“What the fuck is that?” Shenise screeched, cutting through the dull monotone whine of Renoirs opinion on why a no deal Brexit is such a positive step for England, as she points up to the reeds at the top of one of the rolling sandunes.

“What’s the matter, now. Sweetheart?” Renoir asked unsuccessfully masking his annoyance at the interruption.

“There was sumfing over there, i swear.”

“This is a private beach, my dear, you know that. It’s probably a seagull.”

Shenise hurumphed a little and wriggled herself back down onto the towel, positioning her magazine perfect figure for maximum sun exposure. Her oil lathered bare chest glistened like two perfectly formed and entirely unnatural hills glistening with morning dew. Which was not the thought of Kev, Dev and Aled who’s hearts were now beginning to slow to a normal pace, as they remained frozen against the sand bank, desperately hoping they hadn’t been spotted and that they hadnt wasted their £20 each.

Renoir (not his original name) continued, speculating on the undeniable benefits of automatic inclusion in the World Trade Organisation rules. It was hard to tell if Shenise was asleep due to the Giant sunglasses that covered her face, but as he gazed into into his own reflection he wondered why he bothered telling those kids when he was down here with a new girl. He was rich enough not to need the £20 per kid. Perhaps it was the admiration he saw in their eyes. For that brief moment he saw himself as a hero to them, someone to admire and respect. He shrugged off the thought that it had anything to do with his days of unnoticed youth. That it was just using his money to give them the sort of thrill he’d never had access to when he was young.

Shenise snorted and woke herself up with a start. Renoir stopped the uncomfortable thought train chugging around his mind and took up his pre-rehearsed epic speech.

Elsewhere Aled tried desperately not to reveal his erection as he peered through Kevs ancient periscope at his first real life breasts, cementing an, unknown to him at the time, cripplingly unrealistic expectation of female chests that he would only get over when Alice, his 17 year old love of his life made him watch a Netflix documentary on plastic surgery and modern day female body images. For now he merely wondered how Renoir did it; all these girls, a new one every month.

Dev however was more concerned with if he would be able to hide his ejection better than Aled when it was his turn. He was under no illusions how’s Renoir did it, his father having been on the Risk end of one of Renoir’s High Risk, High Reward investment schemes that had left him thoroughly underwhelmed with his fathers business acumen and eagerly awaiting the development of his, one day, own asset transfer and investment firm.

Kev was just amazed at the image clarity of his T1 vision explorer x-range periscope.

And Shenise. She thought about if she should tell Renoir she was three weeks late. If she was getting too fat. If her breasts were already too big, and too round. If Renoirs mother would ever stop looking at her like that. If she was pretty underneath it all. If she loved Renoir. If she liked Renoir. If she didn’t hate Renoir. If skin cancer was really that bad. If when she stopped and thought about it, he was really worth it anyway. If she had imagined the glint of binoculars or a telescope nestled amongst the reeds on the brink of the nearby sandune.