The Hidden Beach

by Karen Swan

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Cambridge. I worked there for a short time.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Oh, a bit of this and that. Some bio-engineering.’

  ‘Some bio-engineering. Huh.’ It didn’t sound like something people would dip in and out of. ‘Did you like it there?’

  ‘Cambridge? Sure. The university’s so beautiful.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  ‘Did you go there?’

  ‘Who, me?’ she laughed. ‘Oh no. I didn’t go to uni full-stop.’ She shook her head, a large dot of pink staining her cheeks. ‘I didn’t get the grades, sadly. I had a place to read geography at Manchester.’ She forced a smile, not wanting to remember any of that time now, either. ‘But it just wasn’t to be. Not the path for me.’

  ‘You believe that? You don’t think you determine where you end up in your own life?’

  ‘Definitely not that,’ she spluttered. ‘I honestly think you end up where you’re supposed to be, one way or the other.’

  There was a short pause. ‘So you think it was pre-destined that you should end up drinking beer on a boat on a tiny island in the Swedish archipelago on the longest day of the year with a perfect stranger?’

  She laughed, her head tipping back slightly so that her profile curved at the sky. He really was a perfect stranger. Quite perfect. She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, sensing their acquaintance make a small shift from stiff, formal politeness to something more unguarded and relaxed. More shapeless. Or maybe that was just the beer thinking for her. ‘Well, clearly this is but a moment in the bigger picture,’ she conceded. ‘But was I supposed to end up in Sweden?’ She sighed. ‘I think I was.’

  He kept watching her, the weight of his stare like hands on her shoulders. ‘So, what did you do then, if not university?’ He took a swig of his beer.

  ‘I sailed round the world.’

  He paused, the bottle at his lips. ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah. We had a boat and we just . . . headed off. No particular plans, we just went with the wind.’

  He stared at her as though she was a changeling, shifting in front of his very eyes. ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Me and my fiancé, Jack.’ She swallowed. There always seemed to be a ring around his name when she said it out loud; like an audible force field. ‘We did that for a couple of years. And then after that, well, I found myself in Sweden and I’ve ended up staying here ever since,’ she went on quickly.

  He stared at her with narrowed eyes, and she knew he’d picked up on what she hadn’t said. ‘And what is it you do here, then?’

  ‘I’m a nanny.’

  ‘And your fiancé . . .?’

  Oh God. ‘Died.’

  The word was like a bullet, stopping everything in its tracks, stopping his bottle mid-arc from reaching his lips again. His hand dropped down. ‘. . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ She gave a too-bright smile and shook her head. ‘Well, I don’t mean it’s fine. Obviously.’ Her breath came like a gasp, tension in the muscles around her mouth. ‘Clearly it isn’t. But it . . .’ Her leg was jigging, she realized, and she put a hand on her thigh to stop it. ‘It just is what it is.’

  He watched her, seeing the physical accompaniments that came with the words. ‘When did he die?’

  ‘Nearly four years ago.’ She nodded, swigging her beer a little too deeply, her movements suddenly wide-ranging and spasmodic.

  ‘The loss is still fresh.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ It struck her as a surprisingly open thing to say. Most people looked the other way and changed the subject if it came up. She felt an expectation to be over it by now.

  ‘And it’s why you were sad up there just now?’

  She shrugged, biting her lip. ‘Sometimes it just hits me. Times like this, really – celebrations, anniversaries, Christmas . . . Most of the time I’m okay.’

  He stared at his beer. ‘I’m sorry. You seem very young to have gone through something like that.’

  ‘So was Jack.’ She glanced at him, but something in his eyes made her hold his gaze. What was she seeing? Sympathy? Compassion? Understanding? Empathy? There was something intangible about him that went beyond the solitary, something ‘held back’, an invisible cloak of vulnerability draped over his shoulders. ‘. . . Have you ever lost someone?’

  It was a long moment before he answered and she realized what it was that she saw in him. Pain. ‘Everyone. There was an accident and . . . my wife, child, father . . . I lost them all.’

  She stared at him, open-mouthed, words stoppered in her throat. None would do. ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered finally. ‘Emil, that’s –’

  His eyes flashed to her again as he heard his name in her voice.

  ‘I just don’t know what to say.’

  ‘No one ever does,’ he said, shrugging his eyebrows with a tired smile, and she saw how the loss curled up in him like a sleeping mouse. She felt a swipe of guilt, for his was surely the greater: his wife, child, father . . . it was as multi-layered as a peony, a blade on every petal. ‘Words aren’t enough.’

  He was right – they weren’t. Words didn’t bring back souls that had taken flight; they weren’t arms that could hold her in the night.

  They let a silence envelop them, the distant beat from the Yacht Hotel dance floor drifting over like mist on the water. Time was beginning to lose its edges. It was well after midnight now, the sky still a brilliant red as though set to pause on a dazzling sunset, a perpetual dusk.

  ‘Flares,’ he murmured, looking at a point beyond her head.

  She looked back over her shoulder, just as a burst of red smoke painted the sky. It was too light for fireworks to work their magic, but it was something, a last spectacle to keep the party spirit going. ‘Oh wow.’

  ‘You can see them better from here, if you want,’ he said, shifting up the bench seat slightly as explosion after explosion rocked the archipelago. Red, purple, green.

  His gaze was fixed on the sky as she came over and sat down beside him, wordlessly. Still, she immediately felt the shift at the new proximity. They weren’t touching but she could feel his body heat as they watched the light show, two strangers, alone together on the shortest night of the year – both sad, both broken, both a bit drunk.

  She had finished her beer, the bottle sitting empty and light in her hands. It was her cue to go, soon.

  ‘I love Midsommar,’ he murmured, before she could stir, as though sensing her thoughts. ‘As a boy, I thought it was better than Christmas.’

  ‘Mmm, it’s not a patch on St George’s Day,’ she murmured back, prompting him to look over at her quizzically – until he saw her deadpan expression.

  He grinned at her quip. ‘Now who’s being controversial?’

  They continued to look into the sky, but, too soon, the show was coming to an end, the punk colours and intermittent bangs dwindling.

  ‘What is it you like about Midsommar so much?’ she asked, not wanting to leave yet.

  ‘Growing up, my mother used to tell me it was our consolation for all the months of darkness we had to endure –’

  Consolation . . . She looked at him and found he was already watching her.

  ‘– And now, as an adult, I hate the darkness. I would happily never sleep again. I want the shortest night, every night.’

  Time contracted in on itself as she looked into those eyes. She was drunk, but they both knew what he was saying. They’d had their dark days; tonight was about grabbing the light . . . Their consolations . . .

  She realized something suddenly.

  ‘You’re speaking in English,’ she whispered, seeing that his gaze was on her lips and feeling the indefinable something that hovered between them – an instinctive locking of spirits – bloom into being.

  ‘I know. Are you impressed yet?’

  Slowly, so slowly, she leaned towards him, stopping with her face just inches from his, his eyes roaming hers for an ans
wer to a question she didn’t yet know. His hand cupped the back of her head, holding her, before his lips pressed gently on hers – softly at first, then firmer – and she sensed the world shifting around them, changing by a single degree.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Where have you been?’ Tove asked, almost falling out of the chair as Bell opened the squeaky gate, her crown lopsided on her head, her hair particularly bed-headed this morning.

  Bell winked as she closed it behind her and stretched her arms high above her head. She felt like she was floating on air.

  ‘You did not! Who?’ Tove gasped with deep melodrama. ‘You weren’t even dancing with anyone.’

  Bell flopped down into the other chair and let her arms and legs splay in straight lines like a stick doll. ‘His name’s Emil, and he’s possibly the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Ever.’ She arched an eyebrow, suspicious that it was so quiet – and tidy. ‘Where are the boys?’

  Tove groaned. ‘Running,’ she said, batting her hand dismissively. ‘Bodies, temples, all that jazz. But forget them. Emil. Emil. Tell me everything. Who is he? Where is he? And when am I gonna meet him?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know and I don’t know,’ Bell grinned. ‘He just took off in his boat. Could have gone anywhere,’ she sighed with an easy shrug.

  ‘And you don’t know where?’

  Bell shook her head with a happy sigh. ‘Nope.’

  Tove stared at her like she was delirious. ‘What is wrong with you? Why would you let the most beautiful man you ever saw take off in his boat, without knowing where he was going?’

  Bell ignored the question, smiling happily, tipping her head back and reliving the memories. She sighed, remembering his hands, his mouth on her neck . . .

  ‘Oh my God, just look at you! I don’t even need to ask.’

  Bell rolled her head to the side. ‘Best sex of my life, Tove. I swear to God, it was like . . .’ She narrowed her eyes, trying to put it into words. ‘It was like it was his first time, almost. But in a good way! I mean, the way he looked at me, and touched me . . . I felt like a goddess.’

  Tove’s jaw dropped down. ‘And yet, I refer you to my previous question.’

  Bell arched an eyebrow. ‘Well, I don’t want to fall in love with him Tove.’

  ‘Yeah, that would be bad. It’ll inevitably end and then your life will be shit again. Sure, I see that,’ she drawled.

  ‘Says you.’ Tove never mentioned it, but Bell knew perfectly well that her friend liked to be the one to do the leaving ever since she had discovered that her long-term boyfriend had bedded all her friends.

  ‘Yeah, but you’re not me. You’ve actually got a heart.’

  ‘Well, thanks, but I’m perfectly happy with current arrangements. Hot man on a boat? Hell yes. Thank you, next.’

  Tove reached an arm over and squeezed her hand affectionately. ‘Babe, not every guy you love is going to die on you.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Bell said, throwing her the side-eye. ‘And besides, you think I’m not ready? He is nowhere close. Believe me. His wife, child and father all died in an accident. He lost them all.’

  ‘Fuck!’ Tove whispered.

  ‘I know. It’s so awful.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘He didn’t say, and I didn’t like to ask.’

  ‘God, so he’s beautiful and vulnerable?’ Tove mumbled. ‘No wonder you got with him.’

  ‘Mmm.’ She sighed, remembering how he’d been staring into space as she woke up this morning, a look of unbearable sadness on his face. She didn’t know if he’d ever recover from it, but if he did, it wouldn’t be any time soon. He was damaged, like her, a fatal crack running through them both.

  ‘And he had a boat too?’

  Bell laughed. ‘Oh, trust me, that was the least beautiful thing about it! This was not some fancy-pants gin palace. I was just grateful it wasn’t taking on water.’

  ‘I’ll say, with all that rocking that must have been going on –’

  They cackled with laughter together.

  ‘How about you?’ Bell asked, looking over at her friend.

  ‘Agh, you know. My usual.’ She shrugged. ‘Wham-bam-thank-you-dude. I didn’t stay over. But he was fun. It was a good Midsommar’s.’

  They lapsed into silence, both of them tired. Bell let her head drop back onto the headrest, her fingers interlacing across her stomach. ‘Shame we can’t go back and do it all again, really,’ she murmured, thinking back to Friday and her inauspicious first meeting with Emil – the terse nod in the store, his reluctant chivalry, the sight of him unsmiling and stiff in the crowd. She’d had absolutely no inkling then of what was going to happen between them. If her Self of right now could have gone up to her Self of yesterday and told her what was going to happen, she would not have believed it. Nothing would have made her believe she was going to turn the shortest night into the longest one, staying awake all night in his arms . . . And yet, it had all happened, been so natural. With his baseball cap off so she could see his eyes, when her dress had come off and he could see her curves . . . it had been like they’d devoured each other, both frantic, as though they hadn’t realized they were starving.

  She got goosebumps just thinking about it again, and gave an involuntary shudder.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Tove groaned beside her, her eyes closed and enjoying the peace as the birds trilled around them. ‘Get a room.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘. . . You don’t think you might have made a mistake not getting his number?’

  ‘Yes. And that’s precisely why I’m glad I didn’t. This way, it just is what it is. One incredible night.’

  They heard the pounding of feet, and heavy breathing.

  ‘You’re back,’ Tove said, still with her eyes closed, as the squeaky gate was opened.

  ‘Yeah,’ Kris panted, his hands on his hips. He shot an enquiring glance Bell’s way, and she replied with a confiding smile. He winked at her, understanding; it didn’t need to be said. There was a dark arrow of sweat down the front of his top, his hair was pulled into his man-bun, and for the thousandth time she wondered why her soulmate had to be gay. He came over and kissed her on the forehead as Marc pulled to a stop a moment later, looking wrecked.

  ‘What took you so long?’ Kris asked, sitting on the arm of her chair like he’d been there for hours.

  Marc chucked a twig at him.

  ‘So – lunch,’ Tove announced, as the guys began stretching. ‘I don’t mind where we go so long as they serve stuff starting with carb- and ending inohydrates.’

  ‘Vardshus, then?’ Kris chuckled, getting up. ‘Let me have a shower and then we can go.’

  ‘Me too,’ Marc said, following after him.

  ‘Not together, please!’ Tove called after them as they stepped into the little yellow house. ‘I know what you two are like, and we’ve got a ferry to catch, remember.’

  Bell groaned. ‘Oh bugger. It’s Sunday already? I forgot.’

  ‘He really did fuck you stupid, didn’t he?’ Tove chuckled. ‘Yes, it’s Sunday. All day. Almost time to ship back to real life and our most excellent jobs again.’

  Bell felt her good mood get a crazy-glaze. She hadn’t seen the Mogerts at all yesterday, which was just weird. And she had to face Hanna tomorrow. The conversation she’d been dreading was almost here. How to not get fired? She still couldn’t work it out.

  ‘I think this thing has surgically attached to me,’ she muttered, reaching up and trying to disentangle the floral wreath from her hair. With a sharp tug, she pulled it free, staring at the battered, misshapen garland, the flowers wilted and limp. For some reason, it felt totemic, her first and last remaining link to him.

  ‘Going to keep it for posterity?’ Tove teased, seeing her hesitation.

  ‘No. I’m going to get changed,’ she said, getting up and tossing it in the bin, hoping Tove didn’t see her wince.

  The pub was rammed, every table taken a
nd a queue snaking down the lane. ‘Looks like we’re not the only ones needing to carb-load,’ Marc muttered as they waited in line, looking as longingly at the shade of the apple tree as at the cold beers.

  ‘And guess what? They’re all going to be getting the same ferry back with us,’ Tove groaned.

  ‘Forget to take your happy pills, you two?’ Kris asked, looping his arm through his fiance’s.

  ‘Ugh, it’s just the Sunday blues,’ Marc groaned. ‘Why does the weekend have to pass so quickly? I want to stay out a few more days. I need to.’

  ‘Well, we can’t all be as lucky as Bell, getting to spend the summer here and being paid for it.’

  ‘Excuse me! I’d like to see you keep two three-year-olds and a ten-year-old occupied simultaneously, when there are hazards at every turn. I’m living on my nerves from the moment I leave my bed till I’m back in it again. You have no idea how hard it is.’

  ‘And to think in my job, I only have to keep them alive,’ Marc quipped.

  ‘That’s nothing. I’ve got to do that and keep them happy!’

  Kris laughed. ‘I’d only know how to keep them fed, but if Tove could do “the birds and the bees” chats, vet their boyfriends, show them how not to get their drinks spiked –’ He raised his hands in the air triumphantly. ‘Between the four of us, we’d be the ideal parents.’

  A table came free and they settled at it gratefully, ordering a round of beers. It wasn’t quite in full shade and they played a game of musical chairs for a few minutes as Marc and Tove fussed about the dangers of ‘being in the sun’ and kept switching seats with the others, who didn’t care.

  Their drinks came quickly and they ordered what they always had here – Tove, a quiche; Bell, a burger; and the boys, large salads with steak.

  Bell fussed distractedly with her dress, a flippy red gingham with fluttery short sleeves. It clashed with her yellow chequerboard Vans, but she quite liked that. Her hair was still wet from the shower but she’d piled it into her usual topknot to get it off her shoulders. She’d got a tune stuck in her head – If you can’t be with the one you love . . . – and it was beginning to drive her nuts. She didn’t even particularly like the song.