Читать книгу A Summer to Remember - Victoria Cooke - Страница 16

Boston looks stunning as we sail away from it. The sun glints off the skyscrapers, making the whole city twinkle. There’s no sign of the ugliness that lurks there, crawling the streets and seeping into the offices.

Ninety minutes later, we pull into the little harbour of Provincetown, framed by low-rise, wooden-cladded buildings and tree-lined hills beyond. Golden sandy beaches run either side of the pier, and the Pilgrim Monument stands tall and proud above everything else. Perhaps I should take a leaf out of its book and on Monday, march into the office tall and proud and demand to be acknowledged. Or something to that effect.

We disembark onto the pier. A small souvenir shop with a colourful wooden pirate outside catches my eye. Huh, just when I thought I’d escaped all the dreadful blokes of Boston. I drag my case down the pier, which throws me straight into the small yet busy heart of the town. The atmosphere is light and airy; people aren’t walking at fifty miles per hour and nobody is grimacing like in the city. My stomach dances a little with excitement. I already know coming here was a great decision.

The no-frills hotel I’d booked is a pleasant surprise. I’d suspected they were over-egging the listing a little when they said all rooms had beach views as standard, but the double doors onto my balcony do, in actual fact, overlook a beautiful sandy beach. I dump my overnight bag on the floral bedspread and step outside, taking a deep breath of the deliciously salty air. This is what makes it all worthwhile.

The air is starting to cool, and my stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since lunchtime, so I take a quick shower and change into a fresh pair of jeans and a strappy vest top before heading back into the town. There’s a festival feel to the place which I hadn’t expected. Rainbow flags billow outside many of the buildings, and a cacophony of laughter spills from the numerous bars and restaurants. A man ambles past in a gorgeous sarong. He flashes me a smile and it gives me a warm buzz. I feel like I’ve found the home I never knew I wanted. My eye is caught by two men who are offering body painting by a beautiful church. One of the men, a dark-haired, rotund, cheerful-looking fellow in a crazy patterned linen shirt, beckons me over.

‘Come on over and choose a design.’ He gestures to a photo board of colourful tattoos in such an animated way it’s hard to refuse, even though I want to because I’m far too old for glittery body art. Though I’d estimate him to be about forty so perhaps I shouldn’t worry.

‘Oh, okay,’ I say, hopping into the chair.

I choose a sparkly butterfly that he starts to paint on my right shoulder blade. I’ve no idea how it will turn out, but I figure it will wash off, and he is just trying to earn a living.

‘So, how long have you been doing this for?’ I ask to relieve the relative awkwardness of a complete stranger touching me.

‘Oh my god, you’re English,’ he gushes. ‘Harry, listen to her. Go on, doll, say it again.’ He places both hands on my shoulders and forcibly turns me to face a slimmer, blond man in a pale blue short-sleeved shirt who seems distinctly less impressed.

‘I, er, I was just asking how long you’d been doing this for?’ I ask again. Somehow, the more I speak, the more I seem to sound like my surname should be Windsor.

‘Oh my god, your accent is just darling,’ Harry says before turning back to his client, a little curly-haired girl who makes me feel more ridiculous.

‘Oh, thank you,’ I say, forcing a smile.

‘And yes, we’ve been here seven years. We came on vacation from New York and just fell in love with this place. Gave up our big careers to paint people each evening after lying on the beach all day,’ the cuddly one says, gesticulating with his paintbrush.

Wow, I can’t imagine just walking away from a career I’d worked hard for. ‘So, you escaped the rat race?’

‘We sure did. How about you? What do you do?’ he asks.

‘I’m still fighting my way through the rat race, but I enjoy it.’ It’s currently a bit of a fib of course, but he doesn’t need to know that.

‘So, are you here alone?’ He must be working closely because I can feel his warm breath on the bare skin of my back.

‘Yes. I’m in Boston with some colleagues working for a marketing company, but I needed to get away, so I came here for a weekend of R&R.’

‘I hear ya,’ he says. ‘Actually, I’d love to pick your brain a little, if you wouldn’t mind catching up when you’re free? We have a great trade here through summer but then autumn comes and we’re twiddling our thumbs. We could quite easily do Halloween face painting and things like that but need to reach a wider audience.’

I’m not one for meeting strange men but I’m getting a good vibe from this one, and besides, you don’t really hear of many horror stories involving body-paint-slash-glitter artists. ‘Of course, I’m here until Sunday so I could come back when you’re quieter.’

‘That would be wonderful.’ He rubs a tiny section of my shoulder blade with his finger. ‘You, my dear, are almost done.’ He proceeds to spray something cool over the top of the tattoo.

‘I’m finished,’ he sings, adding vibrato on the last syllable. ‘Here, take a look.’ He angles a mirror so I can catch a glimpse. I gasp. It’s beautifully done, in hues of pink, green, purple and blue. Strategically placed silver glitter adds emphasis to the wings, and shading underneath casts a shadow, making it look like it’s floating an inch above my skin.

‘I love it. It will be a shame to wash it off,’ I say honestly.

‘Just come back tomorrow and I’ll paint you a new one.’ He winks. ‘That’ll be twenty dollars.’

Twenty dollars? No wonder he could give up the rat race to paint people. I take out a green note and hand it over, and he grasps my hand. ‘Actually, if you’re here all alone, you should come to dinner with us tonight, we can talk about all the marketing stuff then.’

That’s a bit forward, isn’t it? But I am starving, and it might be nice to speak to someone this side of the Atlantic who doesn’t just see me as the doughnut fetcher. Plus, I don’t know much about what’s available round here and some company would be nice.

‘Oh, Barney, you’re a plangonologist of living dolls.’ Harry glances up from the child’s arm he’s painting a dolphin on, the curly-haired girl from earlier has gone.

‘I am not a people collector, Harry; I’m just friendly.’ He turns to me. ‘Honestly, he learns a new word and has to toss it into every conversation.’

I smile and look down at the floor, unsure as to whether or not the invitation still applies.

‘Come with us?’ Barney asks again. ‘I could listen to that English accent all day, and Harry over here can sit wallowing in his grumpy pants.’

I look at Harry who gives a casual nod. Barney wraps his arms around Harry and kisses his head. Neither of them look like axe murderers, and I don’t think there’s an ulterior motive aside from the bit of marketing advice Barney is wanting.

‘Okay, I’d love to.’