Deadly lazing on the beach (English Version)

Georges

Elen is waiting for me on the doorstep. She's changed into a black and white triangle bikini and a white linen sundress with a perfect fit. The outfit highlights her tanned skin and slim figure. Elen wears large hexagonal sunglasses and holds her straw hat in her hand. With its wide, supple brim, she looks just like a starlet on the Croisette in Cannes.

"Georges, darling, this afternoon, it's farniente at the beach". Georges, it's me. And it's farniente at the beach every day. I carry the parasol, the quilted beach mat on which Elen delicately lays her beach towel. I also carry the folding backrest against which Elen leans to read in comfort. Slung over my right shoulder, the cooler strap is taut and bouncing with my every step. Relatively light, it contains only the lemonade with mint leaves from the garden, that I concoct daily for Elen.

Every day, we take this equipment down to the cove of Anse Méjean, below the house. I set up the parasol and mattresses. Elen removes her dress as our few beach neighbors look on in amazement. She lies down on her stomach, expertly unties the ties of her bikini top, before tucking it into her bag. Once she's comfortable, she hands me the tanning oil with its intoxicating scent of tiare flowers. "Georges, darling, would you mind?" Of course I would. I comply with a kind word. Elen rests her head on her right side, one hand on either side.

I drip the wonderfully warm oil into the hollow of her loins. I spread it delicately on her back. My hands glide over her bare, silky skin. I brush against the nub of her breasts, lingering there for a moment, just long enough to feel her shiver. She smiles, tenses slightly and relaxes. I move slowly up her shoulder blades, along her spine, to her trapezius. I move down her arms, to her elbows and the backs of her hands. As I do so, I lean forward a little more, until my chest brushes against his back for a long second. Then I come back up. My hands run the opposite way, from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. Elen has closed her eyes.

My fingers trace a light line down her legs to her heels. I stock up on oil. This time, I start with the soles of her feet and work my way up, massaging gently into her calves and then the hollows of her knees. My fingers linger on the outside of her thighs, while my thumbs work the oil into the back and inside of her thighs, slowly and repeatedly. More and more slowly, I work my way up to her buttocks. Elen opens her lips slightly. My thumbs slide under the elastic of the swimsuit panties, just far enough to avoid a trace of tan, and I withdraw my hands.

Elen sighs one last time before dozing off for good, confident.

For my part, I hate the heat, the pebbles or the burning sand under the soles of my feet; I hate the very spirit of the beach. Wearing all the gear that's only good for sweating in the sun for hours on end, ill-situated, some of us candidates for melanoma. I hate sleeping in the sun, reading in the sun, staring at the horizon in the sun for hours on end. I hate people on the beach, sticking together. Lazing on the beach pisses me off!

For 3 weeks now, I've been putting up with the daily plunges into the bay's creeks at the hottest times of the day. 3 weeks of being whispered "Georges, darling" by the lady, accompanied by all sorts of desires.

The suntan oil sessions are my sneaky revenge. Day after day, I lengthen their duration, lingering on increasingly sensitive areas. I wait for her desire to rise and then stop, never going too far. In other times, I wouldn't have gone without. But this time, I have to stick to my guns. I follow the plan to the letter. Any slip-up would be catastrophic.

I rented one of the villas near the customs road in the name of Elen McArthur.

The little crane answered my ad. She naively thought she was playing in the pilot of a new reality show. At first, she searched in vain for the cameras (and for good reason, there aren't any). She finally deduced that production had done a marvellous job of disguising it so that we'd really think we were on vacation. The gourd!

"Elen's real name is Stella. When she arrived, she was instructed to leave her phone and ID in the safe. Which she did without a second thought. In exchange, I gave her Elen's papers and a character sheet to learn in 2 days. I must admit I was blown away by her ability to learn and her talent as an actress; too bad. Beyond the physical resemblance, she's the perfect embodiment of the real Elen, my wife.

72 hours after Stella's arrival, the local housekeeping staff entered the scene. They have no role to play. They're just there to attest, when the time comes, to the events that took place in this vacation home. They are, moreover, convinced that they are in the service of Elen McArthur, a young brunette woman with tanned skin, adored by her husband, a certain Georges, who is particularly attentive to his wife's desires.

Georges McArthur is my real name. Elen has been my wife for 10 years. I run a tech company in the United States. I set up my start-up thanks to Elen's inheritance (the real one). Her father had made his fortune in ice cream. Elen was an international business student when we met. She ended up as HR Director of my company. Far from being an honorary position, she knew how to find valuable profiles. As a result, I was soon able to put my feet up and enjoy life.

From poker nights with my buddies, I moved on to more exclusive and closed circles with stakes that matched my boredom. I swapped monopoly tickets for real ones. I started playing with my own money. Since I was winning so often, I increased the stakes. More money, more adrenalin. So I played with the company's money until Angelo, our financier, spotted the scheme. I bought his silence because, in the end, everything can be bought so easily. When I started to lose, he put me in touch with some financiers. I signed some papers to mortgage the house and manage the business. In exchange, I had open-bar financing. Everything was so easy.

Until the one game too many. I keep going over and over the details of that game.

At the end of the last betting round, I have four of a kind: an incredible hand that only happens 0.17% of the time! I'm so sure of myself that I bid up an astronomical sum that I don't personally own. But everything's under control. Showdown: players discover their game. Being the last to bid, I'm the first to show my cards. I'm so sure of myself that I exult. But the last player doesn't fold. I don't understand why. He has a 0.027% chance of beating me. He shows his cards. I'm stunned. It takes me 10 seconds to realize he has a straight flush. The thing that never ever happens! Those 10 seconds seem like an eternity. Everything goes black; I lose my footing.

It took me several days to confess everything to Elen. She didn't say anything while I apologized profusely. She was stunned. She only asked 3 questions: how much did I owe my loan sharks? What was the deadline? Had I also dipped into my life insurance?

We had each opened a life insurance policy at the beginning of our life together, to protect the other in case of death. Unfortunately, I lost everything into poker. I had ruined us for good. I had 2 months to settle the bill. Elen remained incredibly calm. When I tried to speak again, she raised her hand; she didn't want to hear another word out of my mouth.

When she spoke again, it was to tell me her plan. A plan I've been following to the letter ever since: hand over the house and business to the loan sharks, as requested. These people are not to be trifled with, she said. Then stage her accidental death, abroad, to collect her life insurance and start afresh, the two of us, under another identity. An insurance scam of sorts.

As usual, she managed everything. She planned my every move down to the last detail. All I have to do is follow her instructions.

It's 4.25pm. The regulars are starting to arrive at the beach. It's time for us to go back up. Hours in the sun, light sandals and a steep path are the perfect ingredients for a dramatic accident.

I wake the starlet by blowing into the hollow of her neck. She reopens her eyes and gazes at me, full of desire. She tilts onto her side, plants her elbow on the mattress, rests her head on the flat of her hand, and murmurs enigmatically: "Georges, darling, under different circumstances..."

I don't hear the end of her sentence; a woman has just screamed as she dives into the water. Clearly too fresh for her taste. I get up too quickly, no doubt, because my head is spinning a little. Fucking heat!

Elen/Stella looks worried. I reassure her: everything's fine. I pour myself another drink, as my mouth is dry (fucking beach, without shade!). Elen stands up slowly, like a cat stretching. All eyes are on her. She irons her sundress and puts on her sneakers. I'm surprised. "George darling, are you feeling all right? I always wear sneakers down in the creeks - always." She kisses me on the forehead like a mother catching up on her youngest's ramblings. She smiles at the young couple close to us, who don't miss a beat of our exchange.

She tucks her bath sheet into her bag while I fold the rest. As we pass a family, she offers me her help, for the 1st time in 3 weeks: "Georges, darling, you look unwell, can I help you reassemble the equipment?" She graces me with a dazzling smile, all the while searching for something with her eyes, at the top of the cliff. This gourd always thinks she's being filmed!

We're now two-thirds of the way up. I'm feeling unusually tired. It's time to pull myself together. I've got to take action, because this is where I should have pushed her into the void. After the next bend, when the path becomes easier, it will be too late. Stella has already reached the thicket and I can still see her dress, but I must hurry to catch up with her. I press on with effort. In my concentration, I pass someone coming down. She points to my shoe, something about laces. Reflexively, I look down. My laces aren't untied; I don't have any laces! I'm wearing Toms. Looking up at the comedian, I immediately recognize my wife. The real one. But I don't immediately understand: what is she doing here? Why is she dressed like Stella? Why is her gaze so contemptuous? Surprise gives way to panic. I take a step to the side; I feel dizzy. I lose my balance. I topple backwards. Elen holds out her hand, pretending to catch me. I think she's calling for help, but my eardrums are ringing. It wasn't supposed to be like this. A smell twists my nostrils, awakens a memory. I begin to understand. Too late. My fingers slip between hers. As my body crashes against the rocks, I recognize the scent of tiare flower.

Var Matin - July 18 - "Deadly lazing on the beach".

A summer resident has died in the Méjean cove. Investigations are underway, but the theory of an accident is preferred, according to a source close to the inquiry.

Georges McArthur, a Texan businessman, fell on his way up from the beach, as his wife looked on in dismay and tried everything in her power to help him. Witnesses say they saw her holding her husband's hand for many seconds before he fell.

"Her wife's desperate scream will remain engraved in my memory for a long time to come," says Stella Martin, an emergency doctor from Martigue, on vacation in the region. Stella was walking down to the beach when she heard the screams. She rushed to the young wife's aid before she too toppled over the edge. After pulling her to safety, she called the emergency services, but there was no hope of the man's survival.

A similar accident occurred in the same place last year. When will the Town Hall finally make this pathway safe?

But let's also remind our summer guests of the preventive behaviors they should adopt: avoid exposure during the hottest hours of the day, hydrate regularly, and wear footwear and equipment suited to the terrain. On this fateful afternoon, Georges Mc Arthur seems to have made one mistake after another.

Elen.

Georges and I met in college. He was handsome and seemed brilliant. I fell for him immediately. We soon settled down together and got married. I believed in his start-up idea and invested without hesitation. We set up the company together and grew it together. As HR Director, I found the best profiles. Sometimes borderline, sometimes introverts, sometimes people with criminal records. Because I believe in each and every one of them, they give their very best to our company. Our success is collegial.

In the 10 years we've been together, Georges has changed. He relied on his employees. And we stayed the course without him. The day Angelo noticed some strange transactions in the accounts, he investigated and told me. He had discovered that Georges played poker. Contrary to what my husband thought, loyalty can't be bought; it has to be earned.

Angelo and I took matters into our own hands before Georges squandered the company's money. We "framed" him without his knowledge. Angelo recontacted some old acquaintances and introduced them to my husband.

From that day on, every one of Georges' poker partners worked for me. Angelo brought in the loan sharks. The contracts signed were in favor of a shell company, managed by our company. I never lost my house, nor the company.

But I needed 100% of the shares, legally. That's how the plan to get rid of my husband came about. I have to say that if he hadn't agreed, without any remorse, to kill an innocent woman to save his bacon, I would have given up my plan. But he sealed his fate out of greed and weakness.

Stella is one of my many cousins. The fact that Georges didn't notice: neither our striking resemblance nor his ability to follow in my footsteps proves once again that he wasn't as clever as he seemed. I must have been in love before I realized it!

The investigators didn't find anything strange. Apart from the datura in the gourd and the large life insurance policy in my husband's name. They finally told me, as carefully as possible, that my husband was probably trying to murder me to get the money from my life insurance policy. "He'll have got the wrong gourd".

If one thing is true, it's that the gourd wasn't what nor who he thought it was!