Introduction
Hi, it's me again, Charlotte, but I'd prefer you to think of me as Charley.
Charlotte's so girly and faintly old-fashioned, isn't it? Call me that and anyone would think I was one of the Bronte sisters.
Yes, ancient yet still ever-popular around the globe, never mind just around my home town. I wish that I had copyright to their works. Fans come from just everywhere to see The Parsonage, with Japanese and Yanks very much to the fore.
I swear to you, sometimes there are more Japanese folk treading the cobbled streets of Haworth than there are in Tokyo.
That's a slight exaggeration, obviously (and I doubt Tokyo has many cobbled streets), but that's how it often seems.
Moving swiftly on . . .
Please accept many sincere apologies for the rather abrupt ending of "Holidays in the Sun". I honestly did not realize time had run out on me so sneakily. And yes, I did make my homebound flight, but only by the skin of my teeth. As I resume the tale I'm home and sat at my kitchen table, safely locked away from the world, half a bottle of dry white before me and plenty more chilling in the fridge.
Nothing can stop me from finishing properly this time.
Nothing unless the Duchess of Sussex comes knocking at my door. I might well break off to attend to her.
As if Meghan even knows I exist, never mind where I live.
Now then, where was I? Oh yes . . .
To save anyone who didn't read my earlier instalment the need to backtrack, I'll quickly summarize.
I flew to Lanzarote for two weeks after a bitter break-up with a bitch I refuse to name. This was under orders from my boss, who wanted me to revert to my usual self, aided and abetted by lots of sun and sangria.
(She didn't mention the third of the associated S-words, and I don't mean "Spain" or "sand".)
Slightly cheesed off to be sent into exile, I didn't plan to do much sightseeing. Indeed for the first three days I stayed mostly poolside, only leaving the hotel for meals. And then I explored far enough afield to meet Izzy, who seduced me in maybe two seconds flat.
After which we thoroughly and very satisfactorily screwed for fifty hours or more.
Well, in all honesty, she thoroughly screwed me for most of that very satisfactory spell of lifetime.
And that's about it. As I pick up the plot it's early evening Wednesday. Izzy's at the airport, ready to fly back to London, and I'm eager to enjoy the last eight days of my holiday.
Eight whole days and three possible partners to help me properly fill them. I had done lots of chatting up, you see. My libido was up for it too. My sex marathon with Izzy had only encouraged those lovely, so easily aroused hormones of mine.
Eight whole days and three possible partners sounded good to me; in fact it sounded very, very good.
Except things had not so subtly changed in my unexpected absence; yes they'd changed beyond all recognition.
Chapter One
Falling back into my earlier routine . . . if a little later in the day than usual . . . leaving the poolside bar with a farewell wave, I went downhill, away from the hotel, heading for my favourite steak house in the whole world.
Well, it had been my favourite for almost a week by then. And that was a promising sign. I didn't chop and change steak houses nearly as often as I used to chop and change lovers; that used to happen a lot.
Yet up until Izzy I hadn't chopped and changed lovers in over two years (at least, outside of my rather vivid imagination, I hadn't.)
That was the no-name bitch's doing, naturally. Convincing me I only needed one partner in real life.
How crazy was that?
Even more crazily, for some strange reason I'd gone for it hook, line and sinker.
In real life, that is.
But now the one partner rule didn't apply anymore. Now I was spoiled for choice.
My head was spinning as I went. Maria, who ran the poolside bar, was my Target Numero Uno, and had been ever since I arrived. Previously, although I had repeatedly invited her to go out "for a steak", she'd never as much as mentioned sex. But half an hour ago she'd opened up in a very big way.
According to Maria, there were three lesbians on the hotel staff, her being the least experienced and with Estela (my Target Numero Tres) being far more hands on. Incredibly, Sabria (absent from my list of targets altogether) was the "alpha female" in those parts, and "the mother of all lesbians".
What's more, also according to Maria, Sabria had sent out an all-points "keep off, it's me first" warning shortly after I'd checked in at her reception desk.
And I'd hardly spared her a chat-up line at all!
Thinking about the receptionist as I trudged downhill I wondered how that could be. Sabria was large, possibly overweight but had the face of an angel. As for her spectacular chest . . . it could easily have graced the prow of the finest, most queenly sailing vessel ever manufactured.
Back in the day, I mean; when sailing ships really were sailing ships.
Strangely, I had never picked up a single lezzie vibe from her. There again, it was far easier to chat to a barmaid, wasn't it? Once settled in a guest has few reasons to chat with a receptionist. Not at length in any case. Receptionists answered questions and gave out local information, usually to a stranger at the front of the latest queue. Time tended to be pressing on them.
I smiled to myself. Before Izzy I had spent maybe seven hours a day at Maria's bar, almost constantly on a stool right next to her. And later, when the poolside watering hole had closed, I had spent maybe five hours at Estela's swish indoor hotel bar, again perched right next to her.
Of course I knew my favourite barmaids better. It stood to reason, didn't it?
I was still worried about missing those vibes, though. Was I losing it in my old age?
Reminding myself I was thirty-one, a mere slip of a girl, I reached the promenade and saw the sign for the steak house ahead of me: a big wooden cut-out of a bull, maybe two hundred yards away.
My stomach rumbled in anticipation. Hastily, I locked Sabria away in the pending bit of my memory. At least I did after deciding to do something about her sooner rather than later.
Maria had suggested that Sabria may well pay me a late-night visit. I'd decided to come up with some cunning plan to ensure that she did.
Yes, and sooner rather than later . . .
Then I was through saloon-style swing doors and inside the restaurant.
I was also suddenly face-to-face with Camila, my Target Numero Dos.
Camila is, co-incidentally, Argentinian, as were the rest of that fine establishment's employees. Again according to Maria, she'd been up to the hotel yesterday, worried about where I'd disappeared to.
Oops!
Okay, interesting in all sorts of ways, but still a big oops!
On first sight I'd taken Camila to be Maria's twin. There were many similarities, all of them good.
But at that moment she painted an amusing picture. From warmly welcoming a newcomer her bright, dazzling smile faded to a humourless rictus when she saw who I actually was.
'This way,' she snapped, turning on her heel and leading me along the familiar route to the best table out on the terrace. Maybe because I was running late the terrace was quite full, as was the rest of the restaurant, but that best cover for four still had a RESERVADOS sign on it.
As I took a solitary seat Camila stomped off, giving me an eyeful of her sumptuous body as she went.
What an eyeful! She resembled Maria that way as well as in general good-looks: a pert yet plump ass over perfectly shaped, black leggings-clad legs. There was a small oval gap between her upper thighs that spoke of superb treasures above.
Just like there was between Maria's (usually faded shorts-exposed) upper thighs . . .
If the comparison had arisen in a Miss World contest, I'd have had to declare it a draw.
Not that they'd have ever accepted me as a judge. I'd have been rampaging uncontrollably through all the dressing rooms then locked away forever for sexual assault.
