‘Shouldn’t we go back to the beach? Bit rude to leave everyone for too long.’
Freya touched the top of his thigh. ‘I wouldn’t bother,’ she said. ‘Sarah’s had a skinful and Grace, I love her, but she’s such a bloody bore.’
‘I think Grace is a laugh.’
‘Are we talking about the same person?’
Her disloyalty surprised him. ‘I thought you two had been friends for a million years?’
‘Well, yes,’ giggled Freya,‘because her daddy’s got the best private island in the Caribbean.’ She moved towards him and ran her finger down his arm. ‘Look, I’ve got some Es in my room.’
Alex almost laughed. Here he was, on a tropical island with a gorgeous twenty-something girl offering herself – and some expensive drugs – to him, so why was he hesitating? He looked at her. Yes, she’s fit, he thought. But she’s a bitch.
‘I don’t think this is a good idea,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘Well, for one thing, you’ve got a boyfriend back home.’
‘A proper rock star wouldn’t bother about things like that.’
There was a cough behind them and they both turned.
‘Not disturbing anything here, am I?’
Miles’ voice was barely audible thanks to the French cigarette that was dangling out of his mouth. He was carrying a slim green bottle and a pitcher of water, which he put on the table by the pool.
‘No, no. I was just coming,’ said Alex, picking up his guitar.
‘Is that so?’ Miles smiled, glancing at Freya then back to Alex.
‘What’s that??
?? asked Freya, nodding at the bottle.
‘Nothing for young ladies,’ he said, stubbing his cigarette out on the table.
Freya fixed her mouth into a thin, pinched line and tossed her hair over her shoulder. ‘Have it your way, then,’ she said, glaring at Alex, then turned and walked into the house.
‘So, are you going to fuck her?’ asked Miles as she disappeared.
‘No,’ said Alex quickly.
‘Never say never, old boy.’ Miles smiled. ‘The night’s still young, and from what friends in Bristol tell me, she spreads her legs more often than a Russian gymnast.’ He looked at Alex with an amused arch to his eyebrow. ‘Want a drink then?’
Alex picked up the bottle and looked at it. ‘What is it?’
‘Absinthe.’
‘Really? Isn’t this stuff banned?’ asked Alex, looking at the label. He’d heard of absinthe – it was supposed to be the drug of choice for artists and poets. He liked the sound of it.
‘It’s not technically illegal,’ said Miles. ‘You can get it if you know where to look. This is from Czechoslovakia. I got it back in February when I stayed in Prague.’
Miles produced two small glasses, a spoon and what looked like sugar cubes from his shorts pockets.
‘It’s eighty per cent proof. Excellent quality,’ he said distractedly as he poured a measure of the green liquid into each glass. Placing a sugar cube on the spoon, he dipped it into one of the glasses then balanced the spoon on the rim. Glancing at Alex, he flicked his gold Dunhill lighter and with a ‘pop!’ the sugar cube lit up.
‘Wow,’ said Alex, genuinely enthralled by the ritual. It was one thing he had noticed about the rich: they liked their rituals.