Chapter 7
It took an absolute age to decide what to wear tonight - not knowing what a surprise is can really mess with your head.
I start my look with clean, matching underwear.
Just in case. Over a black lacy Wonderbra that lifts and increases, my B cup breasts in a pleasing way.
I button up a black chiffon blouse with long sleeves, leaving enough buttons undone to give a hint of the engineered cleavage.
A black mini skirt over sheer black stockings, flat black patent pumps on my feet and my flaming red mane tamed into a severe bun completes the, hopefully, stylish look.
‘Are you going to a funeral?’ Tara asks as I ready myself to head to the coach.
‘NO!’ I shriek without intending to. ‘Do I look like I’m going to a funeral?’ I ask.
‘Kinda,’ Tara shrugs. ‘You’d be the hottest at the funeral, though. ’
‘Fuck. Not the look I’m going for,’ I reply. ‘FUCK! I don’t have time to change.’
‘Take off the stockings,’ Tara commands.
‘What? Here? Now?’ I ask in quick succession, looking furtively around the cook tent to see if anyone is watching while wondering if I should be putting my look in the hands of Tara, whose normal attire is a bikini covered with a long singlet, which doesn’t quite work as a dress.
‘Yes, get them off,’ the normally placid Tara commands.
I reach up my skirt, roll down the top of my stockings and keep pulling them down. I slip off each shoe briefly to release a foot at a time from their stocking jail and slip them back into the pumps. I pass my warm stockings to Tara.
‘Better?’ I ask.
Tara reaches behind my head and releases the ties that keep my hair in place.
‘Shake your head,’ Tara directs. I do as I’m told, flicking my long red curls free, the fall in waves down my back.
Tara tilts her head to the side, considering what she sees and then rummages in the small handbag she has on across her singlet-clad body. She pulls out a long pink tube.
‘Pucker up,’ Tara says as she unscrews the lid, extracts a wand dripping in glittery gel and walks towards me as I do what she says. She smears the gel on my full lips and takes a step back. ‘Better! Now go and pull yourself some beefcake,’ she laughs.
9 pm
I’m a little breathless after speed-walking downhill from the Grand Casino to ‘our bench’.
I have time to admire Jock before he sees me approaching.
He’s wearing black trousers, black dress shoes and an unzipped black leather bomber jacket, which is pulled back at his waist by his hands resting in his pants pockets, revealing a crisp white t-shirt underneath.
He suddenly reminds me of hot Uncle Jesse from Full House, but without the weird haircut and tribe of kids hanging on.
‘Hi!’ I greet him, sneaking up behind him and grabbing his waist.
‘Hi back,’ he says, turning and looking me up and down slowly. ‘Wow. You look beautiful.’ He gently touches my hair, picking up a curl and twirling it between his fingers. He kisses me gently. His lips stick to mine a little thanks to Tara’s gel gloss. Next time I’ll use more so they stick longer.
‘I’m so excited, what’s the surprise?’ I ask when our lips have parted.
‘Follow me,’ he says, taking my hand. ‘I really hope you like it.’
He sounds nervous, which melts my heart.
Hand in hand we walk along the marina, passing a line of superyachts resting in the calm green sea.
He stops next to a security guard standing outside The Rock Star.
Jock reaches into his pocket, pulls out a folded banknote and passes it to the guard who clicks his heels together and nods in acceptance of the money before stepping aside allowing us to pass.
‘Jock?’ I look up to him, ‘what’s going on?’
‘Your surprise,’ he beams at me, waving his arm towards the yacht.
He steps aboard the lavish vessel onto a polished timber swim platform, then reaches his hand out for mine, assisting me to leap on board. The constraints of my miniskirt make the short leap harder than necessary.
‘We are going to get in trouble!’ I say, looking around anxiously. ‘Seriously, what if the owners decide they want to go out for a night cruise or something?’
‘Relax Bella,’ Jock assures as he leads me up a couple of steps and onto the main stern deck.
I let out an involuntary gasp. ‘I made sure the crew all had the night off, except for the Chief Stewardess. She’s on the boat but I slipped her a bit of cash too to stay in her room for a couple of hours.
The rest of the staff are probably getting legless somewhere. ’
‘Oh Jock, it’s so beautiful,’ I swoon.
The timber deck has a huge U-shaped outdoor couch, and the luxurious seats are covered with the colours of the boat, with fabric of wide navy and white stripes.
Crisp white throw pillows add to the opulence.
The couch surrounds a long, low table, also made of highly polished wood, and rimmed with brass so shiny you could do your make-up in it.
On top of the table low cut crystal vases house candles, flickering gently, illuminating an enormous tiered tray filled with all my favourite savoury and sweet treats.
Stuffed olives, rolls of prosciutto, squares of gooey cheese and tiny crustless club sandwiches sit below a tier bursting with colour.
Macarons in pastel shades and artisan chocolates so shiny they glint in the candlelight.
Two champagne flutes sit next to an ice bucket, which houses a bottle of Moet & Chandon sitting on a bed of ice.
‘Have a seat,’ Jock leads me by the hand to the couch sitting so close to me that our thighs touch. He reaches over, taking the champagne off the ice. He points the bottle away from me and overboard, releasing the cork with a satisfying POP.
I giggle like a schoolgirl.
‘Am I dreaming?’ I ask him as he pours bubbly liquid into each of our glasses.
Raising them simultaneously, we clink them together, staring into each other’s eyes. Although there are boats on either side and the marina is busy with people, we are high enough and the furniture deep enough that we are invisible to the outside world.
‘To us,’ Jock says.
‘To us,’ I echo and take my first-ever sip of French champagne.
‘Dig in,’ Jock encourages nodding toward the food.
‘You know me so well,’ I laugh before devouring a tiny club sandwich, an olive and a roll of salty prosciutto in quick succession.
Jock picks up a cocktail napkin and hands it to me, ‘just in case,’ he laughs.
‘I can’t believe we are sitting on a superyacht,’ I gush. ‘And not just any superyacht but my favourite one. Who would have thought, eh? A painter from Rhu and a tour rep from Garelochead on a fecking superyacht in Monaco! If my mam could see me now.’
‘Do you know what I love about you, Bella?’ Jock asks.
I take a long drink while I think about the fact that Jock loves something about me, ‘no,’ I reply, blushing.
‘I love that you are worldly, well travelled and want to see more and do more but you are still so grounded, excited by new things and understand what it’s like to be from a small village,’ Jock’s voice is serious.
He places his glass on the table and leans toward me, touching his lips to mine, letting them linger.
I feel giddy from the sensation of his soft lips, his 5 o’clock shadow tickling the skin above and below my mouth and his scent, Kouros, if I’m not mistaken, filling my nostrils.
He pushes his lips to mine more firmly and parts them gently.
His tongue fills the space, gently entering my mouth and making contact with my own.
He places a hand behind my head, pressing slightly to bring us even closer together.
I groan involuntarily. As I move in closer, the glass of bubbly in my hand sways perilously, tipping expensive champagne onto my skirt and bare thighs.
I jump from the sudden chill in my lap, breaking our connection.
‘Shit,’ I curse, placing my glass down, picking up some napkins and dabbing at the enormous wet patch.
‘Makes a change from food I guess,’ Jock laughs.
‘I’ll just pop to the bathroom,’ I say, standing up. ‘We can use a bathroom, right?’ I ask nervously.
‘Head,’ Jock replies.
I freeze, taken aback. That’s a bit fecking forward, isn’t it? We’ve only kissed a few times, is he now suggesting I go down on him? On someone else’s boat?
‘What?’ I reply, confused.
‘On a boat this big, the toilet is called the head,’ he laughs.
‘Oh, of course, right. Phew!’ I laugh. ‘I assume it’s this way?’ I walk towards the glass cabin doors and pull on one of the long brass handles.
‘Yip, downstairs to the…’ I hear, before the glass door closes, behind me. ‘Right,’ is what I fail to hear.
I’ve stepped into what looks like a formal lounge.
A curved leather sofa adorns one wall, surrounding another low table, the wall opposite has a bar complete with bar stools.
A line of bottles of expensive spirits sits on the bar top next to a bowl overflowing with tropical fruits.
The floor is a luxurious navy carpet, which is springy underfoot.
I keep walking down the carpeted stairs in front of me.
The first door I come to is on my left. I push it open, feel on the wall for the light switch, flick it on and peer inside.
While I can see a toilet straight ahead inside the room, the rest of the space looks like some kind of dressing room.