The Park

The Park

She had bought the bikini three weeks ago.

That was the first thing she thought as she crossed the park in a floral summer dress, sunglasses, a wide-brimmed hat and a tote bag containing almost everything except confidence.

Three weeks ago, in the flattering half-light of a changing room, it had seemed bold without being ridiculous. A little less coverage than she usually chose, perhaps, but perfectly respectable.

At home she had tried it on again, turned this way and that in the bedroom mirror, and decided it was maybe bolder than she first thought but still acceptable. Just.

Out here, in actual sunlight, surrounded by actual people, she suspected she had been generous in her assessment.

The park was busy enough to disappear into without being crowded. Couples lay in the grass. Someone kicked a football in the distance. Two women in sports bras shared strawberries from a plastic tub. A shirtless man slept with one arm flung over his face.

Nobody cared what anybody else was doing.

Which ought to have helped.

She chose a spot halfway down the slope, with enough open space around her not to feel hemmed in.

Not too close to anyone. Not too far away either.

Normal.

She spread out her towel, put down the tote bag and sat.

For a moment she did absolutely nothing.

Then she glanced around again.

Young people. Older people. Fit bodies. Soft bodies. Brown bodies. Pale bodies.

Far too much confidence everywhere.

"Oh, come on."

The hat went down beside her.

Taking off the dress should have been simple. In the bedroom it had been simple. Here, sitting on a towel in public, she managed to get one arm trapped, the hem caught beneath her thigh and the fabric briefly over her head like a toddler losing an argument with a pillowcase.

She emerged flushed and annoyed.

Wonderful. Elegant.

She folded the dress more carefully than necessary and placed it beside the bag.

Then she looked down.

The bikini had shrunk.

There was no other explanation.

It was not scandalous. Not even especially daring by park standards. But the top sat a fraction lower than she remembered, while the bottoms appeared to have developed considerably more ambition around the hips.

The sun touched skin that was usually hidden and, after the first few seconds of feeling absurdly conspicuous, she began to enjoy it. The air against her stomach. Heat along her thighs. The strange lightness of being barely dressed without actually being undressed.

She reached for the suncream.

One arm. Then the other. Across her shoulders and down towards her chest.

That was when she noticed the man.

He sat perhaps thirty metres away with his back against a tree. Mid-fifties, she guessed. Maybe younger. Sunglasses made it difficult to tell. A paperback rested open in one hand.

He appeared to be reading.

She smoothed lotion across her upper chest.

Still reading.

Probably.

Her hand followed the line above the bikini top. An ordinary movement, though she became suddenly aware of how slowly she was making it. In her head the gesture became something far less innocent: a bold, unhurried invitation, with her fingers lingering wherever they pleased, her nipples hardening with the attention, a playful dribble of suncream between her breasts.

In the park, she was rubbing in suncream.

She lifted her hand away.

"What are you doing, woman?"

Barely a whisper.

Heat crept into her face that had nothing to do with the sun.

Had he seen?

She glanced towards the tree. Book open. Sunglasses. Impossible to tell whether his eyes had left the page.

Oh, don't be ridiculous.

She turned to her legs.

Safer territory.

More cream into her palm. Her shin first, then her calf, around the knee and upwards.

Ordinary. Sensible.

Then she looked towards the tree again.

This time she knew perfectly well why.

He had not moved. Her imagination had.

In that version, she took her time over the inside of her thigh, running her hand up high than needed and knew exactly what sort of attention she was inviting. The woman on the towel merely worked a streak of white lotion into her skin, a little more carefully than necessary.

Let him look.

The thought arrived so clearly that her fingers stopped.

Good God.

She looked down at her hand. Bold in theory. Mortified in practice.

If he was looking.

That mattered.

She was not putting on a show. She was applying suncream.

Very thoroughly.

Her mouth twitched.

"Oh, you are awful."

And now she was enjoying herself. That was the dangerous part. The possibility of his attention had given her permission to notice the warmth of her own skin, the bikini sitting lower than usual, the little jump in her pulse each time she wondered whether he had glanced up.

She moved to her stomach.

Cool lotion over hot skin. Her fingers passed across her middle and circled her navel before reaching the waistband.

There was no reason whatsoever to put suncream underneath it.

One fingertip caught the edge of the fabric, as if to straighten it. For a moment her mind supplied an altogether more audacious continuation. Her hand slips beneath the fabric brushing the neat trimmed pubic hair, one finger seeking moist lips.

Her finger stayed exactly where it was.

Then she let go, appalled at how much could happen in her head during a perfectly respectable adjustment of swimwear.

"Oh, for God's sake."

She looked towards the tree.

Empty.

"Oh."

Of course he had gone. He had been sitting in a park reading a book, not taking part in the absurd private drama she had constructed around him.

She snapped the lid onto the suncream.

There. Done.

She leaned back on her elbows. The disappointment was small, but unmistakable.

Honestly.

She closed her eyes behind the sunglasses and raised her face towards the sun. One knee bent naturally. The other leg stretched along the towel.

It was a comfortable position.

Or perhaps slightly posed.

She decided not to examine that too closely.

Without her imaginary audience, she was somehow even more conscious of herself: the sun on her stomach, the scent of lotion, the warm foolishness of having made so much of so little.

She smiled.

It had been fun. Silly, harmless fun.

A shadow crossed her face.

"Excuse me?"

Her eyes opened. For one ridiculous second her heart jumped.

It was him.

The man from beneath the tree stood at the edge of her towel holding her sun hat.

Up close, he looked entirely ordinary. Polite. Slightly out of breath, if anything.

"Sorry?"

"Is this yours? It was making an escape."

He held it out.

She stared at the hat. Then at him.

"Oh. Yes. Thank you."

"No problem."

That was it. No lingering smile. No deliberate glance. No secret acknowledgement of anything.

He handed her the hat, gave the smallest nod and walked away.

She watched him for a moment, then lowered herself onto the towel.

Her face was burning.

"Oh, for God's sake."

She covered her eyes with one hand despite the sunglasses already doing an admirable job.

He had seen her. He must have seen her. At least once. Otherwise how would he have known the hat belonged to her?

Unless, obviously, he had watched it blow away from beside her.

Which was exactly what had happened.

Obviously.

She shook her head.

Sensible woman. Married woman. Woman who had spent several minutes applying suncream while imagining that a stranger might enjoy watching.

The smile returned.

Because perhaps he had.

Perhaps he had looked up from the book at just the right moment. Perhaps he had noticed how she paused, how she took her time, how quickly she became flustered by an innocent stretch of skin.

Or perhaps he had seen nothing beyond a woman putting on suncream rather badly.

She would never know.

Lying there, hat resting against her hip, she realised that knowing would have ruined it. An open stare or a suggestive remark would have collapsed the whole delicious little game beneath the weight of reality.

Instead there was only the hat. A perfectly innocent explanation. A perfectly ordinary man. And a collection of possibilities she was free to arrange however she pleased.

She put the hat on.

Then reconsidered and took it off again.

The sun felt good on her face.

She lay back, one knee slightly raised, and closed her eyes.

Not posing. Not for him. Not anymore.

But she was still smiling.

She had offered nothing, except perhaps a rather leisurely display of basic sun safety. If he had happened to find it memorable, that was his affair.

She certainly intended to remember it herself.