My Summer of Magic Moments: Uplifting and romantic - the perfect, feel good holiday read!. Caroline Roberts
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to it. This had to be real.
The guy reached the breaking waves, took a dive straight in, and there he was, bobbing up and down in the surf line. She watched him swim out to the calmer, deeper sea. He seemed a confident swimmer.
Ooh, then she realized he’d have to come back in, facing her in the buff with nuts and bolts and everything in full view. She should probably go discreetly back indoors, give him a bit of privacy.
And miss a view like that? Sod it. No! You didn’t get the chance to see a gorgeous body like that often, if ever. Her ex certainly hadn’t had a physique like this guy’s. But what if he saw her? Sitting there gawking like a perv? She’d look a bit odd, wouldn’t she – voyeuristic. But really, when was she going to get the chance to sneak a look at a body like that again? After all, she was here first. He shouldn’t be flaunting himself like that if he didn’t want a normal, warm-blooded woman looking at him.
She decided to shift her deckchair slightly back into the shadowy area of the balcony – he probably wouldn’t notice her there – and sat back down, watching his head bobbing like a seal out at sea as she smiled to herself. Well then, it wasn’t so quiet here, after all. And what was the harm, after everything she’d been through, allowing herself to watch a strong, healthy, rather handsome male?
Cancer had a way of doing that to you – putting things in perspective, making you realize just how precious life could be, that you needed to seize every moment – especially little magic moments like seeing a gorgeous man naked. Why not? Why not indeed.
So, still holding the dregs of her tea, she leaned back in her chair and took it all in: the sea rolling and gently crashing, the smell of salt in the air, the cry of a gull, the golden warmth of June sun breaking into another day. And she watched ‘Adonis’ reappear from the waves. First his shoulders, chest, the definition of his abs, his stomach. Ooh, what was about to be revealed next?… and … Oh blimey, a brown thatch of hair. And yes, it would be cold in the North Sea, but that was still impressive. Not a bad effort at all, Mr Adonis.
Right, now behave, Claire Maxwell – get a grip on yourself and go on inside.
But if you move now, he’s bound to see you, her alter ego chipped in cheekily (this voice definitely not sounding like her mother). Her cheeks felt flushed and her heart was pumping. What if he saw her? That would make it very awkward if they met over the coming days and weeks. She could imagine the conversation:
‘Hi, I’m Claire, your neighbour for three weeks.’
‘Ah yes, I spotted you ogling my naked body … Do you make a habit of voyeurism?’
She shrank back in the chair. If she got up now, she was pretty sure he would see the movement from the balcony. Best to stay put.
He strolled towards his pile of clothes – whoa, stare, don’t stare, gulp – slipped on his shorts, the T-shirt, the flip-flops, and shook his hair out, the action reminding her of a wet dog, then jogged back, seemingly oblivious to her presence.
Claire was left with a big grin creeping across her face.
‘I have always been delighted at the prospect of a new day, a fresh try, one more start, with perhaps a bit of magic waiting somewhere behind the morning.’
J. B. Priestley
As well as her cottage falling apart, the hot water system left a lot to be desired. She’d gone inside to freshen up for the day, but had been seared, then iced, by a relic of an electric shower that was positioned above an avocado-green bath (more shitty green, she’d thought). The whole experience was like something out of a torture movie. She’d had to spring in and out of the piddling stream of water trying to time it right, and washing her hair had been a joke – half the suds were left in as she gave up and clambered out. At least there wasn’t much hair to bother with at the moment: the curls only just growing back, giving her a pixie crop that her sister, Sally, said suited her – a gamine Audrey Hepburn look, apparently. Claire thought she was just trying to be nice.
As she towelled herself dry, she carefully dabbed the ridged scar that ran across her left breast. It didn’t hurt much any more; just the odd weird pain now and again. But she didn’t like to look at it. She was still trying to get used to the change in her body.
She moved to the bedroom. It was slightly better than the bathroom in decor: a pine double bed with blue-and-white patchwork bedding, a cream throw (granny’s crocheted best), and a white-painted dressing table with mirror – an attempt at jaded seaside chic (or plain jaded), which roughly worked. The best part of the room was its French doors, which opened out onto the balcony overlooking the expanse of silver-gold sands and the little stream which wound down beside the two cottages and out to the shoreline.
Claire sat in her underwear on the dressing-table stool in front of the pine mirror. She had always been petite at five foot three, but was rather skinnier than she’d like to be after her illness. She smoothed on some moisturizer, brushed on mascara above her deep-brown eyes – it was great to have eyelashes again – and applied a slick of pale-pink gloss. She’d never been interested in wearing a lot of make-up, and today she wanted to feel the fresh air and sun on her skin. Then she dressed casually in a pale-pink T-shirt and denim shorts.
The first day of her holiday awaited her. She didn’t have to go to work, she didn’t have to get to hospital appointments. The world and this crazy run-down cottage were her oyster. She was determined to make the best of this escape time. What was she going to do with it? She decided to go for a walk along the beach to find the village of Bamburgh. It shouldn’t be that far.
She headed left onto the sands from her beachside garden, a scrubby patch of grass with a battered wooden table and four chairs. As she strolled, she remembered childhood holidays spent in the area with her parents and older sister years ago. It was why she’d chosen this place – happy memories: salt and sand and shivers, warm-towelled hugs and eating yummy-drippy 99 Flake ice-cream cones from the Mr Whippy van that parked in the car park just above the dunes.
She began to feel that familiar tug in her chest. Her lovely dad wasn’t here any more. He had died five years ago, bless him, a heart attack snatching him from his family at only sixty-two. She missed him so much, even now. How life changed. Her own illness had shaken up her life in ways she could never have imagined. She was close to her sister and mum; they’d been so supportive through her treatment. In fact, both had offered to come and stay during her break to keep her company, but she’d just wanted to be on her own, have a bit of time out, so she’d politely but firmly refused their well-intentioned offers.
She slipped off her deck shoes as the sand started creeping in around her ankles, and enjoyed the feel of warm, soft grains beneath her bare feet. The sun was climbing in the sky, sending glints of gold off the lapping waves. Dog walkers passed her, their charges dashing about with glee, tumbling with tennis balls, bounding into the sea, coming out matted and shaggy then shaking arcs of glittering water around them. She’d have liked a dog. They’d had Millie, an affectionate Labrador, when she was a child at home. She’d been part of the family. But Paul, her ex, had never been keen on having a pet, preferring a tidy house and order. Damn it – what was he doing creeping into her thoughts? Push those thoughts aside right now, she told herself. Bury all the hurt he caused in a great big hole in the sand.
Today was about her. And her life from now on. Onwards and upwards. She was going to have a look in the village, get some nice local provisions, then head back, make a salad or something for lunch, chop some veggies for soup, and later she intended to sit and chill in a chair in the garden in the sunshine, reading her latest book and generally pleasing herself. She hoped the family next door wouldn’t appear noisily at that point. Oh well, she chided herself, she wouldn’t be an old misery of a neighbour. Kids would be kids, and they were on a beach, after all – let them play. Oh yes, that was another thing Paul wasn’t keen on: having children. It had never been ‘the right time’, or maybe,