Page 11 of Beach Bodies

The scorch of sand on the soles of my feet tempts me to sprint towards cooler sand, but I force myself to keep my pace slow, steady. It hurts now, but in a few days, I’ll have my beach feet back. No pain no gain, right?

I pass a long row of lounge chairs filled with women in bright scraps of designer swimwear, out for their afternoon tanning session. Two of them are chatting in low voices.

‘… and then suddenly after the last round of quads, I’m puking my guts out on the gym floor.’

‘Hey, if it works…’

‘Yeah, well, I prefer to do that alone in the bathroom, not in front of a celebrity trainer—’

They stop talking to look at my ass. They’re not the only ones. I grimace. It’ll take a few days to get used to that again, too.

Snatches of conversation float past me as I plough across the sand towards the lifeguard chair where I’ll be spending the next three hours.

… fine, but I’m telling you, intermittent fasting didn’t really work for me…

… who cares if he’s crying now? It’s called a revenge body for a reason!…

… yeah, she thinks I’m at a work conference in Tampa…

… wait, pounds or kilos?…

Yep. Definitely at the Riovan again.

Part of me wants to look; to link the voices with the faces like a game of matching and start making my longlist. ButI force myself to keep walking. Better to wait until after the break-in. It’s more efficient that way– and I have an entire week to identify the person I’m here to find. Normally this first day is all about recovering from travel, anyway.

‘Halle-fuckin’-lujah,’ says the male lifeguard I’m replacing when he spots me. He looks college-age, with reddish hair, lean musculature like a dancer’s, and freckled shoulders. He immediately starts to climb down. ‘I was burning to death up there.’

There’s a small umbrella angled above the high, white lifeguard’s chair, but I know from experience that even in the shade it can be brutal up there, especially in the afternoon as the temperatures climb.

‘I’m Jason, by the way,’ he says, swinging forward a hand. ‘Don’t think I’ve met you.’

‘Lily. British?’ I take his hand and we have a friendly shake.

‘Yep. London. American, I take it?’

‘Cincinnati.’

He gives me a vaguely confused look, which I’m used to.

‘Skyline Chili? Cincinnati Reds?’

‘Sorry …’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘Ah. Well. See you around then.’ He starts to go, then turns back. ‘Hey, a bunch of us are going over to the Mambotel Friday night.’

‘Already heard.’

‘Should be a fun night.’ He points both fingers like little guns. ‘You’re coming, yeah?’

‘We’ll see, Jason.’ It’s my polite version of no. I have no desire to get drunk with a bunch of college kids. Though I wish them all the best.

He signs out of the clipboard affixed to the chair, then lopes off in the sand. After signing myself in with the barely functioning ballpoint pen, I climb up. The seat is warm, and not that comfortable, which is probably good, because lifeguarding is all about keeping alert. When you’re comfy, it’s so easy for your attention to slip… especially after my breakdown in the room, which eroded the little energy I had going into today. Still, for the next three hours, I have to stay sharp.

I re-angle the umbrella, then set the timer on my resort-issued waterproof watch. Fifteen minutes up here, then I walk the shore, then back up. At the hour and a half mark, I’ll switch places with the lifeguard on the other end of the beach.

I start my methodical visual sweep of the beach. First, the swimmers who are out the furthest, most of them churning out furious laps. I count the bobbing heads; fifteen. A few swimmers are cooling off in the shallower water, and a few more are standing ankle deep, conversing with one another.

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