Chillin on Candy Island
Those of you who have read a few of my articles will know that I managed to spend four months of last year writing on a Caribbean Island, Barbados to be precise. My 14 year old son is very scathing about it………
’Mum how come your job lets you lie on a beach all day?’……..
‘Because I’m really clever………’
Is my usual answer.
Anyway suffice it to say that Barbados is home from home to me now , I’ve loads of friends there, the person I mostly hang out with is my friend Linda, who was Miss Barbados 1974, (work it out if you must!) She comes from plantation royalty, was one of the most beautiful women Barbados ever produced and knows just about everyone.
This article is however about the cross section of men that I was besieged by this Easter, ……….an islander never likes to see a lovely woman on her own ……when they can keep her company…….whatever that might mean.
In the 20 to 30 year old category, there are the beautiful beach boys….usually with aka aliases of Mr Cool…….or Fireman….. (I kid you not). So here I am minding my own business under my umbrella when drop dead gorgeous six pack 6’2, pastry chef Mr Cool drops by……..every hour, on the hour…….
Him……… Heh Beautiful can I spend some time with you?
Me…… Hi, that’s sweet but I have a boyfriend……
Him………But he’s not here now is he?
Me……..Well he will be…..
Him……You mean you have no time in your schedule for me, I’ll come up to your house and cook you dinner……?
Me………(really kicking myself for being so bloody honourable)…No babe I just couldn’t do that……..
This happens every single day I’m on the beach, some days I have to change beaches as I’m not sure I can keep turning him down and the boyfriend story is beginning to sound silly. Sitting here in London three weeks later after having dumped Mr Nice Guy boyfriend I am feeling really really silly!!!
Lets move swiftly on to the millionaires shall we, the island is crawling with them, sons of plantation owners , in this case the heir to the Mount Gay Rum fortune. Unfortunately he is 61, married, and lives in Florida but happens to be spending Easter in Barbados sorting out tenants in his beautiful beach house complex on the best beach on the West Coast.
Cue Easter Monday and I’m invited to bring some fresh fish to barbecue at said idyllic beach house. Think luxurious South Carolina style with veranda, in front a garden with 100 year old palms and then a wrought iron gate straight onto the beach. Mount Gay Rum man is sipping Sangria with friend also 61, who owns four nightclubs in Miami and used to be a drug runner. I’m doing my Aubrey Hepburn look a like, large hat, dark glasses, floaty dress with small bikini beneath, and a stern……..don’t f***k with me expression. I’ve found it always works, that expression, much more seductive than anything sweeter.
In the space of the next three hours these two run rings around each other trying to chat me up, rub oil on my back, roll me funny cigarettes, give me a massage…….. I’m not impressed, not even with the promise of my own small plantation and two polo ponies, first class tickets to the Venice Bi annale……..two weeks in Fiji……the list goes on and on, but the only thing I’m worried about is how on earth could I possibly bring myself to give either of them a b**w job? I mean there is absolutely no question of sleeping with them, but I would be required to do something in return for my polo ponies……….wouldn’t I?
Rescue comes in the trim shape of Deit, a 37 year old Swede……engineer come adventurer. There is a lovely soothing current of electricity running between us. Especially after he has listened to my CD and is suitably impressed. We chat away, no pressure here, and although blonde blue eyed boys have never been my thing, this one is rugged enough looking to be interesting. He keeps enthusing about how happy he is to have met an intelligent artistic woman at last, and the other two men, (out testosterone’d as they are) dolefully agree that yes, I am fantastic. One of them mutters into his glass about what an incredible arse I have. I ignore the comment, enjoying the frisson of my conversation with Mr Fit Swede, that’s until we start talking about books.
Rushing into the other room he comes back clutching a carrier back with his recent reading material in it. One of the books is a very tattered collection of short stories; (so far so good)…………the other…..bet you can’t guess? It’s a bible……Well done Victoria; Mr Fit Swede is a Happy Clappy…… I bid a hasty retreat.
I’m still in touch with the Swede; well I am going back for a month at Christmas and that electricity doesn’t happen every day, luckily I also know exactly where to find Mr Cool Pastry Chef and claim that dinner he so wanted to come and cook for me.
Victoria Mosley (Siren Song) has two collections of poetry available from Amazon .co.uk The Dry Season (1998) Crazy Love (2002) and a cd downloadable from www.gargeband.com/artist/sublimes . She is currently editing her novel Angels Wharf., and researching her latest novel.
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