so much more tempting than the frigid air-con that I padded outside while pulling up her number.
‘Working hard?’
Across the way, Nick was sitting outside his cottage, laptop set up under a huge white cotton parasol on a white wooden table. The upkeep on all this white paint must be insane. I made a mental note to ask Kekipi about it. And then immediately erased that note. That was a Tess note. I was not Tess. I was Vanessa.
‘And what would Vanessa do?’ I whispered under my breath.
Phone in hand, number undialled, I marched over to Nick, barefoot and wearing nothing but my striped bikini. I could not think about what I was about to do or it would never happen. Nick rose as I approached, looking as annoyingly bemused and irritatingly handsome as he had at dinner. Pushing my hair back from my forehead, I stopped dead, right in front of him. At five nine in bare feet, I was almost eye to eye with him. I figured he couldn’t be more than five eleven, maybe even five ten if he wasn’t wearing shoes. But this was not the time to take in his choice of footwear. This was the time to take in his golden skin, his ashy-blond hair and his grey-blue eyes.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
Without saying anything, I grabbed him by the collar of his pale blue shirt and pulled his face down to meet mine. The kiss was an explosion. As soon as I felt his scratchy stubble against my tender, sunburned skin and his full, firm lips pressing against mine, I was lost. I pulled him closer, kissed him harder until I forgot to breathe. Nick recovered from his surprise like a pro, and before I’d even closed my eyes, his hands were sliding around my back, down my spine. His skin was hot on my air-con-cool body and while my bikini might have afforded me ample support in the boob department, according to the warm hands currently cupping my backside, the bottoms were much skimpier than I remembered. Suddenly, the shock of physical contact was too much. Just as Nick’s hands began to move up and around my body, I pushed him away, pressing the back of my hand against my bruised lips.
Nick stared at me like I’d slapped him round the face. I stared back as though I might.
‘So I can help you?’ he asked with a wounded, dark tone.
‘No.’ I shook my head and tried to pull my bikini bottoms out of their semi-wedgie as subtly as possible.
‘Vanessa.’ Nick coughed and laughed all at once, one hand held out to me, the other rearranging his linen shorts. I tried very hard not to look, but obviously I did. And woah. ‘Come here.’
‘I’ll see you later,’ I said, backing away before turning towards my own cottage and sprinting inside. As soon as I stepped through the door, I slammed it shut, my hand still pressed against my lips. So that’s how it felt to be Vanessa. And it was not awful.
I set my phone carefully down on the worktop and pretended I wasn’t shaking from head to toe. Someone was hammering on the front door, but rather than answer it, I made the perfectly rational decision to run into the bathroom, lock the door and start running a shower to drown out the knocking. It had to be Nick, and if I opened it up, I had no idea what would happen. Either I’d have to shag him on the kitchen counter or he’d slap me round the chops. Neither solution would be productive, even if one would be considerably more fun than the other. Why hadn’t I just called Amy? What on earth had possessed me to do something I had never, ever done in twenty-eight years? I blamed the sun. And sand. It was Hawaii’s fault. It was Vanessa’s fault. Tess didn’t walk up to a man she barely knew and definitely disliked and kiss him as if the world was about to end. Tess sat in her seat and watched her best friend kiss said man and then judged her quietly from behind a bottle of Pinot Noir. I needed to get out of my bikini and into some more sensible clothes. I ripped it off. Who could make good decisions while they were prancing around in tiny triangles of fabric?
‘I need to relax,’ I told myself. ‘And I need a drink.’
I cautiously opened the door and sprinted to the kitchen. Glasses seemed surplus to requirements and so, classy gal that I was, I opted to swig straight out of the bottle and ran back to the bathroom with it. I was really just saving Kekipi a job. I was really just very thoughtful.
‘Hello?’
Why hadn’t I locked the front door?
‘Just a minute,’ I yelled, clanking the wine bottle far too loudly against the marble sink and grabbing a towel to cover myself.
‘Vanessa?’ The voice came closer and closer. ‘It’s Paige, from Gloss?’
‘Hi.’ I flung the bathroom door open, towel tucked around my boobs, steam billowing out behind me. ‘Hello.’
‘Christ, it’s like a Bananarama video.’ The blonde girl in front of me stared back with wide eyes. ‘Nice hair.’
‘Thank you?’
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to drag you out of the shower.’ She could not stop staring at me. I subtly glanced down to make sure my boobs hadn’t escaped from my towel. ‘I was looking for Vanessa?’
‘Oh, of course, that’s me.’ I casually stretched my leg out backwards and kicked the bathroom door shut, hoping she couldn’t see the open wine bottle. My work brain had helpfully clocked on to remind me that Paige Sullivan was the art director from Gloss magazine and would be arriving on Tuesday. Today was Tuesday and, bugger me backwards, here she was.
‘Vanessa Kittler?’ Paige stretched out a confused hand.
‘Yes?’ I took it reluctantly but shook it with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. There were only two absolutes in this world – nobody put Baby in a corner, and nobody liked a dead-fish handshake. ‘Vanessa Kittler, photographer extraordinaire.’
There was nothing like trying a little bit too hard sometimes.
‘Oh, OK, sorry, not quite with it from the flight,’ Paige said, smiling back at me with a bright, lipstick-commercial confidence that didn’t quite make her eyes. ‘Just literally got in. Delayed for bloody ever. Literally just landed. Just now. I know, I feel like shit. I look like shit.’
She did not look like shit. Her blonde hair fell around her shoulders in perfectly manageable loose curls, her eye make-up smouldered and her lips were painted a perfect Old Hollywood red. She was so pretty, she looked as if she should be famous.
‘And I suppose I’m a bit distracted because I can sort of see your vagina.’ She pointed to the hem of my towel but kept her eyes up.
‘Oh, shitting hell,’ I muttered, crouching down and looking for a new, longer cover-up. ‘Sorry. I was just having a shower.’
‘And a drink?’ She craned her neck, looking over my shoulder to where the bathroom door had mutinously swung open.
‘Little one,’ I said, pinching my thumb and forefinger together. ‘The tiniest one it’s possible to have, really.’
‘Sounds bloody good to me,’ Paige said, slipping out of a quilted bomber jacket to reveal perfectly toned arms in a white cotton vest, complete with peekaboo neon-pink bra straps. Brilliant. ‘Maybe we are going to get along. Tell you what, why don’t I go and unpack, and then we’ll meet back here for a beverage. We need to talk about this shoot, yeah?’
It irked me ever so slightly that she pronounced the end of the word ‘beverage’ the same way you would pronounced ‘barrage’,
