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I took my glass and my towel and flopped onto the empty lounger between them.
“Gary,” said the sunburnt one, offering a hand the size of a dinner plate. “Thirty-eight. Leeds. Allergic to factor thirty.”
“Lou,” said the woman, not shaking my hand but running one finger down the back of it. “Thirty-seven. Also Leeds. Not allergic to anything.”
“Sophie. Thirty-one. Manchester, recently divorced, extremely thirsty.”
Gary laughed so hard he spilled his lager. Lou just looked at me over her sunglasses, slow and appraising, from my wet hair to my toes and back up again.
“Ten years married, us,” she said. “Ten years and we still can’t keep our hands off each other. Or, occasionally, other people. We have an arrangement.”
“Rules,” said Gary. “Everybody says yes, or nobody does anything. Anyone says stop and it stops. No hard feelings, no awkward breakfasts.”
“Though breakfast is generally lovely,” said Lou.
My face was hot, and not from the sun. Lou’s hand had settled on the small of my back, light and warm and in no hurry, and Gary was very obviously not looking at my breasts with great concentration.
“We’ve got Villa Nine,” Lou said. “Private plunge pool, a fridge full of prosecco, and nine o’clock tonight with nothing in it. No pressure, love. Just a very sincere invitation.”
I looked at the sea. I looked at the pool bar, where Mateo was watching us and pretending not to.
→ I tell them I’ll be at Villa Nine at nine
→ I say I need to think, and take my drink down to the water