Chapter 2 #3
‘Oh, go on,’ I say, nudging him. ‘Be a devil – don’t you like the feel of the sand between your toes? We could even strip down to our skimpies and go for a swim…’
‘I don’t think so,’ he replies, as he leans down to untie his laces. ‘I’m not sure you’d be able to control yourself if I took my top off.’
He sounds one hundred per cent serious, but when he glances up I see the slightest hint of a twinkle in his eyes.
‘Yay! There you go!’ I say, clapping my hands together. ‘I knew you had some flirt in you somewhere! Your boots and your bag will be fine here. This isn’t the kind of place people steal your belongings.’
He glances around, his eyes vigilant, but eventually nods in agreement. He’s quiet and self-contained, but hyper aware of his surroundings at the same time.
‘Are you ex Forces?’ I ask as we walk along the beach.
He nods abruptly. ‘Yes. A long time ago. For the last ten years I’ve been working with an international aid organisation.’
‘Can you tell me where? Or would you have to kill me afterwards?’
‘Different places. Mainly Africa. Community projects. Camps. Transport. Wherever I was needed.’
That, I think, explains a lot. The snail persona, the tan, the sun-streaked hair. I have similar signs of travel myself, the little indicators of a nomadic lifestyle – it’s just that mine tend to come with more jewellery, dream-catchers in my car and possibly the odd misguided tattoo or three.
There’s a certain personality type that copes with that world, with the uncertainty and the travel and the new environments.
We’re good at adapting, at both being part of something and also at keeping ourselves distant.
I’d guess that with his background, he’s seen some life-changing sights, been in both beautiful and disturbing places, encountered the very best and worst of humanity.
I know I have, over the years – and yet here we both are, hiding out on a beach in Dorset like a pair of scaredy-cats.
All our resilience boxed up and out of sight.
‘I spent some time in Africa,’ I tell him. ‘Travelled up from the south through to Morocco a couple of years ago, made my way back to Europe via Gibraltar. I’d tell you more, but Interpol are still on my tail.’
He almost smiles at that, and I feel like doing a victory dance.
We pause, and look out at the sea. The water is cool against my feet, my jeans rolled up, ankle-deep in the waves.
I close my eyes and turn my face up to the sun.
The same sun that beats over Africa, that shines on Thailand, that warms the streets of Spain.
It’s all connected, I remind myself – it’s all part of the whole. Just like we are.
I sigh. When I look up, Guy is watching me intently. It’s not an awful feeling.
‘You looked like you were drinking in the sun,’ he says quietly. ‘Like it was recharging you.’
‘That’s exactly what I was doing. You should try it. Pretend you’re a flower looking up to the heavens.’
He seems to consider it for a moment, then shakes his head. ‘No. That’s not really me. But I do feel better, calmer.’
‘Of course you do. I told you the sea knew what it was doing. Don’t you think it’s odd that we’re both seasoned traveller types, and we’re nervous about being here?
You look all cool and competent, like you could survive a plane crash in the Himalayas, but you’re still freaking out.
I look less competent, I know, but I’ve been around and I’m not normally jittery. ’
He gives it some thought, his green eyes gazing out to the horizon, the sun catching the golden highlights in his hair. Joke flirting aside, he really is easy on the eyes.
‘I’m sure we’ll be fine. We made it down the path and through the gate. Now we just have to take the next steps. I have someone I need to find.’
‘Oh. How mysterious… But shall we go to the pub first? I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Even if it’s just to use the facilities and get a drink. I’m sure you know how important it is to stay hydrated.’
Every traveller I’ve ever met is obsessed with staying hydrated.
It’s one of the things that gets drummed into you constantly, and experiencing the consequences of failing to comply is quite the motivation.
Nothing quite like waking up attached to a drip in the bad part of Mumbai to remind you to always refill your water bottle.
‘Good idea,’ he replies. ‘The pub might be a good place to gather some intel too.’
‘Aye, aye, captain. Roger, over and out.’
We retrieve our footwear and his bag, and I lead him around the green to the Starshine Inn.
I pause outside it, feeling momentarily trapped in time.
This used to be owned by my Aunt Annie, and she ran it with a combination of iron fist and velvet glove.
I know it’s changed hands now, that my dad sold it on after her death – but to me, it will always be the place where I snuck my first taste of booze, minesweeping the tables when I was ‘helping’ her close down at night.
I’d get absolutely slammed on the dregs of lager, bitter, wine, spirits – and then pretend I was absolutely fine while I tripped over my own feet and walked into walls.
I know I need to go and see my father. I know I need to confront the cottage and all of its magical and merciless memories – but one little stop off won’t hurt first. We step inside, and my eyes take in what has changed and what has stayed the same.
It’s had a gentle refurb, but the character remains – the beamed ceilings, the slightly wonky floors, the long wooden bar.
The juke box even looks to be the exact same one that pumped out Prince all those years ago, amazingly.
It looks brighter in here, though, and I realise the curtains are all pulled back to let the light flood in, whereas Annie liked to keep it nice and dim.
It smells a lot better too, probably because of all the lush vases of cut flowers that are scattered around the place, in the windowsills and on the bar.
Beautiful bouquets of roses, filling the air with their gorgeous aroma.
This new version of the inn feels welcoming and traditional, but somehow stylish and sleek.
It’s also the place where my mother’s wake was held, and I refuse to let that make me clench up inside.
She wanted us to remember it as a great party, not a sad event, and I’ve always tried to honour that request.
‘What would you like to drink?’ Guy asks me, his tone suggesting that it’s perhaps not the first time he’s done it.
I shake myself out of my reverie, and gaze over at the bar.
A good-looking man I don’t recognise is serving, pouring a glass of red that looks absolutely divine.
A whole bucket of that wouldn’t go amiss right now – but it also wouldn’t be prudent.
‘Um, a dizzy water please.’
‘Dizzy?’
‘Or fizzy. Whatever. Stuff with bubbles.’
The guy behind the bar looks up at us, and I revisit my earlier assessment.
He’s not good-looking. He’s god-looking.
Classic tall, dark and handsome material.
He introduces himself as Jake, and is in the middle of getting our drinks ready when the door that leads through to the kitchens swings open.
A young woman emerges carrying a tray of food. Soup, sandwiches, two bowls of chips.
She’s on the short side, with mid-brown hair and a cosy figure – completely ordinary until she smiles, and that transforms her whole face. Someone back in the kitchens has said something that amused her, and she shakes her head and laughs before she lets the door swing shut again.
She walks towards us, and glances up at Guy.
She stops in her tracks, and I feel him tense beside me.
There’s a weird frozen-in-time pause for a few seconds where they just stare at each other, and Jake and I share confused glances.
Eventually, she places the tray down on the bar, but keeps her distance.
‘Dad?’ she whispers.