Читать книгу The Foreign Girls - Sergio Olguin - Страница 13

“Klar som et egg,” said Frida, appearing in the living room in a bikini. Verónica looked to Petra for a translation, but the Italian shrugged her shoulders. “I’m as ready as an egg,” Frida said, in Spanish. Verónica and Petra stared at her expectantly. “As ready as an egg to go outside. That’s what we say in Norway.” And without waiting for them she went down to the decked area by the pool. Petra and Verónica followed her.

They had arrived at the house less than an hour ago, carting their rucksacks and a guitar. Verónica had given them a little tour of the house and the girls had seemed enthralled by every discovery: the spectacular view of the garden, the 40larder, the drinks corner, the pool table, the bedrooms with en suites, the Jacuzzi in every bathroom. Verónica had invited them to take their pick of bedrooms (and was careful not to say anything else). She was surprised when they opted for separate rooms. They left their luggage there and went to the veranda. Verónica brought out three open Corona beers. They sat and looked out over the landscape, smoking and drinking.

“This is much more amazing than I’d imagined,” said Petra.

“Exactly how I felt when I arrived a week ago.”

“Is your cousin single?”

“He’s married and very boring.”

“Shame.”

They finished the beers and decided to get changed and go and sunbathe.

When Verónica came out of her room, Petra was in the living area looking at the CDs and sound system. She was wearing a pink, orange and yellow bikini that accentuated her brown skin.

“Which part of Italy are you from?”

“I was born in Turin, but my father’s family was from Villadossola and my mother came from Sicily. My parents met at university. They were both psychologists against shutting people away in asylums, believing in the principle of no one being truly ‘normal’: Da vicino nessuno è normale. They were two amazing people. They died when I was twenty. An accident on the Milan–Turin freeway.”

“How awful.”

“Yes, it was. I was studying at the Conservatory. I thought of giving it all up. But then I changed my mind. I got my degree and left Italy. I don’t think I could live there again. Too much sadness.” 41

Frida appeared, said something in Norwegian and the three of them went outside to lie in the sun. Each settled onto her lounger. Petra and Frida both took off their bikini tops. Verónica stared at them.

Petra smiled back. “You’ll get tan lines.”

“It’s just that I feel like someone’s watching us.”

“So what if they are?”

Verónica felt a bit foolish. Or worse: prudish. She took off her top and dropped it down by the lounger.

Verónica watched Frida put sunscreen on her hands then, rather than rub it into her own body, walk over to Petra and start to spread the lotion over her back. Petra murmured something Verónica couldn’t hear. Verónica decided it was better to lie back and not keep ogling them like a voyeur.

“You should put some cream on.”

“Yes, I should.”

“Turn over and I’ll do your back.”

Verónica did as she was instructed.

“I’ll warm it in my hands first so it doesn’t feel too cold.”

She felt Frida’s hands sweeping over her back. Softly, from her shoulders to her waist. It was what she had been needing: to be touched. She closed her eyes. Some horrible music was playing in the distance, perhaps that summer’s hits. Closer, she could hear cicadas and her own breathing. She didn’t want this moment to end. She wanted to go to sleep feeling Frida’s hands on her skin. In this sleepy state, she heard Frida’s voice.

“Right, time for one of you to do some work.”

Verónica turned her head and saw Frida lie face down on her lounger and Petra pick up the bottle of sunscreen. She closed her eyes again and seemed to hear Petra’s hands sliding over Frida’s back. 42