Summer Loving

© Nicola Yeager 2013

Nicola Yeager has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published 2013 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

One

There’s something exhilarating about opening a box when you know it contains an expensive dress from a top designer. Perhaps that’s why they make the bloody things so awkward to open; some idea that the longer it takes you to release the criminally costly contents, the more you’ll relish the anticipation and the more you’ll appreciate what’s inside, if and when you finally get to it.

It makes it into an event, rather than a box opening, I guess. Something like that, anyway. I’m not an expert in packaging psychology, though I’m sure such people exist somewhere, bless them.

I’m afraid that doesn’t really work for me at all. When I was a kid, I couldn’t understand why they bothered with all the damn wrapping paper in the first place, beautifully designed and festooned with ribbons as it may have been.

My main memory of Christmas mornings or birthdays is of ripping off the packaging as quickly as possible - I feel awful now, as I’m sure my parents had taken a lot of trouble with it all. The floor would end up looking as if a pack of wrapping paper piranhas had been at work and hadn’t bothered to tidy up after themselves.

Franklin, my boyfriend, looks across our hotel room at me and smiles. He loves buying me gorgeous, expensive things and he loves to see my face when I open them, so despite my urge to go and fetch a carving knife, blowtorch or a pair of vicious-looking industrial scissors, I slowly remove the big, black ribbon and place it carefully on a chair.

I smile at him. He smiles back. I’m trying to be as elegant as possible, despite ‘impatient’ being my middle name.

I turn the box every which way to see how I can get the posh-looking silvery paper off. Finally, I spot an almost invisible seam along the side and slide a fingernail along a long strip of silvery tape. This action allows me to remove the primary wrapping, which I fold carefully and place on top of the ribbon. It’s difficult, but I’m trying to show that I have respect for the wrapper’s art.

I’m now holding a very attractive black box in my hands. It’s a lovely box, as lovely boxes go, and I run a finger across its surface, the more to appreciate the quality of the cardboard and the blackness.

I just know that I’ll be keeping this box. Not for the rest of my life or anything (I’m not
that
mad), but there’s an etiquette with boxes that contain wonderful gifts. You can’t just stuff them in the bin straight away. It’s as if what’s hidden inside has bestowed some of its value and aesthetic loveliness on the actual box and wrapping paper and they need to be treated as part of the gift.             

Perhaps the box and the wrapping could be seen as the gift’s parents or something (maybe I am that mad). I’ll probably keep them all for two or three days and then discreetly bin them and watch with regret as the cleaner takes them away to their inevitable fate, whatever that may be.

It’s only now that I notice the designer’s name on the box. Balmain. A very expensive, luxury brand, as I’m sure you know. The reason I didn’t notice the name straight away is because, like the box, the name is in black. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always found black writing on a black background very difficult to read, let alone spot. The writing is also very small, which makes things even harder. At least the name is on the top of the box, though, even if it is subtly hidden away on the bottom left corner. I guess they don’t have to trumpet who they are when you’ve already bought one of their products.

It could be subtler than that, of course. Maybe they don’t
want
you to know who they are. How cool would that be? A company that makes exorbitantly-priced designer clothing, who prefer to remain totally anonymous.

Franklin raises his eyebrows at me, willing me to proceed to the next stage of the unwrapping process. I widen my eyes with anticipatory glee and open the box. At least the cover isn’t cleverly taped with sly pieces of adhesive like Ferrero Rocher boxes are nowadays. If it was, I think I’d have to bite my lip to avoid swearing loudly.

Whatever it is that’s inside the box is shrouded in black tissue. I lift it out, as if I was lifting a baby (not that I’d ever lift a baby- Yuk!) and place it on the pink marble table next to where I’m sitting. The box joins its relatives on the chair and I attempt to pull apart the tissue without damaging it, which of course is totally impossible.

It’s a dress and it’s black. For a moment I think it’s made of velvet, then when I hold it up to get a proper look, I realise that it’s actually suede, but a light suede, not the heavy type that you’d get in, say, a pair of Clark’s Desert Boots. It’s slinky and sensual. Franklin smiles as he watches me run my hand down its soft surface.

‘I thought you could wear it to dinner this evening, my dear. You’ll look ravishing.’

I think of all the things that I can say in return, trying to pick the most apt.

‘It’s marvellous, Franklin. Absolutely beautiful. Can I try it on now?’

‘Of course. Why else do you think I’d have spent all that money and taken all that trouble to have it delivered, you silly girl?’

I smile politely, take it into the bedroom and take of my skirt and blouse until I’m standing in front of the mirror wearing only my knickers. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Franklin watching me. I pull the dress over my head, pull it down and smile as I see my reflection. It’s short and very, very sexy. It has big shoulders, which I’m not usually keen on, but this time I’ll make an exception. I inhale deeply. I adore the smell of new clothes.

It feels soft against my body and has a deep plunge front, which stops just below my breast bone. This is definitely an item that you wouldn’t wear a bra with, and I’m sure that’s why Franklin chose it. In fact, I know it is.

By the way, when I say that Franklin chose it, I don’t mean that he travelled to Paris and spent several hours in a boutique browsing a few dozen different items with my figure, colouring and taste in mind. I mean that he gave instructions over the phone of roughly what it was he wanted to someone who then chose something that was close to what they thought he’d been describing. For this item, he would have said something like ‘Black, top draw manufacturer, shows her legs and her bosom without looking too tasteless.’

Well, this one is classy. It shows off my cleavage without being too tacky and is very short - with a slit up the front of left thigh that’s so high it almost shows my knickers. They’re very good, these people in the shops. They have to be. They deal with wealthy clients like Franklin all the time.

There’s a little designer touch at the waist, too, with two small leather straps, decorated with gold buckles. It’s very chic and very daring. I immediately know which shoes I’ll be wearing with this - my Jimmy Choo black velvet ankle boots. No need for stockings. The combination of the dress and the shoes will show off my legs, which are lightly tanned at the moment, like the rest of me.

I look around for my Chanel clutch bag. It’s on the table next to the bed. I pick it up and hold it in front of the dress next to my thigh. Good. It matches.

I return to the main room and do a twirl.

‘Can you zip me up, darling?’

Franklin gets up and fiddles around behind me for a few seconds, then pulls the zip up in one smooth movement. I can feel his breath on my shoulder. I turn to face him. I know he’s pleased with this dress. I can tell by his expression.

He likes to see me looking sexy and he likes other people to see me looking sexy, too. He gets a kick out of it. He likes it when we walk into a room and all the men and women’s eyes
are on me. He likes people to be jealous of him when they see he’s escorting a beautiful, well-dressed woman who’s probably young enough to be his daughter. Maybe even his granddaughter.

‘I had it sent from Paris yesterday. I told them over the phone what I wanted and they said they had just the thing. A courier brought it over this morning. You are a spoiled little girl. What are you?’

See? I’m used to hearing things like this now. A few years ago, I might have said something like ‘A courier? Are you mad? You had someone bring this dress all the way from Paris to Portugal? How much did that cost?’

But I don’t say anything like that, even though I’m still thinking it.

We don’t live in Portugal, by the way, just in case you were wondering. We’re on holiday here in a marvellous five star hotel called The Rico Paraiso Lerdo. The best in the Algarve, Franklin tells me. It’s even got its own golf course, which is the main reason that Franklin picked it, I suspect. He’s a bit of a golf nut and has already been out on the course for a few warm up sessions. I have no interest in golf whatsoever.             

We’ve got a lovely suite. Cool and quiet with air conditioning that you can’t hear, which makes a change from the hotel we stayed in in Naples a few months ago. We had to make a complaint.

Our suite is decorated in what I suppose could be called a Moroccan style, which is a bit unusual, considering we’re not in Morocco, but Portugal has a lot of Arabic influences in its culture, so it’s not too surprising. It has polished stone floors and colourful, exotic furniture. I love walking around it.

We’ve already been her
e for three days and I’ve spent most of my time sitting by one of the pools, working on my tan and occasionally swimming. I love swimming. I didn’t learn until I was about twenty-two, so it’s still quite a novelty for me.

Franklin loves to watch me swimming, particularly when I wear the Prada bikini that he bought for me when we were in Greece a few months back. It’s black, very revealing and the briefs are so high on the hip that I had to get a Brazilian before I could wear it in public.

Franklin, it has to be said, certainly doesn’t swim and doesn’t sunbathe very much either. One of his doctors told him that it wouldn’t be healthy for his skin at his age, which is fair enough, I suppose. Usually, he sits at a table reading and sipping a glass of
Medronho
, his favourite Portuguese liqueur. I tried it once, but I didn’t like it. Tasted like marzipan, I thought. Once you’d had a mouthful, you couldn’t really taste anything sweet for the rest of the day.

I try to get in about three half hour sessions of sunbathing a day. I’m fully aware of the damage it can do to your skin and I certainly don’t want to end up looking like a bronze scrotum by the time I’m thirty. I use an SPF 50, usually, which I think blocks out most of the bad rays. I hope it does, anyway.

I kiss him on the cheek. ‘Thank you, darling. I love it.’

‘You should do. It cost enough!’

I close my eyes as he kisses me on the mouth and strokes my hair. He smells of mints and after shave. Considering that this dress was just a gift for the sake of being a gift, I wonder what he’s going to get me for my birthday this year. It’s in two days and he hasn’t said anything yet, or asked me what I’d like. If he does ask me, I think I’d like a new watch. I saw a gorgeous Jaeger-LeCoultre in some magazine a few weeks ago. It said in the advert that it embodied a free-spirited and spontaneous personality. That’s not really me anymore, but it’s still a lovely watch.

There are three fabulous restaurants here and tonight we’re going to the
‘poshest’ of the three. I can’t imagine what the food will be like. The other two were sensational. I suppose this is why he got me the dress. Or maybe he just felt like buying me something. I have to say, though, that I never really feel comfortable eating food wearing very expensive clothing. I’m always afraid that I’ll drop something off my fork onto whatever I’m wearing and it’ll be ruined forever. Sometimes, I’d just like to wear a pair of cut-off jeans and have a pizza in front of the telly, but those days have long gone.