Something More (Girlfriend Fiction 11) by Mo Johnson Page A

weary of Terry’s problems.
    I longed for Sam to arrive. He was the one for me after all. This was supposed to be my perfect day.
    â€˜I’ve got to go,’ Jack said finally, looking at his watch. This time I had no desire to delay him. I was drained.
    â€˜Don’t say anything to Molly yet,’ I said tightly. ‘Give Terry and me some time. You can arrange for us to meet when you get back.’
    He seemed to pick up on my tone; he got up and grabbed his board. ‘Okay. See you next week, then.’ And he walked away.
    As I watched him leave, I tried Terry’s phone again.
    Nothing!
    I thought about Molly and almost felt sorry for her. We were both being kept in the dark by our siblings, and neither of us could help until we knew what we were dealing with.
    The possibility of Molly and me being aunties to the same baby sank in then and blew my mind, not least because we were way too young. Aunties are old. They hang around with mums, guzzling alcohol and complaining about uncles. I’d have to start a new trend: I’d hang around with the kid, scoff Diet Coke and complain about its mother and its evil Aunt Molly. I chuckled and felt a little better.

‘Window-shopping is a waste of
time, Isla, if you live in a tent.’
    (Gran McGonnigle)
    Sam was ten minutes late, but that didn’t matter. He brought with him a sun much brighter than the one that had momentarily disappeared behind a cloud.
    â€˜Hi,’ he yelled and waved. ‘You been here long?’
    â€˜Just got here.’
    He padlocked his bike and jumped the low fence to the sand in a sexy, movie-action-hero kind of way, crossed the sand quickly and sat on my rock. I beamed a welcome.
    â€˜We missed you at the party. You should have stayed. Did you get home okay?’ He seemed pretty interested. I remembered Jack’s comment from last night. Sam never gets serious. That’s not the message I was getting. Hope soared.
    â€˜Yes,’ I said, giving him my sexiest smile and thrusting my boobs out until a cramp between my shoulderblades made me stop.
    â€˜You’ve recovered from your dip in the pool, then?’
    â€˜Oh,’ I said, as lightly as I could, ‘I just got a fright, that’s all.’
    I pulled out a stray strand of hair and tucked it provocatively behind my ear. With my thick mop, I had to give it a good yank, so perhaps that spoilt the illusion.
    He didn’t seem to notice. ‘I never thought to ask you last night – will you be okay in the surf?’
    â€˜Fine. Shallow water…lots of germ-killing salt…tide constantly cleaning itself…’
    â€˜Eh?’
    I didn’t bother to elaborate on my pool phobia; I ran my tongue over my lips instead.
    â€˜Have you got the cameras?’ he asked.
    I gave up trying to be a screen goddess. It wasn’t working.
    â€˜Yes.’ It probably came out as an exasperated growl.
    â€˜Right then…er…you shoot first, okay?’
    We waded out until we were chest-deep in the ocean pool, and when he dropped to the sand-covered bottom I ducked my head under and began snapping shots. I felt perfectly safe because I was standing with both feet on the concrete, my bum safely hidden in board shorts and my frizz tightly secured in plaits. My body felt light in the crystal water, and so did my mind.
    Sam mucked around a bit, picking up seaweed and putting it on his head. I photographed that, laughing.
    When the film ran out, we swapped roles. This time I clowned around, never once taking my feet off the bottom. When his film was finished, we climbed out and headed back to the sand.
    I relaxed. I didn’t even have to worry about my hair: a quick check had told me it was still tied back within a centimetre of its life.
    â€˜I took some great shots, Is-la.’ As usual, he pronounced my name wrong.
    â€˜Me too. Are we still going to my uncle’s place to work on them?’
    â€˜Yeah, I hope