Chapter 29 #2
She opened the beer and edged closer to him, catching the warmth of his arm. They sat in companionable silence, listening to the waves, and then Rita asked, ‘So what are you escaping from?’
‘A few things. I used to be… someone.’
Rita turned slightly, meeting his gaze, curious. She felt an undeniable pull toward him, and just a little reckless this evening. ‘Don’t be silly. You still are.’
He gave a wry smile. ‘I mean… famous. Drummer in a band that once headlined Glastonbury. Lost my way after that. Too many tours, too many pills. Got my girlfriend pregnant. She left. Can’t say I blamed her.
I was a mess.’ Rita didn’t speak. Just listened.
‘I like it that no one here knows who I am. Because nobody needs to. Because I’ve been thinking about it and what does fame even mean, really?
A name in lights that flickers. Applause that fades.
A million strangers who think they know you and want to judge you.
But no one really knows anyone, other than themselves. Do they?’
He turned to her then, something honest and unguarded in his face. ‘In fact, I love that you know me as I am now. Plain old Paul Best. Not Rex Wilder, the guy on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine.’
Rita gave a half smile, eyes soft. ‘Plain’s not the word I’d use.’ She wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her chin on them. ‘You said you wanted to write again?’
‘Yeah. It’s been a struggle lately. My life’s been like one big chord playing off-key.’ Paul looked sad for a second.
‘I didn’t think that drummers were usually the writers.’
‘Yeah, I never did conform.’ Paul took a sip of his beer. ‘And I do play all sorts of instruments. It’s the drums that I love most, though.’
Rita took a drink. ‘And why the struggle, do you think?’
‘I’m not sure… usually when I’m in a funk words come tumbling out of me. And if my heart is breaking or I’m on a come-down, I could write a flipping sonnet.’
‘Maybe what people need right now is something a bit more upbeat? Could you try that, at least?’
‘All I know is that when the time is right the answer and the words will come to me.’
‘Oh, OK! That’s weird.’ Her thoughts broke through.
‘In what way?’ Paul looked puzzled.
‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ Rita took another drink.
Paul shrugged and looked at her again, more directly this time. ‘And what would you write, Rita?’ He paused. ‘If nobody was watching.’
‘Wow, that’s quite a question. Is it too cliché to say a new beginning with a happy ending.’
He looked at her, really looked, and put his hand on her knee. ‘This great retreat of yours is an epic new beginning; you’ve set it up beautifully.’
Rita felt like she was going to cry.
Paul glanced at her and seeing the tears in her eyes said, ‘You wear your sadness like a familiar cardigan, one you keep meaning to throw out, but somehow always end up slipping back into.’
Her breath caught just slightly; she turned and caught Paul’s soulful gaze.
A vision of Jago crossed her mind… for both our sakes, it’s better if we keep away from each other. Fuck him, fuck Archie, fuck everything!
‘Well…’ she stuttered. ‘Maybe I’m ready to take it off.’ The alcohol had loosened her, as if someone had taken over her conscience and she really didn’t care. ‘But… fraternising with the guests… it’s a bit like a doctor sleeping with their patients, isn’t it?’
Paul laughed, warm and genuine. ‘Then you’re the best-looking doctor I’ve ever had an…’ He paused and smiled with a grin. ‘An… appointment with.’
‘Flattery will get you an extra croissant in the morning,’ Rita flirted.
‘I’m sure we can do better than that.’ He let his fingers brush hers. She felt the warmth of his touch, like a tiny spark, unexpected and real.
She pulled her hand back gently, not coldly.
‘I can’t,’ she whispered, almost to herself. ‘At least… I keep telling myself I can’t.’ She gave him a sideways look, half apologetic. ‘I’m not looking for anything with anyone. Or maybe I am. I don’t know. God, I don’t know.’
Paul nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the horizon.
‘And as for happy endings, isn’t all of our life really just a series of events that start and finish?
Hellos, goodbyes… and in the middle if we’re lucky, a few good bits.
’ He paused. ‘Nothing is permanent in this life, Rita. Let’s just ride the good bits, eh?
Because face it, all we have is the now and we are a long time pushing up daisies. ’
Rita didn’t answer straight away. But this time, when his hand found hers again, she let it stay. Tilting her chin gently to face him, Paul whispered, ‘Do you mind?’
Rita shook her head. The kiss was simple yet charged. It wasn’t fireworks or grand declarations, just the soft press of lips between two human beings on a deserted beach.
Slowly, their bodies drew closer, the world narrowing until there was only the rhythm of breathing and the gentle brush of skin on skin. Fingers traced tentative paths along arms and backs, learning the map of one another, careful, reverent.
It wasn’t messy or desperate like the passion Jilly joked about, with none of the wild abandon of a Sarah Stratton in Rivals. It wasn’t the confusion of Jago Jenken and everything he represented. No, this was something quieter, something deeper.
Moving together with an unexpected ease of familiarity, Paul’s hands cupped Rita’s face, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones as he kissed her again, longer this time, softer, the kind of kiss that says I’m here without needing words.
And in this one magical moment, Rita let go.
Let go of Jago saying he didn’t want to see her again, of her own son not believing in her, and of the unsettled feelings stirred by Archie’s missing will. Let go of the past, the pain and the fear that had held her back for so long.
And as the waves whispered along the sand, she gave herself permission to explore another’s body, and to be explored, until, with a soft cry of long-held yearning, Rita’s body spilled over in quiet surrender.
As the tears began to fall, Paul pulled her into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. Then, as if in rhythm with the ebbing tide, he began to rock her, whispering, ‘I’ve got you, babe.’
Above, a lone seagull cried out.