I sigh, leaning back on my towel. At least that ordeal took my mind off shedding my clothes, even if it did make everyone aware of me. But it’s happened now. Everyone has gone back to their own things. Slurping comes from Jemima as she sucks at her cocktail, eyes wide, as if panicked that she has a second on the way and that she won’t finish this one in time.
‘Where’s Tim?’
Jemima swallows her last bit of drink, putting it aside. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s fallen asleep.’
I cross my arms, trying not to think about how my body lies. I’m aware of every breeze on my skin, every movement of my foot, every fibre of the towel against my bum. Lydia is leaning forwards now, her lithe body glistening as she sweats. ‘Want me to go check on him?’
‘Oh, don’t worry, dear,’ Jemima says to Lydia. ‘You’re not working.’
‘I don’t mind.’
Where is this kindness coming from? I suppose her upgrading me was enough.
Jemima waves her hand, as if swatting a fly. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
The waiter approaches, balancing a tray of cocktails. Handing the drinks out, I sample my own, tasting the red liquid. A sweet tang tingles on my tastebuds, strawberry and gin. I take another sip, nodding my approval.
I’ve gone numb to the cicadas screeching, a soundtrack of Athens, but I tune in to them now, somewhere in the thickets of bushes around the pool. My hand goes behind my head, and I sigh, feeling the chilled cocktail in my hand, the spine of the book next to my hip.
The music changes, a funky 80s guitar riff, reminiscent of a happy-go-lucky, coming-of-age movie. I tap my foot to the opening notes, and then pause. Did that singer just say something about skinny-dipping?
Lydia pulls up her own chair, layering it with a blanket as Jermaine Stewart goes into a chorus about not needing to take our clothes off.
I stifle my laughter. All these naked people are oblivious to the music playing. Maybe this being naked thing isn’t so bad. The first moment is terrifying, even without the whole bed collapse thing. There’s no judgement, complete acceptance. Acceptance not only of themselves, but of each other.
Lydia sings along to the song.
Sam would love this. He’d find this funny.
No, don’t think of Sam right now, because if I think of Sam, I think of him kissing me, and if I think of him kissing me…
‘Don’t worry, it happens,’ Lydia says, as my body begins to react to the memory of Sam.
No, no, no. I reach to cover my waist with my towel, my sunburn failing to match the colour of my embarrassment.
‘We might break up.’
It’s enough to make me pause.
‘What?’
‘Her and Tim,’ Lydia says.
‘That’s right,’ Jemima says.
‘How come?’
Jemima flicks through her paperback, barely looking at the pages. ‘We’ve been together for years now. We met when we were sixteen. And he’s a sweet guy, but…’ Her shoulders heave. My grip tightens on my glass, afraid that she might break down and that I might have to console a naked Jemima. ‘I fear we’ve been drifting apart. We came here to try and rekindle what we once had.’
‘But you always seem so happy,’ Lydia says. ‘Every year when I see you, you remind me of what is possible.’
Jemima’s sad expression has me close to tears, and I blame it on the cocktail.
‘You are sweet,’ she says to Lydia, holding out her hand. Lydia takes it, and they sit across from one another like Jemima’s on her sickbed. ‘But that’s exactly it. Our lives have become… the same. Mundane. We do the same thing every year and I’m sick of it.’
‘And Tim knows this?’ I ask.
‘Well, not exactly.’
