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With a small smile I reply, “Yeah, but you think everybody’s taste is shit other than your own.”
He grins. “Not true.”
“Very true. You trashed my entire collection when you looked through my iPod.”
“I was only trying to get a rise out of you. I don’t think your taste is shit. It’s actually admirably original.”
“Are you being sarcastic now?”
His grin widens. “Nope. Sometimes I like to run a bubble bath and throw on some Tori Amos circa the early ’90s, especially when it’s my time of the month.”
I smirk and shove him in the shoulder. “Piss off.”
“What? I’m serious!”
“Sure.”
He watches me, smiling, while he finishes rubbing the last of the cream into his chest. Then he starts making a big show of acting like he can’t reach around to get to his shoulders.
I ignore him.
A couple of seconds pass before he asks, “Oh, Lana, you wouldn’t mind doing my back for me, would you?”
“I would mind, actually.”
“Come on, I don’t want to burn.”
“Put a T-shirt on, then.”
“I think we both know you don’t want me to do that,” he says slyly.
I squint my eyes at him. “What?”
“I saw you looking.”
“And?”
“And if I cover up, you won’t be able to look anymore.”
I let out a long sigh. “You’re so annoying.”
“Annoyingly sexy,” he counters.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, give me the cream,” I say, at the end of my tether.
He hands the bottle to me smugly before turning around to present his shoulders. I squirt a little into the palm of my hand and begin rubbing it into one shoulder lightly.
“Ah, that feels good,” says Robert, with an exaggeratedly orgasmic groan.
I immediately pull my hands away.
“Hey! Why’d you stop?”
“Don’t make any more noises like that,” I tell him flatly.
He turns his head to me a little. “Why? Does it give you a tingle?”
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. “No, just – just stop talking, okay?”
He gives me a funny look. “Okay, then.”
Finally I build up the nerve to finish his back. His skin feels amazing, his shoulders so hard and defined.
I’m almost done when he suddenly grabs my hand, pulls it over his shoulder and holds it to his chest, right over his heart. I’m stunned silent when he whispers, “I like it when you look.”
The two of us breathe heavily for a handful of seconds, and then he releases my hand and I busy myself by rummaging for a bottle of juice in Sasha’s cooler box.
“Do you need me to do your back?” Robert offers a few minutes later.
“No, I put sun cream on this morning before we left,” I answer quietly.
“Well,” he says, “let me know if you need a top-up.”
All I can do is nod. Me putting my hands on Robert is one thing, but him putting his hands on me is another entirely. Who knows where his fingers might wander.
Gulping down my juice, I focus my attention on Sasha and Alistair playing Frisbee in the distance, and try to forget about Robert’s lean body stretched out beside me.
Seven
“Don’t you dare splash me again,” I shout as Sasha comes diving towards me in the salty seawater. A tangle of dark seaweed brushes against my leg. It feels soft and feathery, rather than slimy and wet like you’d imagine. We’re the only ones who wanted to go for a swim, but to be honest, the water is so jam-packed with people that there’s no hope of actual swimming anyway. Instead, we paddle around up to our waists, messing and splashing one another, dunking each other’s heads under the water, generally acting like a pair of five-year-olds. It makes me nostalgic for the good old days when we’d go swimming on the beach at home.
I can tell she’s building up for a big splash because she thrusts her arms under the water and lowers her body. I resign myself to the inevitable, squeezing my eyes shut, when she suddenly springs up, her arms splayed wide, the spray of droplets smacking me in the face.
“Ah!” I squeal, wading away from her in case she does it again.
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist.” She grins and falls back into the water to float on the foam surfboard she borrowed from Sandra. I join her, enjoying how the sun beats down on us. When I first walked into the sea it felt only lukewarm, but now that I’m used to the temperature, it feels like a heated swimming pool.
“Why don’t you tell me what Victor and Jacob said? I promise I won’t get mad,” I suggest casually. Yep, I still want to know. Sometimes I think my own brain might be a bitch whose sole purpose is to make me feel shitty. To quote Malcolm from Malcolm in the Middle, “Why won’t my brain let me be happy?”
Sasha paddles her feet, pushing us through the water. A kid throws a massive blow-up beach ball over our heads. She raises one dark eyebrow, a colour that oddly complements her dyed blonde hair. “Do you really want to know?”
“Yes!” I exclaim. “I know it’s bad, but I’d rather know.”
She blows air out through her mouth. “Fine. Victor joked that you must have borrowed your swimsuit from your granny, and then Jacob said you probably wore it to hide your…ugh, God, don’t make me say it.”
“Say it,” I demand, while on the inside my heart is burning.
“To hide your big hairy red bush.”
“Those fuckers!”
“Yep. That they are,” Sasha agrees, her face hard, still paddling us through the water.
“And I did not borrow this from my granny. It’s vintage. God, why don’t people ever get vintage?” I say, half sad, half sarcastic.
“They’re just being arseholes. Ever hear of the saying ‘high school never ends’?”
“Yeah. And it’s the truth. Why are you even friends with those two anyway? Alistair is cool, but the others I could take or leave.”
She shrugs. “Habit. You do realise what every single person who came here with us today has in common, don’t you?”
I scrunch up my brow. “Um, no. What do they have in common?”
“Rich parents. More specifically, rich parents who are all friends with one another. People in my dad’s social circle don’t ever stray too far from their own. Therefore, we’ve all been friends since we were kids. Rob and I both got a bit of a break from it when our mum moved us to Ireland. But basically, you can put it down to a mix of snobbery, elitism, and a fear of the commoners trying to steal our money.” She puts on the posh voice of the Royals on the last bit.
