Greetings from the Vodka Sea by Chris Gudgeon Read Free Book Online Page A

them on her with a sexual confidence that surprised her, she said yes. Their first date was antiseptic: luncheon (that’s the word he used) in the hospital cafeteria (an emergency compromise), Bruce on his cell the entire time, shards of perfunctory conversation. She’d figured that was that. But at the end he apologized and asked for a chance to make things right. Part of her wanted to take a pass — she was definitely the kind of girl who could turn a man down — but those eyes, those eyes engulfed her, and she granted him his second chance. Was he conscious of the power of those eyes? Did he (an only child, whose mother was, in the most charitable term, difficult) understand English women so completely, understand their need to find a sliver of darkness beneath the facade? Or was he simply a sexual savant, a self-absorbed, hypercritical, handsome head in a jar? He’d shown his passion: on their second date, an Irish concert and then the pub, he’d kissed her at just the right moment in just the right way with just the right amount of force and just the right amount of discretion. It was not the chaste kiss of a woman’s romance (she was far from virginal, after all, but not too far), and she and he allowed their hips to slide together, and he pushed with little force on the small of her back, drawing her in even closer, and she allowed herself to press into him and felt how big he’d already become and looked again into his dark, dark eyes, into nothing but more darkness. And that’s how love was born.
    Monica waded out several feet, until the water snuggled her hips. She wanted to wash her face, get the smell of him off her; she wanted to take a drink, get the taste of him out of her mouth. She bent down and cupped her hand, but as she raised the water to her face, a dwarf whale surfaced and spouted inches from her head. Monica jumped back, bringing her hand across her chest. And then she laughed. She threw her head back and brayed in delight.
    â€œIt startled me!” she cried, when she’d caught her breath. “Aren’t they just the cutest . . .” And she dove in head first, quickly bobbing to the surface and rolling to her back. “It’s like flying! You float, you float without the slightest effort.”
    â€œIt’s the salinity,” Bruce said, but what he meant to say was that Monica had never looked more beautiful to him than she did at that moment; he had never been more in love. That’s when she did it. She turned her head and drew a mouthful of water, then put her head back and spouted a mist of vodka water into the air.
    â€œThar she blows!” he called, as playfully as possible, resisting the urge to caution her against drinking the water. Monica turned her head again and took another draw, not as long as the first. She seemed to be swallowing this one, closing her eyes as she did. She scrunched her face.
    â€œYuck. That’s awful.”
    â€œRemember McGuffan’s caution, love.”
    â€œIt tastes like . . .”
    She turned her head and took another drink. “Cor. That certainly doesn’t hit the spot.”
    Bruce was watching his floating bride and inching out himself when Ricki, the manager, appeared, holding two yellow towels.
    â€œIt’s a beautiful morning for a swim, sir. Of course, sir, it always is.” Ricki smiled and handed the towels to Bruce. They were still warm from the laundry.
    â€œThe water, is it safe to drink?” Bruce asked.
    Ricki looked almost insulted. He stumped his pinkie finger into his hairy ear and corked it around, evidently composing himself. He had a large oblong head, like those mystery men of Easter Island, and rounded, bulky arms and legs, simian. Rumour was that Ricki had fought on both sides of the civil war that had ravaged the countryside in the decades before. (Alice said she’d heard the International Tribunal at The Hague had a standing warrant for his