The Endless Beach

by Jenny Colgan

  She jumped up.

  “I’ll go and make some tea,” she said, and vanished back into the house.

  Then she stood over the kitchen sink and, very quietly, sobbed her heart out.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After a little while, Lorna emerged from the farmhouse, able to speak again, carrying two fresh cups of tea. She’d boiled the kettle three times over to give them both time to gather themselves.

  The sun had burned off nearly all the fog now and it had a fair chance of being a lovely afternoon—for the next half hour at least, which was as far ahead as anyone could forecast on Mure.

  “Ibrahim,” said Saif. “Ash.”

  “Your boys,” said Lorna, warmth in her voice.

  He nodded. Then looked down at his hands. “Amena . . .”

  Amena, Lorna knew, was his wife. There was no mention of her in the letter. “No news. That doesn’t mean . . . it doesn’t mean there isn’t hope,” said Lorna softly.

  Saif shook his head. “She would never have left the boys,” he said fiercely. “Never.”

  “Maybe she had no choice. Maybe they were . . . taken,” said Lorna.

  It was bad enough tormenting herself with what Saif had endured to reach safety. What had happened to those he had left behind was even worse; what had happened to two children, no older than her own pupils, beyond imagination.

  Saif glanced down. “It doesn’t say anything.”

  “Well, they’ll need to check . . . There’s an official process. Look, you have to go to Glasgow for a blood test,” she pointed out.

  “I don’t need a blood test to know my sons,” growled Saif.

  “I know,” said Lorna. “But probably best to go along with it, don’t you think?”

  “Authorities,” sighed Saif. He took the paper back from her, his hands still trembling, then folded it very carefully and precisely, once, twice, and tucked it into an old battered wallet he carried in his back pocket. Lorna privately predicted, correctly, that he would carry it there for the rest of his life.

  * * *

  Flora was restocking the cheese counter with a rather sensational marbled cheese Fintan had concocted when a sixth sense caused her to look up. Lorna and Saif were approaching. They both looked . . . She couldn’t tell. She thought, not for the first time, how natural they looked together, like they were meant to be seen side by side. They just fit somehow. Flora reminded herself that Saif was married and that it was none of her business anyway, and tried to look busy.

  Just outside the shop, Saif stopped.

  “What?” said Lorna.

  Saif shook his head. “I don’t . . .” He looked at Lorna. “Please, don’t tell . . . Don’t tell anyone.”

  “I think they’re going to find out when two children arrive who look exactly like you,” pointed out Lorna.

  “I . . . I realize that.”

  Saif looked down. For the first time since he’d arrived, nine months before, he’d begun to feel a part of the community; no one, any longer, stared at him when he shopped in the village, or took much notice of him down on the beach in all weathers. No longer did the old ladies insist on waiting an extra hour to see the “other doctor” rather than deal with someone foreign with an accent. Now he was just Dr. Saif (most people had simply given up the Hassan), as much a part of Mure as anyone else.

  The idea of voluntarily going back to the whispers behind hands, the stares in the bakery, the speculation, because of his boys . . . It would come, of course. But until then, perhaps he could enjoy being normal, just for a little longer.

  Also, he did not want to share it. It was treasure: impossible, dusted gold that he wanted to clasp, to hold inside, to deal with the immeasurable astonishment of how this might come to be. It was close to overwhelming.

  Lorna blinked. “Okay.”

  “Can you keep it to yourself?”

  “Of course.”

  And she truly meant it when she said it, and Flora watched as they swerved and, after all, didn’t come in. She thought it was peculiar but, caught in dreams of New York, promptly forgot all about it until the day she was due to leave.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Flora couldn’t sleep with excitement. She was going to see Joel! She was going to see him! And New York too, which she’d never been to before. She knew which hotel he was staying in, and had vague plans of simply going to meet him in the lobby—he would be so surprised! She packed her best new bra set, ordered specially from the mainland, and the best of her old London wardrobe. Her Mure wardrobe mostly consisted of fleeces, big sweaters, and a variety of hats, and she wasn’t sure it was quite the thing for New York.

  Fintan came round in the morning to take her to the airport, smiling all the time and giving her a long list of things he wanted her to bring back from Dean & DeLuca, now that he considered himself quite the international globe-trotter from being at Colton’s side.

  “And if you see Colton, give him a big smooch from me,” he added.

  “I bloody will not,” said Flora. “He’s the one keeping my boyfriend from me.”

  Fintan beamed cheerfully. Flora had no idea how her brother’s relationship seemed so uncomplicatedly happy. She wouldn’t admit to being jealous. But she was.

  They bumped into Lorna at the airport, who was waiting for her brother, back from the rigs.

  “I’m doing it!” Flora shouted.

  Lorna grinned. “Whoa, I wish I was too.”

  “Come!”

  “What, and watch you guys make out all over Manhattan? No, thanks!” Lorna smiled. “It’s great you’re going to see him on his own turf.”

  Flora winced at that. “Don’t forget I saw him on his own turf in London for years. He never noticed me once. Don’t all the girls look like fashion models in New York?”

  “How would I know?” said Lorna. “I’m doing Ancient Egyptians with the primary threes . . .”

  They called the flight; the half-dozen passengers stood up and shuffled forward. It wouldn’t take long to board.

  Flora remembered something. “Hey, what was with you and Saif the other day?”

  Lorna looked up, immediately guilty. “What do you mean?”

  Flora had been merely trying to distract herself from panicking about New York by focusing on something else, but Lorna’s furious blush and quick answer piqued her curiosity immediately. “Ooh . . .” she said.

  “Flight’s leaving,” said Lorna. She could see her brother, Ian, who’d come on the inbound, crossing the tarmac.

  “Something’s up! Something’s up! I can tell!”

  “No, it isn’t. Shut up.”

  “This is why you want to get me out of the way. Are you planning a night of seduction?”

  “No!” said Lorna, going a very dull shade of red.

  Flora blinked, concerned. “What’s up?” she said. “What’s the matter? Did you . . . ? Something happened, didn’t it? Did you come on to him or something?”

  “No!”

  “Well, what then?”

  “I can’t . . . I can’t say. I can’t tell you.”

  Flora looked at her for a few seconds more. There was a last call for the flight.

  “Oh God,” she said. “It’s something. Is it about . . . is he leaving? No, he can’t, can he? Oh my God. Have they . . . have they found his family?”

  “I can’t talk about it!”

  “Shit! Oh my God! Really?! Oh my God! Mrs. Hassan! I bet she’s, like, super-beautiful. Not as beautiful as you though, of course.” She put her hand on Lorna’s arm. “God. I’m sorry. I really am.”

  Lorna was choked up. “It’s not that. It’s not her they’ve found.”

  Flora blinked. “Not the boys?”

  “Flora MacKenzie!” Sheila MacDuff, who ran the airport, knew her family well. “Did you no’ hear the bing-bongs? Get on that airplane before I tell your da’!”

  Lorna’s face betrayed her.

  “Oh my God. Oh my goodness.” Flora was frozen to the spot.


  “You can’t tell anyone,” said Lorna. “Please. I promised I wouldn’t. Not until he’s got everything sorted out.”

  “Well, I shan’t,” said Flora. “Because I am off to New York!”

  Lorna smiled weakly.

  A thought struck Flora as she hoisted her bag and Sheila hustled her away. “They’ll go to your school.”

  “They will,” said Lorna.

  “They won’t speak any English.”

  “I’m sure Saif will teach them pretty quickly.”

  “Oh, Lorna,” said Flora. “It’s great. It’s wonderful news.”

  “It is,” said Lorna. “It is. It’s wonderful.”

  And neither of them said what was both true and unutterably awful: that as wonderful as the news was, it was yet another reason added to the great big pile of reasons that already existed as to why Lorna would never—could never—be close to the man she was absolutely, indubitably in love with.

  Flora ran back across the concourse to give her friend a huge hug, even as the propellers had started turning.

  “You can’t,” said Lorna. “You can’t tell a soul.”

  But her voice was lost in the noise of the plane.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The little hopper plane to Iceland went twice a week, stopping in the Shetlands, the Faroes, and on up to Reykjavík. It was more of a bus than an airplane, but Flora was too excited—particularly at going north, instead of south—to mind the stopping and starting. She couldn’t even read her book. She was going to see Joel! She’d sent him a brief text last night to say good night but she hadn’t called him in case she betrayed her excitement. She just wanted to be with him. That was all, and she couldn’t concentrate on anything else.

  The Norwegian flight was nearly full and she settled excitedly into her seat. She’d never traveled like this before, casually hopping on a plane. It felt very grown up. And New York! She wondered if Joel would mind doing some sightseeing. Or whether he’d just want to stay in the hotel room all the time. Either, she thought, would suit her perfectly well. No! She would grab him as he came in from work and he would be amazed and he could take her out, to some fancy glitzy bar like she’d seen in the movies, and they would catch up properly and it would be amazing. Yes. She was happy now she had a plan.

  She dozed off slightly just as they were coming in to land, and missed the swirling heights of the skyscrapers; then, slightly confused and more nervous than ever, she bumped through customs and found a taxi to take her into the city.

  * * *

  It was late at home on Mure, but at six o’clock in the evening, the sun was still shining brightly down on the gleaming skyscrapers. The sight of Manhattan after the great expanses of emptiness of her home island felt very strange; it gave her an oddly dissonant feeling, on top of the jet lag. This wasn’t just another town; this was another world. Even years of working in London hadn’t prepared her for its hyperreal appearance nor, as she got down from the cab, the full sensory overload of the hot dog stands on the corners of the blocks, the steam from the subway, the vast number of people, the honking of the yellow cabs, or the height of the great towers.

  She stood, for just a second, on the pavement—on the sidewalk, she thought—and took it in. Here she was. In New York. In America. Joel’s America.

  Her heart beat incredibly fast. She looked around her. The sidewalk was full of people streaming out of buildings for rush hour, moving quickly, smartly dressed, slim, on the move. She felt intimidated, even though of course once upon a time she’d thought herself just like this: catching the Docklands Light Railway; moving through Liverpool Street. But these people! Their teeth were so white, their clothes so expensive. They wore sunglasses and carried juice and barged past the obvious tourists in a clear two-speed system, and Flora, trundling with her carry-on bag, knew she wouldn’t be mistaken for one of “them” for a moment. And she knew equally that Joel absolutely would, that he would be a part of their slipstream without even thinking about it.

  She entered the hotel cautiously. It was extremely grand, with high ceilings and columns and expensive fresh flower arrangements. It was filled with incredibly rich-looking middle-aged people, obviously there from out of town: well-fed, well-dressed types, as well as a smattering of beautiful young things. The reception staff, in chic black uniforms, were beautiful too, with small badges on their chests indicating how many languages they spoke. They all spoke at least three. Flora felt like addressing them in Gaelic to give herself a boost, but didn’t dare.

  “Hi,” she said. “Joel Binder’s room?”

  It was only 6:30. Of course he wasn’t back yet. It occurred to Flora suddenly that maybe he wouldn’t be back until late after staying at work then going to a dinner or something. Maybe she could call him, find out. But then wouldn’t she give it away? Wouldn’t it come up as a local call? She wasn’t sure at all.

  The receptionist looked at her, Flora thought, with doubt. Then she dismissed the doubt as her just being paranoid.

  (Actually, it wasn’t in the least bit paranoid. The receptionist had been madly in love with Joel since he’d checked in and wandered in and out looking Byronic, distracted and completely lonely—but with lovely manners—ever since. She’d had her hair recolored, tried to be on duty whenever he came in, always had a sweet smile and a friendly word for him—he was working too hard, she speculated, and how amazing that he lived in Scotland—and had entertained several private fantasies about simply letting herself into his suite to be waiting there for him, naked, one evening.)

  The receptionist was nothing but professional. She didn’t know who this bedraggled person with the strange hair was, but she wasn’t someone she’d have put with him in a lineup. If this was the competition . . .

  “I’m afraid he’s not in, ma’am,” she said in a slightly accusatory fashion. After all, if this person, or stalker, or whoever she was, couldn’t even work out his movements, she barely deserved to be here.

  Flora, meanwhile, suddenly, felt overwhelmingly tired and desperately jet-lagged and grimy and in need of a shower and thirsty all at the same time.

  “Um, could you let me in to wait for him?” she said. “I’m kind of here as a surprise.”

  The receptionist looked at her. “Well, obviously not, ma’am,” she said. “I mean, you could call him . . .”

  “That kind of does for the surprise . . .” said Flora.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Flora sighed. She looked around. There was a bar in the lobby. “I think I’ll just sit down for a little while,” she said. “Wait for him.”

  The receptionist was curious to see how this would play out. “Of course,” she said, nodding.

  * * *

  Flora looked at the prices on the menu and tried to do the mental arithmetic to convert them, but found it difficult. She sighed. Whatever it was, it was very, very expensive. She ordered a cup of tea, then realized when it came (and was awful) that actually she didn’t want tea, she wanted wine, but she felt too awkward and uncomfortable to call the waiter back. Suddenly, all the great hope and excitement that had propelled her across the Atlantic—and left her, she knew, very, very, very broke—seemed to be draining away.

  She went to the bathroom. The flight had left her skin blotchy and dry, her lips chapped, and her hair frizzed. She wanted to go out and see if she could find somewhere to buy some new moisturizer—probably not a Tesco Express but there’d be something, surely?—but what if he showed up when she was gone? She’d have to ask that eye-rolling receptionist again, and Flora wasn’t a hundred percent sure she trusted her to tell her the truth.

  Flora sighed and did what she could with the body lotion the expensive hotel had sitting by the side of the sink. It smelled of lavender and didn’t really do the job properly. As she was doing her best with the feeble contents of the makeup she still had in the plastic freezer bag she’d taken through customs, an enormous girl, like a huge blond giraffe, came into the bathroom, talking loudly on he
r phone about, crap, no way was she going to Loopy Doopy, you idiot, what are you, twelve?

  She didn’t even notice Flora was there—she towered about a foot above her, it felt like to Flora—but instead examined herself critically in the mirror next to her. She was utterly gorgeous: flawless skin, a long aquiline nose, clear blue eyes, and pulled-back, silky blond hair. The girl frowned at her perfect features in the mirror, then dabbed at a nonexistent blemish on her chin. Then she realized Flora was there and rolled her eyes, as in, aren’t we all girls together, what can you do?

  “You look great,” said Flora impulsively. It was impossible, really, to say anything else when faced with such fabulousness.

  “Oh, so do you,” said the girl unconvincingly, reapplying lip gloss as someone barked down the phone. “Well, have a nice day . . . No, Sebastian, no, I don’t want to go to Ann Arbor . . .”

  She left a light, expensive scent on the air. That, Flora thought, looking back in the mirror after the goddess had gone, feeling dumpier and more washed out than ever, that was what Joel should be with. That was what New York girls were like: pulled together, groomed, fabulous, confident of where they were going and what they wanted. Everything she had seen Joel with in London, over the years, everything she remembered so well. What was she doing? What was she thinking? Was this all a ridiculous mistake? She looked at herself, sighing. Then she realized she’d better get out there, in case she missed him. And would there be disappointment in his eyes when he did see her? Was it only on Mure where there was only her, and a lot of seabirds and some sheep to look at?

  Stop being ridiculous, she told herself. Stop being ridiculous. She came back out and sat down again and tried hard not to worry and to remember back a few months, midwinter, just the two of them, back on Mure, in the pitch black of January when it never really got light and they had stayed in for a whole weekend, spending the entire time wrapped up on the sofa, in blankets, watching old DVDs because they couldn’t stream Netflix, eating hot buttered toast, with salted butter from the farm on bread Mrs. Laird had made that morning, nutty and golden brown and simply heaven on the old earthenware plates, and the noise of the fire crackling upward and the scent of the browning bread and the nearness of Joel and his body and . . .