The Love Club

Chapter Two

The breaking of waves rumble in the background over distant chatter and the salt air surrounds you in a summers breeze, tousling your hair. Warm rays of sunlight dance upon your shoulders, casting a golden glow over your skin. A giggle slips out of your mouth, echoing around your ears and you run, enjoying the feeling of the loose sand kicking up behind you and falling around your ankles while you chase after the green frisbee whizzing through the air. A triumphant fist punches the air, and you turn gleefully to face your roommate Sally, casually throwing the disc back to her.

"I could ask Todd if he could help, I heard he might be hiring a new barmaid. He's a nice guy and the pays good." Sally suggested breathlessly, jogging over to stand beside you.

It feels like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders and it finally begins to feel as though there could be a light at the end of the tunnel. It had been exactly three days of suffocating turmoil coiling itself around your chest like a venomous snake, slowly squeezing the air from your lungs. Your last conversation with your parents swirling around your mind. You could still hear your mother squealing down the phone 'It is the greatest embarrassment of my life to have raised a daughter like you'. She had never understood your fascination with the theatre or music or art. She could hardly even appreciate the classics like Schubert, Chopin and Bach which was the only music your father, ever the conservative, allowed played in his household. You remember evenings spent as a child, sitting on the floor in front of your father as he sipped brandy from his glass saying, 'Listen Lillian. Do you hear it? The violas, it's like a call to war.' And your mother would nod a long enthusiastically, her knitting needles clicking together unpleasantly but you could see by the look in her eyes that she had never heard them at all. And so, it was the biggest disgrace of her life to see her only daughter run away from the life of marriage and garden parties she had carefully crafted for you to become nothing but, as she liked to say, tart.

'Any respectable lady would not be caught dead socialising with people like that. Now stop this silly rebellion and come home, your father and I are humiliated.' But no matter how many phone calls or letters or arguments you had with your parents you knew deep down in the pit of your stomach that this is the place you are meant to be. You had spent night after sleepless night dreaming of being one of the girls you had heard of who moved to the city and befriended artists and actors alike. And maybe if you were lucky would get chosen as a musician's muse. Yet it had been three months since you moved to Los Angeles in pursuit of your dreams, and you have yet to have accomplished anything but rejection – not to mention your savings were running low and a small voice in the back of your mind was beginning to give you ideas that maybe your parents were right after all.

"Would you really?" You questioned, holding your breath as if by letting out a puff of air you would blow the offer away before you could grab hold of it.

"Of course," Said Sally, "I don't want you to be one of those starving artists and it take two to tango my friend – or should I say, it takes two to pay our rent. Now run!"

You take off in a sprint, watching Sally throw the disc into the air with all her might. "Sally!" You call out in laughter, a blur or green whizzing past your head and landing by the feet of a group of surfers lounging around in the sand.

"Sorry!" Sally yells, shrugging her shoulders and watching you with great amusement as you continue to jog through the sand.

Laughing to yourself, you spin around, pulling a funny face at her as you make your way to retrieve the frisbee which was now sitting in the hands of one of the surfers. His shaggy hair drips with salt water as he tosses the disc between his hands. Your eyes trailing from his hands to his bare torso as he sits hunched on the sand, legs pulled up to his chest which was stripped bare from his wetsuit.

"Fancy seein' you here." He grins up at you, all cheek, smoothing his hair away from his face. "What, are you followin' me now or somethin'?"

You could feel the heat rushing to your face which you quickly blamed on the midday sun hanging above you and prayed your embarrassment did not show. "Russell," you greet him tight lipped, "what a pleasant surprise." 

But Russell did not miss the obvious distaste in your voice.

His eyes trail down the length of you, acknowledging your half-clothed body. He licks his lips. "Pleased to see me?"

Twisting your body away to hide yourself from him, your eyes dart to the beautiful blonde perched next to him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders. "I came to get my frisbee." You state purposefully, and as if to make a point, hold your hand out towards him – waiting.

"Why don't you come and get it?" He grins, sitting back on the palms of his hands, a twinkle of mischief in his eye.

"Just give it back."

"Why? Don't like playing games, Melvin?"

Your nostrils flare in anger, "I don't like playing your games. Now give me the damn frisbee." You demand, stomping your foot into the sand in what looked like a toddler's temper tantrum.

"Alright, alright," he teases, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Cool your chops."

Russell throws the disc, and it lands at your feet. Bending slowly to pick it up, you keep your gaze down avoiding the stares of the three surfers watching you and without another word leave them, stomping back over to where Sally stands watching the interaction with great curiosity.

As you walked away you overheard one of the surfers whistle to himself, "What a fox." He spoke dreamily, which earned him a slap from the woman draped over Russell.

"She's all show and no go man, trust me."

Rolling your eyes, you threw the frisbee into the sand and came to stand beside Sally.

"What was all that about?" She quizzes you, crossing her arms across her chest, and raising a brow at your flustered appearance.

"I don't know what you mean," You cringe at your attempt to sound nonchalant, your voice betraying you, scratching up your throat and sounding strangled.

Avoiding her gaze, you focus on packing your beach bag.

"You know exactly what I mean. What did he say to make you so angry?"

Quickly swatting Sally's hand away which was pointing animatedly at Russell, you let out a long breath, pushing your beach bag away in frustration. Something like jealously clawed deep inside of you when you looked back at Russell, lounging around in the sun. He had caught you at your lowest point that day in the gardens and out of sheer humiliation you had treated him unfairly. Disappointment tore at you. You had always said never to judge a book by its cover, and you have done exactly that. But somehow everything seemed to go Russell's way. The sun always seemed to shine on his side of the street, and everything seemed so easy in his world. You would never admit it to anyone but before he had approached you in the gardens you had been watching him. He was stooped over a flower bed, working in the hot sunshine when he had caught your attention. You had never seen someone handle flowers with so much delicacy and attention before and it had intrigued you.

"I was just overreacting. He didn't do anything wrong, honest. I think I'm just stressed is all."

Sally sticks out her hand, the type of gesture which says I'm here for you, and you take it gratefully. Standing to your feet, you dust the sand from your legs and grab your beach bag. "I think I'm going to go home." You mumble, squinting up at the midday sun.

"Wait! What about milkshakes?" Exclaims Sally, pouting. "Betty has a new fancy man to make her old one jealous and I don't wanna have to sit there and listen all about it without you."

You smile at the thought, "Maybe next time. Go – have fun, you can tell me all about it when you get home."

Taking a deep breath to yourself, you close your eyes, enjoying the feeling of the saltwater spray slipping down your throat and soothing your lungs. An unwelcomed image of Russell appears in the forefront of your mind as you close your eyes for a brief moment. And you try to understand the inner turmoil that arises in you each time you see him. Maybe it is his unruly behaviour. Maybe it is the ease in which he uses the type of language you would not dare say out loud, or maybe it is how Russell seems to be unequivocally himself no matter what – as if he knows himself in a way you never can, and it infuriats you.