1.
The evening sun will soon ease its way towards the horizon on the far edges of the Mediterranean Sea in the exclusive Costa del Sol resort of Marbella. Lofty palm trees sway gently in the balmy breeze, providing patches of shade on the hot golden sands. Gemma sits expectantly (& somewhat impatiently) on the hotel sun lounger, its jade green luxury mattress beneath a thatched palm frond roof, the breeze gently caressing her skin. Most bathers are packing up, making their way back into the Marbella Club, leaving her alone watching the waves gently lap against the sand. Gemma is waiting for a glimpse of the man she has noticed each day since her arrival.
There he is. In the distance she can see him, his evening routine always the same. His dark curls glistening beneath the panama hat he wears, his aviator sunglasses shielding his eyes from the sun but also preventing her from seeing what he’s really focusing upon. She hopes he’s looking at her. He is dressed as ever in navy blue - a polo shirt, tailored shorts and holding a pair of deck shoes. His swarthy skin is the colour of mocha through days spent in the fierce Spanish sun. She can see the shape of his strong arms, the outline of a lean torso, calves that look as if they were carved from marble. He carries himself with the confidence of a well-heeled aristo. She feels her breath quicken, her heart beat slightly faster and is again surprised by the effect his physical presence has upon her. She knows she wants to see him up close, that she wants to touch him.
There it is, that beautiful smile as he tips his hat and looks her way, the left corner of his mouth tilting upwards as he nods ..“buenos tardes, senorita ..” a treacly, warm voice in accented English.
Gemma takes a slow, deep breath and manages a hesitant smile in return, and a very English “hello again” as if she hadn’t been sitting here all along, waiting impatiently to catch another glimpse.
..and then he’s gone. Walking along the water’s edge, she can see his feet as the surf washes over them. Gemma’s hungry gaze lingers on him until she can barely see him through the sunset haze. Good grief, she loves the way Marbella makes her come undone ….
------------------------------------------------------------------------
2.
ScrubsUpBeautifully … Gemma considered the name of her mobile cleaning operation to be witty and likely to catch on. She was proud to post advertising leaflets through the letterboxes in her local neighbourhood. She imagined a whole fleet of Smart cars bedecked in candy pink livery just like her own little vehicle, proudly adorned with the company title and its floral carnation logo. Fuchsia buckets, candy cane mops, pastel rubber gloves … pink glory! In years to come, when they interviewed her for Loughton Life - a six-page spread showing her mansion in all its blushing glory - she would be the ‘queen of clean’. Truth, however, is often stranger than fiction and if truth be told, Gemma had started to regret registering the name of her fledgling business thus. Somehow, the company was being referred to as ‘scrubbers’ and Gemma was getting calls and emails about a type of clean and polish that certainly didn’t involve Mr Sheen. Enquiries from heavy breathers and late night drinkers were starting to get on her nerves.
Gemma thought of herself as a typically middle class English girl - possibly a bit too curvy (but in the right places), a bit too blonde (but with the price of highlights these days, why not!), and altogether a bit too worried about being a bit too bloody overweight and blonde. On the plus side, she had determination and guts - and she squeezed those into her super sculpting waist control knickers every Friday night, eternally hopeful that Prince Charming would get lost on his way to the Emerald City and stumble into the Mink Bar in the High Street. Parallel parking his trusty steed on the double yellow lines, he would use his sword to cut through the hundred weight of perfume and aftershave to get to her side - of course, not spotting the instant tan which somehow always managed to intensify at her ankles or the false eyelash which had slipped and resembled an unruly nosehair. Then, using sign language (speech being useless at the decibel level utilised by the resident DJ) he would enquire as to whether she would accompany him to princely paradise (obviously she would) and they would live happily ever after. Failing that, she would get a pizza and a bottle of petit chablis on the way home from Tesco Express.
