28 June
The warm night hugs me. I’m wearing only my favourite oversized post-sex T-shirt and my face still prickles warm. The muscles in my legs feel like they barely exist as I drink in the incredible, panoramic view that stole my breath, what, two hours ago now? Who knows, who cares.
Out here on the decking of Scott’s open-air balcony, the volatile sea feels a mere stone’s throw away. A gull flies past, heading over to the far right, where the Palace Pier juts out over the water in all its attention-grabbing glory. Wind hauls the bird off target, aiming it instead towards the far left, where an audience has assembled at a big-screen beach cinema. I can catch enough snippets of the movie to identify it as Jaws. Ha, nice.
Swept backwards but not to be deterred, the gull ends up flying off over the zip-wire tower that sits directly across from this flat. A white spiral staircase corkscrews up to the scarily high platform.
Scott’s balcony comfortably holds a table, two garden chairs and an old barbecue. The ceiling is provided by the underside of the balcony above. The cigarette smoke of Saturday night revellers somehow manages to waft five floors up here from Marine Parade.
Behind me, through a whole row of floor-to-ceiling windows, the flat’s interior continues to impress. Throughout the living room and the adjoining open-plan kitchen, dimmer-switch spotlights make the chrome and marble wink. There’s so much empty space across those wooden floorboards, you could ride a bike around in circles.
A huge slimline TV hangs on the wall. Swish cordless speakers have been stationed around the whole room, for the full 7.1 experience. Strictly curated Perspex racks display favoured Blu-rays and DVDs. A gooseneck lamp cranes over the back of a cream faux leather sofa, as if waiting to spy on the occupant. Every single object in the living room serves a specific purpose, which makes me kind of hate Scott for his organised restraint. He must never ever visit my flat before I’ve carried out a major tidy-up job.
Rejecting such a stressful thought, I lose myself in the sea and this gorgeous floaty feeling. Oh yeah, the stud Scott Palmer was worth waiting for. He certainly didn’t seem so old-fashioned when we snogged on the sofa and then ended up on his bed.
Beyond the orgasms, though, lay something else. Something that immediately felt deeper and even more intimate.
Behind me, the window-door that connects the living room to this balcony slides open. Brief footfall on the decking heralds Scott’s arrival before he hands me a drink, wraps his arms around my waist and plants his chin on my right shoulder.
We fit together, don’t we? This kind of dovetail match feels so unusual for a new coupling. So very promising.
“Do you trust me?” he whispers in my ear, then hums Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On”. We share a chuckle at our Titanic recreation, then slip into a shockingly comfortable silence. Together, we watch the black ocean explode onto the beach, over and over, powered by a crescent moon.
My very own Leo DiCaprio may cement the end of my digital addiction. Everything seems so perfect, right down to us having met so randomly at the detox retreat. Like it was all meant to be…
Let’s not carried away, though. We’ve had sex, not a wedding. Let’s keep everything in perspective here.
Ah, fuck that – I demand to embrace the moment.
I demand to embrace this night.
I’m the queen of the world.