Christmas at the Beach Hut

by Veronica Henry

  Yep, maybe he was obsessed with food. Maybe it was all he thought about, but it stopped him going crazy and thinking about the things that caused him pain. Planning food, sourcing food, cooking it, eating it, sharing it gave him purpose and momentum and comfort. Nothing much else did.

  Except Nat. Of course Nat. His buddy, his partner in crime, his raison d’être. He looked in the rear-view mirror to check up on him and smiled. Nat was holding up his Sesame Street book, looking at it as intently as if he was reading War and Peace, a little furrow between his straight brows, even though at only just three he couldn’t possibly read yet. He was a good traveller. Music and plenty of pit stops and bags of cubed cheese and date and apple would keep him going.

  Jack’s heart gave a little jump of pride and love. He hoped he was doing the right thing; that Nat wouldn’t be scarred for life because he was turning his back on Christmas.

  It had been easy to fob everyone off. He told friends he was going to family, and family he was going to friends, and they all believed him because they respected his wishes and his privacy and didn’t want to push him into anything because they knew this was a difficult one …

  Would it ever not be a difficult one?

  He couldn’t face any of it. The sounds. The smells. The taste. The rituals. The decorations. The music. The television programmes. It actually made him feel ill. He could feel the panic rise. The scent of cloves made him gag. The sound of jingle bells made his chest tighten.

  The beach hut had seemed like a stroke of genius. He didn’t want to go to a hotel – no escape from Christmas there. A cottage would be dull and middle-aged. He was an anxious flyer so abroad wasn’t an option. (Was he becoming too anxious about life? He should watch that.)

  A beach hut would be a boys’ adventure. It would be way too cold for swimming but they could explore the coast path and poke about in rock pools and maybe get the kite up. The hut they were borrowing had a well-equipped kitchen, and he’d downloaded a bunch of films onto his laptop.

  And they had Clouseau with them. He was tucked up in his basket in the boot, snuffling away. Clouseau wasn’t particularly outward bound but he might like the beach.

  If anybody had told him that a fugly little French bulldog would go some way towards filling the hole in his heart, he would never have believed them. He had got the puppy for Nat, because someone had told him it was important for a small boy to have a confidante, and he didn’t want their relationship to be intense and pressurised. A dog would spread the emotional load, he thought, and he was right.

  But it was Jack who scooped up the velvety grey bundle and held it close in his darkest moments. It was Jack who whispered in Clouseau’s ridiculous ten-denier ears. Who took comfort in the wisdom in his kindly brown eyes. Clouseau was silent and wise and flatulent and better than any therapist.

  In fact, since Clouseau Jack had been doing so much better. He’d moved on from the anger phase.

  ‘Stop being so bitter,’ his sister, Clemmie, had pleaded with him at the beginning of the summer. ‘It’s not good for you. It’s not good for Nat.’

  ‘I’m never angry with Nat.’

  ‘No, but he deserves a happy dad.’

  Jack had looked at her, incredulous. ‘How can I ever be happy again?’

  ‘You will be,’ said Clemmie. ‘You will be, I promise. Not the same kind of happy. A different sort of happy.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘You’ve got no idea …’

  ‘Don’t forget she was my friend too.’ Clemmie was starting to get cross. ‘You don’t get to hog all the grief.’

  Jack stared at her. ‘Did you really just say that?’

  ‘Yes. And here’s another thing. Maybe it’s easier to be angry? Maybe that’s the coward’s way?’

  Jack didn’t know what to say. ‘How can I help what I’m feeling? It’s just there, inside me.’

  ‘I don’t know. But I know this isn’t what Fran would want for you.’

  ‘So what am I supposed to do? Go out dancing? Get on Tinder? Apart from anything, I’ve got Nat to look after, remember?’

  ‘I know it’s difficult. And of course you’ve got a right to be sad. But I hate seeing you like this.’

  ‘Like what?’ Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Fat? Go on. Say it.’

  He’d always been a big lad. Tall and broad, well over six foot. Which was OK when he was young and still played rugby. But now, with the metabolism of a thirty-six-year-old, it wasn’t so easy keeping lean, and he’d stopped going to the gym once Fran had got really poorly.

  Clemmie sighed.

  ‘You’re not fat, Jack. But you will be if you’re not careful.’

  ‘So I take comfort from food. It’s better than drinking myself into oblivion, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it is.’ Clemmie knew she had to choose her words carefully. ‘I just don’t want you to self-sabotage, that’s all.’

  ‘Did Mum and Dad get you to tell me I’m a porker?’ Jack knew he was being unfair, and unkind. Clemmie was staunch and brave and nothing but supportive. But he felt defensive. He knew as well as she did that he had put on nearly two stone in the past two years. He was tall enough to carry it off, so far. But if he carried on …

  Clemmie pointed at Jack. ‘You know what Fran would say.’

  ‘Yep.’ He nodded. Fran would tell him to stop wallowing. ‘I do know what Fran would say, because I hear her voice in my head every minute of the day. And you’re right. She’d call me a fat bastard.’

  Clemmie winced. Her face softened. ‘No, she wouldn’t, Jack. Don’t do that negative self-talk.’

  ‘Don’t do that therapist-speak,’ he shot back. He was going to cry. Dammit. ‘Can we change the subject?’ His voice was tight with tears. ‘I’ve had enough of tough love. You don’t have to tell me any of it. I know.’

  He’d listened to Clemmie, despite his protestations, because he’d always heeded his sister’s advice. He’d started walking when he got Clouseau, cut down his carbs, dropped a stone in three months, and somehow his anger had melted away with the fat. By autumn, he had even gone on a couple of dates – Clemmie had babysat for him, and had reassured him before he left the house, because he was surprised at how nervous he had been. In the end, they were pleasant enough girls, but they weren’t as interesting or fun or infuriating as Fran. Not even close. He had been polite enough to text each one afterwards, too, and tell her something kind so she wouldn’t feel rejected when he didn’t ask her out again, but neither had replied. They must have sensed that his heart wasn’t in it.

  As autumn faded and December approached, he’d begun to dread Christmas. It was too much. Both because of the good memories and the bad ones. So he decided to take Christmas out of the equation. It was much easier that way for everyone. No one had to worry about the elephant in the room.

  As he negotiated their way through Ealing and out towards the M4, it was still dark, the street lights still on, only one or two corner shops showing signs of life. Nat had woken at six as he did every morning, and Jack had figured they might as well get on the road as quickly as possible. They could be at the seaside just after lunch.

  ‘OK, buddy?’ He looked again in the mirror and Nat stuck his little pink thumb up.

  Next year, he thought, he would do the whole family Christmas thing, because he would be stronger. And of course he’d packed Nat’s stocking and presents, and some silly crackers. He couldn’t ignore Christmas completely, but doing it somewhere else away from everyone and all the traditions, would make it just about bearable. He hoped he wasn’t being selfish. Nat was young enough not to have any preconceptions. Besides – the seaside? It would be brilliant.

  He turned up the Hot 8 Brass Band. You couldn’t not smile when you played the Hot 8 Brass Band. Nat was bellowing along tunelessly from the back seat.

  I love you, man, thought Jack, putting his foot dow
n. The sooner they got to Everdene, the better.

  13

  Lizzy woke and stared in puzzlement for a moment at the white tongue-and-groove ceiling above her. Where on earth was she? She pushed aside the remaining fragments of sleep, trying to get her bearings. She could see a porthole, with a patch of pearly grey through the glass. She peered round and saw she was on a high platform, cocooned in baby-blue linen—

  The beach hut. She remembered now. Her crazy moonlight flit. Her arrival in the pitch dark. And …

  She peered over the edge of the mezzanine to the room below. Harley was still fast asleep on the sofa, curled up under the blanket, dead to the world as only teenagers can be. She felt a rush of maternal fondness, even though he wasn’t hers. It was such a tricky age, that cusp of boy to man, that complex navigation of adolescent angst and trying on a bigger pair of shoulders. She wondered about his home life and what had caused him to run away. She hoped that sleep was helping him sort things out. Your subconscious could unravel your problems while you slept, she found.

  Although she wasn’t sure hers had unravelled. She didn’t want to think about them yet.

  She pulled her clothes towards her and put them on, then clambered out of bed and over to the ladder that led up to her eyrie, scrambling down it with as much elegance as she could muster. She plopped onto the floor and padded over the floorboards to open the door.

  There, in front of her, was the reason she had run here. It was the crispest and brightest of winter days: the kind that made everything pin sharp in the silver sun. The sand gleamed pale pink and glittery, and beyond it the sea shone like Bristol glass, only an occasional frothy white meringue of a wave breaking the surface. The sea air slid into her lungs, so sweet and fresh she had to gulp it in. A breeze wrapped itself round her, sensuous and seductive, greeting her like a lover. What took you so long? it seemed to ask.

  Then the cold suddenly hit her. She grabbed her coat from the hook just inside the door and pulled it on, then stepped out onto the veranda, putting the door on the latch and closing it to so the freezing draught didn’t wake Harley.

  Now it was daylight she could see the row of beach huts, and for a moment she gasped. They were all so different now. And there were so many more of them. A lot of them were bigger, too, with elaborate additions: decking and pizza ovens and outside showers. A far cry from the slightly ramshackle huts they’d once been, though Lizzy thought she preferred them scruffy and a bit rough round the edges. There was an air of competition that hadn’t been there when they were young: beach huts were a status symbol now.

  She walked down onto the sand. It was eerily quiet, except for a few keening seagulls and the distant murmur of the waves – the tide was a long way out, and she seemed to be the only person on the beach. Judging by the car park last night, there weren’t many people down here. Everdene was remote and the weather here could be harsh, so it probably wasn’t a popular destination for Christmas. Lizzy was grateful. The fewer people she came into contact with, the more quickly she could clear her head. And there was something very liberating about being the only person on the mass of sand, the sea in front of her the only thing between her and the coast of Wales. She stretched out her arms and looked up at the sky, a swirl of grey cloud like a pale blanket above her.

  This was what she was craving. Peace and solitude and time to think.

  She wanted to whoop with excitement at the exhilaration and do a little dance, but she didn’t quite dare. If Harley happened to see her, he might think she was bonkers. She looked at her watch instead. Pound to a penny no one at Pepperpot would be up yet, though she did wonder what Simon had thought when he’d come home to an empty bed. If he’d even noticed. He’d have been the worse for wear so would probably have gone into the spare room. Hattie and Luke certainly wouldn’t have noticed her absence.

  She still felt defiant about running away. Not only was it a statement, it was a chance for her to get some distance. If she was at home, she would already be up making lists, trying to get ahead with the baking, doing last-minute dashes to the shops, finding the time to wrap all the presents (even though she no longer had to hide from small prying eyes to preserve the legend of Father Christmas, she liked to keep everything secret). She could feel the tension inside her already just at the thought – that desperate feeling of running round in circles while everyone else did exactly as they pleased.

  And all of this was before taking the root of her anxiety into consideration. Amanda and Cynthia. Cynthia was the tangible problem, but it was Amanda underlying it, as ever. She had always been a source of tension in their marriage. How could she still have such an influence on their lives?

  Lizzy thrust her hands deep into her pockets and began to walk down to the sea’s edge. It was a long way out. She might actually get some exercise while she was down here – something she hadn’t done for herself for ages. She quickened her pace and felt her mood lift immediately. She lifted her face to the breeze and breathed in salty gusts of airborne sea.

  Bloody Amanda, she thought. But then, if it wasn’t for Amanda, she would never have met Simon in the first place. She remembered it as if it was yesterday, although it was twenty years since Amanda had come to see her to book her wedding. Her second wedding, which Lizzy remembered thinking was a little unfair because she hadn’t even had one yet …

  ‘The thing is, we’re going to bring you loads of great publicity. Our wedding photos are going to be in all the local papers and magazines. So I think you should give us a good discount.’

  Amanda once-Kingham and about-to-become-Fantini had sat back in her chair and smiled at Lizzy.

  Even at ten o’clock in the morning after a workout in the gym she was immaculate, her hair glossy and shining. She wore a leather miniskirt, a black polo-neck jumper and sky-high court shoes. She crossed her legs, wrapped in high-shine tights, and tapped her pen on her notepad expectantly.

  ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t quite work like that.’ Amanda might think Lizzy was a pushover, but Lizzy knew all the tricks and more.

  Amanda’s smile widened but her eyes narrowed. ‘There are plenty of other places we could go who’d be thrilled with the exposure. Craven Court is our first choice, but …’

  Lizzy stifled a sigh. It never ceased to amaze her how wily brides-to-be could be. There was little romance in the planning of a wedding these days. They were hustlers, out for what they could get. If ever she had to deal with a man, it was much more straightforward. They made their choices and asked her to send them the bill.

  ‘Amanda – at the end of the day your wedding venue is your decision. All I can do is tell you what we can do, and for how much, and assure you of my closest attention from start to finish.’ She held up brochures for the three packages they offered. ‘I imagine you will want the platinum package. It is the most expensive but you get what you pay for: the ballroom, vintage champagne, a five-course dinner, a live band as well as a DJ …’

  Amanda looked down sulkily at the brochures. ‘Of course platinum.’

  Lizzy cleared her throat and spoke in a confidential tone. ‘If you can’t afford it, then I promise you the gold package is equally wonderful. And you wouldn’t have to pimp your wedding photos.’

  Lizzy knew the barb would hit Amanda where it hurt. She would never usually intimate to a client that they couldn’t afford what they wanted, but there was no point in being subtle. She could see straight through the sickly syrup Amanda ladled on. It wasn’t charm, that wide smile that went nowhere near her eyes, that little-girl voice with the breathy laugh, the way she touched you on the arm repeatedly when she spoke to you, trying to reel you in and make out you had some sort of special relationship.

  She knew her, by sight and reputation, because Amanda used the gym and spa attached to Craven Court and came in several times a week to use it.

  ‘She’s in the middle of a messy divorce,’ Kim the gym receptio
nist had confided in Lizzy a year or so ago. ‘Her kids are sweet. It’s such a shame. She brings them in sometimes at the weekends. She leaves them in the crèche for hours.’

  Kim’s disapproval was implicit. Lizzy could see Amanda made the most of her time in the gym. She was toned and tanned and groomed and plucked – all the things Lizzy wasn’t. She had free gym membership as a perk of the job but never seemed to find the time to get in there. Anyway, at the end of the day she wanted to go home to the little house she’d just bought and carry on with the decorating: she was determined to do it all herself. Painting the spare bedroom was far more satisfying than sweating on the cross trainer, and decorating burned calories because she’d read it in a magazine: 326 calories an hour and you had something to show for it.

  No sooner was the ink dry on Amanda’s decree absolute than more gossip ricocheted round the hotel faster than a ball round a squash court. She was having a fling with Fabio Fantini, the Italian footballer who played for a local team and who came to Craven Court to use the gym and have massages.

  ‘She didn’t waste any time,’ Kim told Lizzy. ‘There’s a rumour they’ve been having sex in the sauna.’ She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

  Lizzy didn’t want to think about it. And she would have done anything to get out of helping plan Amanda’s subsequent wedding, but unfortunately she didn’t have a choice. She also knew that she had to make the day as perfect as she could, because Amanda was the sort of person who could make life very difficult if she didn’t get what she wanted.

  She was not going to give her a discount though.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Amanda. ‘I thought you’d understand. The thing is, there is going to be a lot of press attention so we might as well both benefit.’

  Lizzy sighed. Amanda wasn’t going to give up. ‘We have our own publicity strategy. It doesn’t involve exploiting our guests. Our focus is the wedding, and making sure the bride and groom have the most memorable day they can. That is our reward. We don’t want the day compromised.’