Windfallen by Jojo Moyes

watching with quiet alarm the sudden shedding of everyone’s clothes.
    “C’mon girls. Lottie? I bet you can swim.”
    “Oh, she doesn’t go in the water.”
    Lottie now knew that Celia had drunk too much. She would never have so carelessly referred to Lottie’s inability to swim (a deep embarrassment to a seaside dweller) if she had been sober. Lottie shot her a furious glance, but Celia wasn’t paying attention. She was busy wrestling with her zipper.
    “What are you doing?”
    “I’m swimming.” Celia grinned broadly. “Don’t look at me like that, Lots. I’ve got my slip on. It’s no different from a swimsuit, really.”
    And then she was off, whooping and squealing as she followed George and a handful of others to the water’s edge. Frances plowed in, pushing forth until she was up to her waist in the waves, then diving under like a porpoise, her swimsuit wet and shiny, like the pelt of a seal.
    Celia, having reached the water, had gone in up to her knees and hesitated, until George reached for her arm and, laughing, swung her around so that she fell into the water. Around them the other guests bobbed boisterously in the breakers, pushing and splashing one another, the men naked to the waist, the women in fine layers of lace undergarments. Not one of them, Lottie noted, was wearing a girdle.
    When Celia first turned to wave at her, however, Lottie suddenly wished Mrs. Holden had been more successful in trying to persuade her daughter to wear one. For now that her slip and underwear were soaked with seawater, few parts of Celia’s anatomy were protected from view. Get down, under the water, she tried to gesture at her, waving her hands ineffectually. But Celia, her head thrown back as she laughed, didn’t seem to notice.
    “Don’t worry, darling,” Adeline’s voice came low and intimate from beside her. “No one will pay any attention. When we are in France, the women are usually naked from the waist up.”
    Lottie, trying not to think too hard about what such holidays in France might comprise, gave a weak smile in reply and reached for the wine bottle. Suddenly she felt a distinct need for fortification.
    “It’s just Mrs. Holden,” she said quietly. “I don’t think she’d be terribly pleased.”
    “Then here.” Adeline handed her a large, boldly patterned scarf. “Go and give her this. Tell her it’s a sarong and that I said all the finest people are wearing one.”
    Lottie could have kissed her. She took the fabric and padded down to the beach, tying her cardigan around her waist as she did. It was late enough in the afternoon now; the risk of tanning was minimal.
    “Here!” she shouted, bare feet lapped by the receding tide. “Celia! Try this.”
    Celia didn’t hear her. Or at least didn’t want to hear her. She was squealing as George dived for her waist, lifting her into the air and dropping her back into the shallows.
    “Celia!”
    It was hopeless. She felt like someone’s aged, persnickety aunt.
    George saw her eventually. He came wading through the waves, his hair plastered to his head, his rolled-up trousers sticking to his thighs. Lottie tried to keep her glance above his waist.
    “Can you give this to Celia? Adeline said it was a sarong or something.”
    “A sarong, eh?” George took the cloth from her and looked behind him at Celia, who was launching herself backward on the swell.
    “Think she needs covering up, do you?”
    Lottie looked directly back at him, her face straight. “I don’t think she realizes quite how uncovered she is.”
    “Oh, Lottie, Lottie, serious little guardian of morals! Look at you, all hot and bothered about your friend.” He glanced back down at the cloth, a grin spreading across his face.
    “I’ve got a better solution,” he said. Then, “I think it’s you who needs cooling off.” And without warning he swept his arms around her waist and threw her up and over his wet shoulder.
    Lottie was aware of being bumped along as he began