The Love Detective by Alexandra Potter Read Free Book Online

Facing illness. Even getting a big hairy spider out of your bath commands a great deal of courage (well, for me anyway).
    But this has to be the scariest of all.
    Wearing a bikini.
    And worst, in the middle of January, when I’ve spent five months not seeing the sun, my legs haven’t been out of 60-denier opaque tights and my body has not been exposed to sunlight. I’m like a vampire, only without sexy Robert Pattinson to keep me company. Even worse, I have to walk outside, into the bright sunshine, around a lot of tanned, fit yoga bodies.
    Personally, I’d rather jump out of an aeroplane. Without a parachute.
    Pulling on my bikini bottoms which, as always, are never big enough, I then hoick the triangles over my boobs and tie them securely in place. OK, now for the mirror. Bracing myself, I gingerly open the door of the small wooden wardrobe. Hanging on the back is a full-length mirror and, screwing up one eye, I sort of tentatively squint through the other at my reflection.
    I’ve learned this trick from watching scary movies, or reading my book reviews, and trust me, this is much scarier.
    I catch a blurry glimpse of pale limbs, a jiggly bit above my bikini bottoms that I could have sworn wasn’t there last time, and inner thighs that prove Zumba twice a week is simply not enough.
    I wince, but remain stoic. But not brave enough to open both eyes, I decide, as I do a reluctant twirl so I can check out the back view. Oh dear. It’s all I can do not to jump cowering under my duvet.
    Only there’s not that option, as it’s thirty-five degrees and there isn’t a duvet.
    Is it just me, or does every female look at their bottom in a bikini and just despair?
    I mean, it should be up here . . .
    Grabbing my bum cheeks with both hands, I hoist it up a good few inches and instantly I’m transformed. The ripple effect at the back of my thighs is smoothed out. My bum looks pert. I can even open both eyes and give a little nod of satisfaction. OK, so it’s not Gisele, but it ain’t bad – until I let go and it all just, well, ‘drops’ would be one way of putting it; ‘sags like rice pudding in a string bag’ would be another.
    But I have a secret weapon. The sarong. I bought one at the airport, along with my sunnies, and whereas those might have been a mistake, this purchase most definitely wasn’t.
    God love a sarong, I cheer, wrapping it around me like I’m auditioning to be an Egyptian mummy and covering up all the white jiggly bits. Correction : dry, scaly, white jiggly bits. Honestly, what central heating does to your skin should be illegal.
    Finishing tying the sarong tightly, I give myself a final check in the mirror. There, much better. And feeling a lot more cheered, I slip on a pair of flip-flops, grab my sun lotion and towel and head out onto the beach.
     
    It’s still early, but the small sandy cove is already a hive of activity. Several dedicated sunbathers with nutbrown limbs are stretched out on sun loungers, their oiled bodies glistening in the early morning sun like mahogany sideboards while, in the ocean, several guests from the resort are taking their morning swim.
    For a moment I watch them, their heads bobbing up and down on the waves, until a very fit-looking blonde woman jogs into my eye-line, and I follow her progress along the shore to where another holiday-maker is doing his morning stretches.
    Oh dear. My morning stretches involve bending down to put my slippers on and reaching for my coffee pot, but his are somewhat more advanced, I muse, feeling ever so slightly intimidated as I watch him do a handstand. I’m going to have to limber up a bit before I go to a yoga class.
    Dropping my towel, I try to touch my toes. And come to an abrupt halt by my knees. But of course that’s only because I’ve just been sitting on a plane for god knows how many hours and my hamstrings are tight. I’ll be fine once I’ve had time to relax, unwind, loosen up. I know, I’ll do a bit of swimming