Authors: Vina Jackson
Eighty Days Amber (33 page)
There had been wild parties, epiphanies and a joyous breaking of taboos, once they had gracefully grown into middle-age and had begun to ignore the opinion or judgement of family and conservative-leaning offspring, and they had lived for themselves and no longer had to adhere to the conventional strictures of society.
This had meant a prolonged involvement in the world of BDSM and they had witnessed its dark side and its dyonisiac aspects, and had wholeheartedly enjoyed both.
How could one truly appreciate life if you hadn’t tasted its extremes? They had no regrets.
They had reached the plateau in a couple’s relationship where silences had become as important and significant as words and they wallowed in the peace of their happiness. The waitress brought them another round of brightly coloured cocktails.
The terrace with its ring of palm trees and thick white sun umbrellas looked over the vivid blue of the ocean, almost deserted but for a handful of windsurfers riding the modest waves.
‘It’s really peaceful, isn’t it?’ Edward remarked.
‘That it is,’ Clarissa agreed.
‘I was thinking,’ Edward continued, ‘rather than seek out a fancier restaurant back in town to spend the festivities, why don’t we just stay here? There’s a lot of seafood on the menu, I see, and it won’t be as crowded . . .’
‘Such a pleasure to be so casual,’ Clarissa added.
‘We’ve certainly dressed up enough for a few lifetimes, haven’t we?’
She nodded, her eyes clouding over as so many parties and past ceremonies came rising up from her memories.
‘Let’s do it, then.’
They went back to sipping their drinks with not a care in the world.
When the sun began to disappear below the marine horizon and the light slowly faded, Edward perused the menu.
‘What do you think? Coffin Bay oysters to start with?’ he suggested.
‘I’d love that,’ Clarissa replied dreamily.
‘Nothing but the best for you, my dear.’
He took hold of the wine list. The young waitress from earlier had finished her shift and had been replaced on the terrace by an older waiter with a Greek accent and a mellifluous manner.
Edward made his choice and ordered.
Life was good.
Their coffees had just been brought to their table and the empty plates from the meal whisked away, when the beach restaurant’s sound system was switched on and strains of soothing music began to lullaby the customers spread across the two dozen or so tables.
‘It’s a waltz, Ed,’ Clarissa said. ‘Maybe we should dance.’ She pointed at the improvised dance floor made of bamboo matting that extended all the way into the sand.
‘Maybe later, when it’s actually New Year?’ Edward said. ‘Let me digest a bit before that. A concession to our advancing years?’
Clarissa smiled, noticing a couple rising from a nearby table and making their way to the dance floor. They were younger, holding hands all the way. Both tall and athletic and casually dressed, she in a simple and modest white cotton dress that fell to just below her knees and flat ballet shoes while her partner wore denim jeans and a white shirt. The woman was blonde, her hair cut short, and there was definitely something Eastern European about her face, Clarissa reckoned. She walked, and then danced with grace and composure. Her partner was also quite distinctive in his looks, although she was unable to pinpoint his background. Both displayed wonderful golden tans, as if they now spent their whole days lazing on the beach. The young woman’s
nails were painted emerald green and the only jewellery she wore was a pair of elaborate amber earrings.
They came together on the improvised dance floor, their eyes never leaving each other, and both Clarissa and Edward felt a gentle thrill buzzing through their hearts as they watched the young couple glide across the floor like birds in flight. Both had the same thought and winked at each other. The two dancers reminded them of their own youth.
It was a pleasure to just watch them and note how oblivious they were to their surroundings, each bathing wholeheartedly in the other’s glow.
There was an elegance about the young woman’s movements, surely the result of ballet training at some stage in her past. Her long legs solidly carried her gentle frame along as her partner’s hands held imperceptibly to her waist, guiding her movements along, leading invisibly but firmly.
Clarissa realised she had seen the young woman once before, although her hair had been much longer then. She gazed at her again and it confirmed her intuition. It had been in Paris when their son had played in the brass section for the group that Viggo Franck was sponsoring. Yes, she had been in the post-gig dressing room. It was definitely her. She racked her brains to remember whether the young woman was one of those present who had then followed them to the riotous and somewhat debauched evening that had ensued at Les Chandelles. Clarissa concluded that if she had there had not been any interaction between her or either Ed and Clarissa. And recalled, with a sigh of relief, how their conservative son had also declined to join the
throng. The man she was dancing with had certainly not been present on that faraway evening.
‘Are you thinking the same thing as I am?’ Edward whispered to her as the young couple untangled as the slow Tennessee waltz faded to an end and was replaced on the sound system by a jollier, faster melody.
‘I am,’ Clarissa said.
‘It feels like a world ago, doesn’t it?’ Edward told her.
Clarissa nodded.
‘For a brief moment, I had the idea we could invite them over to join us for a drink.’
‘You’re right, Ed. Let’s just leave them alone. We’re just old rakes; we’ve done our part a hundred times over. Surely they can find their own path in life without our interference.’
Midnight was approaching. Other couples were now treading the dance floor.
‘The next slow dance is yours,’ Edward informed Clarissa. ‘Even if we have to wait for the New Year.’
‘Do you think there’ll be fireworks?’ she asked him.
‘There are always fireworks at the stroke of midnight,’ Edward said, settling his arm around her.
At the other table, the young couple had returned to their seats and were kissing.
Just a stone’s throw away, sitting on a high stool at the bar, another young woman sat. She was small, with jet-black hair cut in gothic style with a razor-sharp fringe line. She was alone and had been so all evening, one step removed from all the celebrations. She watched with such sadness in her eyes, Clarissa thought, as Luba and Chey kissed. And for a minute, Clarissa thought she was crying,
but then realised that below her left eye, she had a minuscule teardrop tattoo.
The lonely girl with the unusual tattoo was watching as the kissing couple rose again, hand in hand, oblivious to everyone but each other, and made their way to the sand for one last dance.
As the Eighty Days series continues, the authors have had to call on the patience and generosity of many people whose involvement was invaluable. First and foremost, our respective partners who – although they cannot be named here as we seek to retain our mysterious anonymity – have had to keep on enduring our neglect during the long writing hours and have done so with equanimity and good humour. Sarah Such at Sarah Such Literary Agency, our editors Jon Wood and Jemima Forrester, Rosemarie Buckman at the Buckman Agency, and all their colleagues have been instrumental in the success of the series and cannot be thanked enough.
One half of Vina would also like to thank Scarlett French of
www.scarlettfrencherotica.com
whose leather-bound books and reading of
Shoe Shine at Liverpool Street Station
sparked an interest in both erotica and riding boots that is likely to last a lifetime. Finally, she would like to thank her employer for her unending support, and Verde & Co. who have unwittingly fuelled a number of the adventures contained within the Eighty Days series with the provision of a cosy spot to sit and type, the occasional chocolate, and an endless procession of the best flat whites in London.
And finally Vina Jackson must also acknowledge the hospitality of the Groucho Club where every title was planned, conceived, broken down and reassembled prior to
the actual writing – without any neighbouring members even batting an eyelid as, for hours on end, we debated who should bed who and other delicate technicalities.
Author photo ©
www.mattchristie.com
Vina Jackson is the pseudonym for two established writers working together for the first time. One a successful author, the other a published writer who is also a city professional working in the Square Mile.
Get to know more about Vina Jackson on Facebook or follow her on Twitter
@VinaJackson1
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Eighty Days Yellow
Eighty Days Blue
Eighty Days Red
If you enjoyed
Eighty Days Amber
look out for . . .
Eighty Days White
the sexy new novel in Vina Jackson’s pulse-racing
series.
Available January 2013
AN ORION EBOOK
