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

arrest, although McGuffan, in the most comical manner imaginable, pooh-poohed her. They really were quite a couple.)
    â€œI can assure you, sir, no one has every come to harm . . .”
    â€œMcGuffan said . . .”
    â€œI understand, sir. Mr. McGuffan has shared his concerns with me. But they’re folk tales, really, to amuse the peasants and their children.” Ricki’s voice faded, politely. His gaze fell on Monica, who was standing again. The sea had pasted her t-shirt to her bra, and in the cool sunlight, Bruce could track the gravy-coloured outline of her aureoles and the harsh stubs of her nipples (hard, Bruce assumed, hoped, from the cool morning breeze). He glanced at Ricki, and had he been a jealous man he might have thought that the manager was giving his bride the once-over. It’s funny. Bruce had never thought of Monica as particularly beautiful. Not plain, no. Louise was plain, in that flat-chested, horsy-faced, hospital-cornered British-matron way. Monica had a certain virginal sexiness, an attractive middle-aged nunnishness (Sister Grace, for example, Nursing Head of the chemo ward, who turned a resident’s head or two). But this morning, in the cool sun, with stubbing tits all glisty wet, her fleshy cheeks peeking out from her bikini bottom, that orgasmic smile, that don’t-give-a-damn glaze to her eyes — this morning she was a bit of something. Ricki held up his arms.
    â€œTowel, ma’am?”
    Monica took a towel and rubbed her hair, messing it up in such a way that she only looked sexier. Ricki extended his hand and helped her out of the water.
    â€œI’ll think you’ll enjoy the breakfast today, Miss. Strawberries, fresh from the fields, and local blood oranges — better than the Italian. And Monsieur Langour was up very early preparing his apple-almond croissants. I’d suggest you try them with yellow pepper marmalade: spicy, sweet, a house specialty.”
    â€œThat sounds wonderful,” she said, as Bruce drew the other towel around her shoulders (trying discreetly to cover her visible nipples) and led her by the arm toward the mango grove.
    â€œHe’s an interesting man,” Monica said.
    â€œYes. Hairy, too.”
    â€œYes, indeed. Hairy.”
    . . .
    That afternoon they took the boat tour across the Vodka Sea. McGuffan and Alice joined them, although they’d taken the tour a dozen times before. McGuffan was the sort who’d interrupt the tour guide to offer his own by now much-practiced insights; the Australian was quickly losing his lustre. Likewise Alice’s calculated hee-hawing and endless slogging had worn thin. (Bruce had quickly come to hate the sight of her lips as they snarled over yet another bottled vodka spritzer.) They were like two tireless party guests who refuse to leave even as you stand there, hats and coats in hand, yawning and blearily eyeing your bedroom door.
    â€œIs it true that, at its deepest point, the Vodka Sea is barely ten feet deep?”
    ( Objection, your honour! Counsel is leading the tour guide .)
    â€œYes, sir. Even at its deepest point, the Vodka Sea rarely exceeds ten feet.” The tour guide, they called him John, for convenience, smiled at McGuffan, calculating, Bruce supposed, his tip.
    â€œRemarkable,” McGuffan declared, although there was nothing remarkable about it. He turned to Monica, beaming, and raised his eyebrows like an excited ten-year-old auditor who’d just found a KitKat amongst the debits and credits. Monica smiled back and tilted her head in a motherly fashion, then she shifted in her seat slightly, adjusting her dress. She wanted to give Bruce, sitting directly across from her, a better view. She wanted him to see that, under the crepe sundress, white, translucent, she wasn’t wearing any panties. She’d done that for him, she supposed; she’d thought about it for a long time as she readied herself after lunch. She stood in front of