bride’s private jet...’
My mother nodded enthusiastically. ‘Private jet?! That’s what I’ve always wanted. Don’t understand why you father doesn’t simply get one and be done with all that palaver of scheduled flights and inconvenient connections.’
‘Mother?!’
‘Sorry, darling. Have you spoken to Bakir? What does he think?’
‘What has Bakir got to do with anything? Since when has the eunuch been in charge of my life?’
As ever, I had to give up. She was getting worse.
It was another beautiful summer morning out there, offering nothing but boredom and frustration. Back in March I’d made a list of charities that had been looking for volunteers and left it on my father’s desk. I was happy to walk dogs for an animal charity, shop for the old and infirm for another, restore unwanted furniture for resale, and support a number of other moderately interesting activities, some of them in Hampshire, others right here in London. All I needed from him was to decide where I was going to be in June, July and August before I could make a commitment. He kept putting it off for one reason or another. He still hadn’t done it.
Shuffling my feet I walked out on the terrace. Half way to the pool I discarded my t-shirt that was doubling up as my nightie and, along with my phone, I threw it on the lounger. If the woman next door could walk about stark naked at her age, so could I. I tried an old trick. Rosie and I used to be very good at it. I walked back along the railings, all the way back to a large ceramic pot with ornamental grasses. The pot marks the spot, we used to say. After a short run-up I lunged to the side, right hand, left hand, right foot, left foot, right hand, left hand and whoosh, I cartwheeled myself into the pool. That felt good, so good that I did it twice again before completing my ten rounds routine.
Now what?
I floated aimlessly around, admiring my pubic crescent that I’d been maintaining with meticulous care. With combined effect of a depilating cream, an electric beard trimmer and even tweezers, my entire Brazilian remained in great shape. I chuckled a little wondering what Ela and her cousins called that kind of a shave.
My skin was a different matter, though. It was tanned to three different levels, each a testament to the style of the bikini that I’d happened to wear. Why had I bothered with a bikini in the first place? During all those weeks of revision I could have simply stripped and let the sun do its work evenly all over me. I twisted around to have a look at my bottom. As I suspected, it was sadly pale and unappetising. And now I only had one day to make up for the stupidity. Bakir and the Boys never came upstairs without giving me a decent amount of notice, but my parents were much less considerate. Even my mother, vague and dopey, would have probably raised her eyebrows at blatant nudity. I would die on the spot if my father ever found me naked anywhere, never mind in open air.
Because the umbrella over the loungers was too difficult to close I simply pulled the one that I always used out of the shade. I wrung the excess water from my hair as well as I could, but it was still dripping down my neck and into my eyes. In the absence of a towel I pulled the t-shirt over my head and all the way down my face. My world instantly turned into a solid block of red. By touch I located a pocket in the upholstery that contained my sun-block and sitting up like a fakir, I started applying it to my shoulders and back as far as I could reach.
‘If I were ever asked to recognise you again it would have to be a very interesting ID parade.’
The voice was unfamiliar and male.
It took all my stubborn, obdurate inner strength to stop me from slamming my knees together and covering myself with the soaking wet t-shirt. If I did that, I reasoned through the confusion, I’d be admitting that I did something wrong. I could do bloody well what I wanted on my own private terrace.
But I did
My mother nodded enthusiastically. ‘Private jet?! That’s what I’ve always wanted. Don’t understand why you father doesn’t simply get one and be done with all that palaver of scheduled flights and inconvenient connections.’
‘Mother?!’
‘Sorry, darling. Have you spoken to Bakir? What does he think?’
‘What has Bakir got to do with anything? Since when has the eunuch been in charge of my life?’
As ever, I had to give up. She was getting worse.
It was another beautiful summer morning out there, offering nothing but boredom and frustration. Back in March I’d made a list of charities that had been looking for volunteers and left it on my father’s desk. I was happy to walk dogs for an animal charity, shop for the old and infirm for another, restore unwanted furniture for resale, and support a number of other moderately interesting activities, some of them in Hampshire, others right here in London. All I needed from him was to decide where I was going to be in June, July and August before I could make a commitment. He kept putting it off for one reason or another. He still hadn’t done it.
Shuffling my feet I walked out on the terrace. Half way to the pool I discarded my t-shirt that was doubling up as my nightie and, along with my phone, I threw it on the lounger. If the woman next door could walk about stark naked at her age, so could I. I tried an old trick. Rosie and I used to be very good at it. I walked back along the railings, all the way back to a large ceramic pot with ornamental grasses. The pot marks the spot, we used to say. After a short run-up I lunged to the side, right hand, left hand, right foot, left foot, right hand, left hand and whoosh, I cartwheeled myself into the pool. That felt good, so good that I did it twice again before completing my ten rounds routine.
Now what?
I floated aimlessly around, admiring my pubic crescent that I’d been maintaining with meticulous care. With combined effect of a depilating cream, an electric beard trimmer and even tweezers, my entire Brazilian remained in great shape. I chuckled a little wondering what Ela and her cousins called that kind of a shave.
My skin was a different matter, though. It was tanned to three different levels, each a testament to the style of the bikini that I’d happened to wear. Why had I bothered with a bikini in the first place? During all those weeks of revision I could have simply stripped and let the sun do its work evenly all over me. I twisted around to have a look at my bottom. As I suspected, it was sadly pale and unappetising. And now I only had one day to make up for the stupidity. Bakir and the Boys never came upstairs without giving me a decent amount of notice, but my parents were much less considerate. Even my mother, vague and dopey, would have probably raised her eyebrows at blatant nudity. I would die on the spot if my father ever found me naked anywhere, never mind in open air.
Because the umbrella over the loungers was too difficult to close I simply pulled the one that I always used out of the shade. I wrung the excess water from my hair as well as I could, but it was still dripping down my neck and into my eyes. In the absence of a towel I pulled the t-shirt over my head and all the way down my face. My world instantly turned into a solid block of red. By touch I located a pocket in the upholstery that contained my sun-block and sitting up like a fakir, I started applying it to my shoulders and back as far as I could reach.
‘If I were ever asked to recognise you again it would have to be a very interesting ID parade.’
The voice was unfamiliar and male.
It took all my stubborn, obdurate inner strength to stop me from slamming my knees together and covering myself with the soaking wet t-shirt. If I did that, I reasoned through the confusion, I’d be admitting that I did something wrong. I could do bloody well what I wanted on my own private terrace.
But I did
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