skinny, muscled, and glowing.
As I arranged my towel on the sand, I suspiciously watched other people on the beach. There weren't that many—possibly 80 / MARIAN KEYES
because it was a weekday—but there were enough to confirm my worst fears. I was the fattest, saggiest person on that stretch of sand.
Possibly in the entire state of California.
God, they were thin. And I was filled with resolve—tinged with despair—that I was going to start exercising again.
Two Scandinavian-looking girls took up a position far too near for my liking. Immediately I wondered if either of them was divorced; I was driving myself mad speculating about the marital status of everyone I met…
They whipped off their shorts and tops to reveal tiny bikinis, effortlessly flat stomachs, and golden thighs, shaped and curved with muscle. You never saw two people more comfortable with their bodies; I dearly wanted to shoo them away.
Their arrival meant that I couldn't remove my sarong. Time passed and when I managed to convince myself that no one had any interest in me, I slid it off. I held my breath, convinced that the lifeguard would jerk with sudden shock and break into a slomo, red-rescue-pack-under-his-arm, pounding-rock-sound-track run toward me and order, “I'm sorry, ma'am, we're going to have to ask you to leave. This is a family beach, you're upsetting folks.”
But no drama erupted and I slathered myself in number eight sunscreen and prepared to bake; skin cancer seemed like the least of my worries. God, I was white! I should have used my fake tanning cream before I came. Immediately this made me think of Garv—I always snapped on surgical gloves before applying fake tan and he used to say, “Oooh, nurse, a surgical glove moment!”
Oh God. I closed my eyes and eventually drifted, lulled by the rhythmic rush and suck of the waves, the yellow heat of the sun, the short-lived, skippy breezes.
It was actually quite pleasant until I turned over onto my stomach and found there was no one to put suntan lotion on my back. Garv would have done it. I suddenly felt very lonely and the feeling hit anew: my life is over .
ANGELS / 81
As I'd packed the night before I left Ireland, I'd told Anna and Helen the very same thing: “My life is over.”
“It's not.” Anna had been visibly distressed.
“Don't patronize her,” Helen had urged.
“You'll meet someone else; you're young,” Anna said doubtfully.
“Ah, she's not really,” Helen interjected. “Not at thirty-three.”
“And you're good-looking,” Anna struggled on.
“You know, she's not bad,” Helen admitted grudgingly. “You have nice hair. And your skin isn't bad. For your age.”
“All that clean living,” Anna said.
“All that clean living,” Helen echoed solemnly.
I sighed. My living wasn't that clean, it just wasn't as un clean as theirs, and my good-for-my-age skin was thanks to slathering on so much expensive night cream that I used to slide off my pillows, but I let it go.
“And…” Helen said thoughtfully. I leaned forward on the bed, all the better to be praised. “You have a lovely handbag.”
I sat back, disappointed.
“Funny that,” she mused, “I'd never have put you down as an expensive handbag kind of a girl.”
I tried to protest; I am an expensive handbag kind of a girl, I'm almost sure of it. But I wasn't getting into another fight with Helen, in which I tried to convince her that I was irresponsible with money.
Besides, as it happens, it had been Garv who had given me the lovely handbag in question.
“Give me a break!” Helen had chuckled. “You expect me to believe that that cheapskate would shell out over a ton for a sac à main .
That's French, you know. Anyway, you know the way your life is over? You won't be needing your handbag anymore, will you?”
But I wouldn't surrender it, which led her to remark suspiciously,
“Your life can't be that over, then, can it?”
82 / MARIAN KEYES
“Shut up, you're getting my
As I arranged my towel on the sand, I suspiciously watched other people on the beach. There weren't that many—possibly 80 / MARIAN KEYES
because it was a weekday—but there were enough to confirm my worst fears. I was the fattest, saggiest person on that stretch of sand.
Possibly in the entire state of California.
God, they were thin. And I was filled with resolve—tinged with despair—that I was going to start exercising again.
Two Scandinavian-looking girls took up a position far too near for my liking. Immediately I wondered if either of them was divorced; I was driving myself mad speculating about the marital status of everyone I met…
They whipped off their shorts and tops to reveal tiny bikinis, effortlessly flat stomachs, and golden thighs, shaped and curved with muscle. You never saw two people more comfortable with their bodies; I dearly wanted to shoo them away.
Their arrival meant that I couldn't remove my sarong. Time passed and when I managed to convince myself that no one had any interest in me, I slid it off. I held my breath, convinced that the lifeguard would jerk with sudden shock and break into a slomo, red-rescue-pack-under-his-arm, pounding-rock-sound-track run toward me and order, “I'm sorry, ma'am, we're going to have to ask you to leave. This is a family beach, you're upsetting folks.”
But no drama erupted and I slathered myself in number eight sunscreen and prepared to bake; skin cancer seemed like the least of my worries. God, I was white! I should have used my fake tanning cream before I came. Immediately this made me think of Garv—I always snapped on surgical gloves before applying fake tan and he used to say, “Oooh, nurse, a surgical glove moment!”
Oh God. I closed my eyes and eventually drifted, lulled by the rhythmic rush and suck of the waves, the yellow heat of the sun, the short-lived, skippy breezes.
It was actually quite pleasant until I turned over onto my stomach and found there was no one to put suntan lotion on my back. Garv would have done it. I suddenly felt very lonely and the feeling hit anew: my life is over .
ANGELS / 81
As I'd packed the night before I left Ireland, I'd told Anna and Helen the very same thing: “My life is over.”
“It's not.” Anna had been visibly distressed.
“Don't patronize her,” Helen had urged.
“You'll meet someone else; you're young,” Anna said doubtfully.
“Ah, she's not really,” Helen interjected. “Not at thirty-three.”
“And you're good-looking,” Anna struggled on.
“You know, she's not bad,” Helen admitted grudgingly. “You have nice hair. And your skin isn't bad. For your age.”
“All that clean living,” Anna said.
“All that clean living,” Helen echoed solemnly.
I sighed. My living wasn't that clean, it just wasn't as un clean as theirs, and my good-for-my-age skin was thanks to slathering on so much expensive night cream that I used to slide off my pillows, but I let it go.
“And…” Helen said thoughtfully. I leaned forward on the bed, all the better to be praised. “You have a lovely handbag.”
I sat back, disappointed.
“Funny that,” she mused, “I'd never have put you down as an expensive handbag kind of a girl.”
I tried to protest; I am an expensive handbag kind of a girl, I'm almost sure of it. But I wasn't getting into another fight with Helen, in which I tried to convince her that I was irresponsible with money.
Besides, as it happens, it had been Garv who had given me the lovely handbag in question.
“Give me a break!” Helen had chuckled. “You expect me to believe that that cheapskate would shell out over a ton for a sac à main .
That's French, you know. Anyway, you know the way your life is over? You won't be needing your handbag anymore, will you?”
But I wouldn't surrender it, which led her to remark suspiciously,
“Your life can't be that over, then, can it?”
82 / MARIAN KEYES
“Shut up, you're getting my
Similar Books
