind a shield of anonymity. The days when I got a response from a reader who had been made to feel better about herself by trying something I’d suggested helped wipe all the mean stuff away. It reiterated to me that my blog, which was now my full-time job, had a purpose, and a good one at that.
Tilly returned with the drinks.
‘Sorry it took a while. There’s some sort of conference on at the Brighton Centre and everyone’s stocking up on drinks before they go in.’
‘Not to worry. Have a pew,’ I said, indicating the other side of the blanket I’d folded over several times to sit on.
We sat back and watched the surf splash to shore. The beach was getting busier now as tourists and locals on a day off came down to take advantage of the sun. The windsurfers from earlier were now further down the beach, pulling their boards on shore. At the end of the Palace Pier, the rides were beginning to move and Tilly and I watched as the Booster started to spin, the wire-enclosed pods on the end of its arms reaching out over the sea on every turn.
‘Have you ever been on that?’ Tilly asked me, pointing at the ride with her takeaway cup.
‘No. You couldn’t pay me enough.’ I turned and looked at her from under the shade of my umbrella. ‘Have you?’
She nodded. ‘Sam made a big deal about wanting to go on it a couple of years ago. Then promptly threw up all over the place. Including me.’
‘Oh, no!’ I screwed my face up at the thought. ‘And this is the same Sam you’re about to marry? I hope he realises just exactly how much of a gem he’s getting with you.’
‘I remind him frequently. And he’s banned from all rides now. At least if I’m in the vicinity.’
‘That sounds like a very good strategy.’
