A Cottage by the Sea

by Carole Matthews

  The Surf Shack, it turns out, is beyond trendy. It’s a cool place full of guys with bronzed bodies in board shorts sporting blond dreads. I feel a hundred and thirty-two years old. There’s a little café at the back that seems to specialise in smoothies, falafel and wraps. It looks as if they have a couple of rooms upstairs, catering for bed and breakfast guests too. They offer surf lessons and kayaking as well as gear hire and also coasteering trips. I have no idea what that is. But I know someone who will.

  ‘Noah, what’s coasteering when it’s at home?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s great fun. You swim, dive, jump off rocks, explore caves. Whatever floats your boat.’ I knew that he would know. He was bound to.

  ‘Wow.’ Flick raises her eyebrows at me to say that it sounds like anything but fun. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘We could try that later in the week,’ Noah suggests. ‘If anyone’s up for it.’

  Behind his back, Flick makes a chopping motion across her neck to suggest that she’s not. She nods towards the stacked surfboards. ‘Let’s see if we can do this first without killing ourselves, shall we?’

  Noah laughs. Clearly, he thinks that she’s joking.

  ‘This is a great place,’ I remark, still looking round in wonderment.

  ‘Yeah,’ he agrees and I wonder if I detect a wistful note in his voice.

  We all troop to the equipment hire desk and, along with the young assistant, Noah helps us to select wetsuits and boards. As another act of conciliation towards Harry, I get him and Ella a cup of tea each from the takeaway hatch and pick up two Crunchies for them. I feel truly awful now. Harry is extraordinarily proud of that car and it is very dented. I know that tea and a Crunchie hardly constitute a massive apology, but it’s a start.

  Noah has to carry my equipment as my hands are full, which means that Flick has to carry her own and she doesn’t look too thrilled by that.

  Back on the beach, I hand over Harry’s tea.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, a cursory attempt at politeness, and returns to his paper.

  We all struggle into our wetsuits. Flick giggles and wriggles and flirts, while Noah laughs as he helps to squeeze her into it. It’s fair to say that she’s the only one of us who looks good in tight rubber. Even Harry lowers his newspaper to get an eyeful. Her suit is snug, barely containing her voluminous breasts, and, even done up to the neck in rubber, she looks incredible. No wonder men can’t help themselves when it comes to falling for Flick. I’m absolutely sure that, in my own wetsuit, I won’t be creating the same impression. Still, I’m more concerned about not being chilly when we’re in the sea than being a femme fatale. Perhaps that’s where I’m going wrong.

  Then, duly equipped, we trot down the beach and hit the surf.

  The sea is mind-numbingly cold. It takes my breath away as the waves swirl round us. The surf – according to the information board in the shop – is ‘choppy’. I bow to those who have greater knowledge than me. To my eye, it looks just plain scary. The waves aren’t high – don’t think Hawaii Five-O – but to me it looks as if there’s quite a swell and they’re more than enough to strike fear into the feeble heart of a mere novice.

  After we’ve swum out, Noah shows us some of the basics, how to look for a good wave and, to get us started, how to lie on the board and ride the surf into the beach.

  Art and I split off, moving further down the beach, and leave Noah and Flick together. I’m trying very hard to stick to my promise to myself of staying out of their way. If their romance is to blossom, Flick doesn’t need me around like a lovelorn gooseberry.

  ‘I did this years ago,’ Art says to me as we swim further out. ‘I wonder if it’s something that you never forget, like riding a bike.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I tell him. ‘Let’s give it a go.’

  So we try to catch the waves and, every now and then, hit it right and are whizzed up on to the beach on our boards, flat on our bellies, which feels just fantastic. Art and I high-five each other, as that’s what surfers seem to do. We swim out and do it over and over again, until I’m totally knackered and panting.

  ‘You go ahead,’ I say to Art. ‘I need to rest for a few minutes.’ So while he tries to catch a wave, I hold on to my board and bob in the sea.

  While I take a second to get my breath back, I glance over to Noah and Flick. My friend seems to be faring less well, disappearing under the waves more often than is pleasant. Each time I see her pop up again she’s coughing out sea water.

  It looks as if all she wants to do is wind her legs round Noah’s waist and indulge in some ocean-based foreplay. But, from where I am, he seems much more intent on teaching her to surf. Whereas Flick doesn’t seem all that intent on learning how to do it. Oh, well.

  I see Harry watching us and I wave, but only Ella waves back. Minutes later, I see Harry get up and wander off. I assume he’s exhausted the delights of the beach and is already going to sample the wares of the nearest pub.

  The next stage of surfing is to try to catch a wave while you’re kneeling up. It seems that Art’s muscle memory kicks into action, as he’s up on his knees on his board after a few attempts and roars in delight as he’s carried along. I catch a glimpse of the future and I can really see Art doing this with his son or daughter in years to come. I’m so excited for them both and I hope that Ella tells him soon, so that we can dissipate the tension and get on with the job of celebrating with them.

  After a couple of successful rides on his knees, Art manages to stand up for a few seconds before being dumped in the water. I give him a jubilant round of applause. Noah and Flick swim over to where we are and Noah high-fives Art in congratulation.

  ‘This is great, man,’ Art shouts above the rush of the ocean. ‘I’d forgotten what a buzz it is.’

  Flick, standing forlornly next to me, says, ‘I’m hating every minute of this. I’d rather poke out my own eyeballs. Are you enjoying it?’

  ‘I am,’ I admit. ‘I’m not very good at it, but it feels fabulous when you get it right.’

  ‘All I’m doing is drinking vast quantities of sea. I feel like puking up,’ she mutters. ‘I’m done. You lot can stay but I’m going to hit the bar with Harry.’

  ‘See you later,’ she says to Noah and stomps out of the sea and up the beach.

  He looks as if he’s in two minds as to whether he should follow her or not. In the end, he turns back towards me and Art.

  ‘Have you tried kneeling?’ he says when Art paddles away from us.

  ‘I haven’t even mastered riding the board on my stomach yet.’

  ‘Here. Let me show you.’

  And I must hesitate or something, as he peers at me over the top of his sunglasses and says, ‘We are OK, aren’t we?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘There was no problem with Harry last night, was there?’

  My mouth goes dry. Did he hear us arguing through the wall? I wonder.

  ‘He wasn’t annoyed about how long we were out yesterday?’

  ‘No. He was fine,’ I assure him. Even though I know he wasn’t fine at all. That, to be honest, is the least of our problems. ‘He was less happy about the dent in his car this morning, though.’

  ‘Oh.’ Noah acknowledges his misplaced guilt. ‘We can follow the others,’ he says, glancing back at the beach. ‘If you think that’s a good idea. I don’t want to upset anyone.’

  I contemplate abandoning my attempts at surfing and hitting the pub instead, but, do you know, that really isn’t what I want to do at all. I don’t want to bend to the will of others, I want to stay here with Noah, learning some more about this sport, and try, at least, to get a bit better.

  ‘No,’ I say. I meet his eyes squarely. ‘We’ve got the boards rented for another hour. I’d rather stay here.’

  He grins. ‘Good. Me too.’

  So, for the next hour, Noah shows me how to time the wave right so that I can jump up on to the board. I wobble and bash my shins and skin my knees. I go off the board backward
s, sidewards and splat flat on my face. I swallow more water than a whale. My whole body is aching, but time and time again he helps me up and gets me going once more. And we laugh and laugh. We laugh until my sides ache as much as the rest of me. It shouldn’t make me feel so happy to be alone with Noah again, but it does. All my plans, to stay out of the way and let him focus on Flick, have gone right out of the window.

  Art keeps whizzing by. He’s managed to stand, albeit very tentatively, but at least he’s cracked it. Eventually, he comes to join us and is, rightly, very pleased with himself. ‘I’m going in now,’ he says, puffing from his unaccustomed exertion. ‘This is the most exercise I’ve done in years, I probably won’t be able to move tomorrow.’

  ‘Looked like you were having fun,’ Noah notes.

  ‘Brilliant.’ More high-fiving. ‘And now I need beer.’ He jerks a thumb towards the pub. ‘I think Harry and Flick have abandoned Ella, so I’d better get back to her. We’ll see you in the bar soon?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Noah says.

  Art swims back towards the shore.

  Then Noah turns to me. ‘Sure that you’re happy to hang out a bit longer, Grace?’

  More than happy. My heart is banging in my chest simply because we’re alone again. ‘I’m going to master this if it kills me,’ I tell him.

  ‘I don’t think we need to go that far,’ he assures me.

  So we splash about in the sea some more and every time I fall off my surfboard, Noah helps me back on.

  I forget about Harry and Flick, Ella and Art. There’s just me and Noah and the sand and the surf and the sea. And, when I finally manage to kneel on my board and ride the surf all the way to the shore, I feel as if I’ve conquered the world.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ‘I’ll cook for us all,’ Noah offers. There’s been much discussion while we’re still in the pub about what to do and where to go for dinner tonight. ‘Curry suit everyone?’

  ‘Christ,’ Harry mutters over his glass of wine. ‘You can cook as well? Is there anything you can’t do?’

  While I wish the ground would open up and swallow me, Noah chooses to ignore Harry’s snide comment.

  ‘We can run to the supermarket on the way home and pick up the ingredients. Are you happy with that, Flick?’

  Since we came back from the beach and joined the others in the pub, Noah has been very attentive towards Flick. So much so that she looks like the cat who’s got the cream.

  ‘Sounds great.’ I wonder if I’m the only one who hears her whisper to him, ‘I hope you’re as good in the kitchen as you are in the bedroom.’

  She pulls Noah to her and squeezes him around the waist. I go and sit next to Harry, who is already three sheets to the wind. He’s busy tweeting, so ignores me, and I stare into space, going over in my mind the things I learned about the art of surfing and trying not to be self-conscious about how bedraggled I must look. Although my husband and I are here together on holiday, we seem to be in totally different places altogether.

  Finishing our drinks, we leave the pub. Harry, Ella and I climb into Art’s car and head back towards Cwtch Cottage, while Noah and Flick turn in the other direction, in search of the nearest supermarket.

  Back at the cottage, Ella stifles a yawn and says, ‘I’m going to have a quick nap before dinner. All that sunshine has made me sleepy.’

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ Art asks.

  ‘That’d be lovely.’

  They kiss each other deeply. Art is relaxed, happy. Maybe this is Ella’s moment. Surely this would be a good time to tell him that it’s more than fresh air that’s making her tired?

  ‘Give me a call when Noah comes back,’ she says as they disappear upstairs hand in hand, ‘and I’ll help him with the preparations.’

  A nap sounds like an excellent plan, but I don’t want Harry to get the wrong idea and offer to join me too. Our lovemaking was weird last night and I don’t think I could do that again.

  ‘I’m popping up to have a bath,’ I tell him.

  That will buy me an hour on my own. I feel that what I should be doing is addressing with Harry how I felt after our conversation last night, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Harry’s acting as if nothing has happened.

  I sigh to myself. ‘See you in a short while.’

  ‘He’s bloody annoying,’ Harry says, apropos of nothing. ‘That fellow of Flick’s. She might think he’s a superhero, but it won’t last. The all-action chap isn’t her type.’

  ‘She’s had enough men to know what she does and doesn’t like,’ I suggest. ‘The only “type” she usually prefers is married. Noah’s a definite improvement on that.’ Why does Harry even care what Flick thinks about him? What’s it got to do with him? ‘She seems pretty smitten to me.’

  ‘Pah,’ is his verdict.

  ‘She’s going to ask him to marry her,’ I put in. ‘She said that she wants to settle down and start a family with him.’

  Harry recoils. ‘Flick said that?’

  Why is he suddenly taking such an inordinate amount of interest in my friend’s love-life? He’s not even that bothered about his own. ‘Yes.’

  My husband looks shocked to his core. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Well, that’s what she said. Only time will tell, I guess.’ I pick up my beach bag and wet towel. ‘I’m going for my bath before they come back.’

  I lie down in the bath, letting the hot water soothe me and wash the crusted sea salt from my skin. Closing my eyes, I drift away. I’m envious of people who live by the sea, I think. Not in a popular resort, somewhere heaving with tourists, or with a pier, like Brighton or Bournemouth, but somewhere still wild and remote like this. How different my life could be if I didn’t have to sit in an office all day long, poring over company accounts, trying to pretend that I care. Ella is one very lucky lady to have Cwtch Cottage as a bolt-hole.

  Does this have to be my life? I wonder. Could I get out of my partnership at work? It would mean the other three partners buying me out of my share or bringing someone else in to do so. I’ve worked there for years and am generally so busy that I don’t have time to consider whether I’m discontented or not.

  And what about Harry? Where are he and I going? Do we have a future at all? If he knew how desperately unhappy I was, would he be able to stop his drinking, get help perhaps? I don’t think Harry would consider counselling. He’d probably see it as admitting to a weakness. I try to think back to when his drinking became a problem. Is there something at work that he hasn’t told me about? We’re not short of money, so there’s no particular financial pressure. Not that I know of. I don’t think he has a secret gambling habit or a second secret family tucked away somewhere. So, if it’s not money, what is it? He’s always enjoyed a social drink – perhaps too much – but now it seems to have got out of control and in a relatively short space of time. Has something happened to trigger it that he hasn’t shared with me?

  There’s too much to consider and even exploring the edges of it makes my brain ache. If I left Harry, where would I go? What would I do? I promised that I’d love him for better, for worse, forsaking all others until death us do part. What if I can’t do that any more? Can I consider throwing in the towel on our marriage already? What would people think of me? I’m the steady one. The one who sees everything through to the end. I’m not one to run away from difficulty. It would feel like such a failure.

  Hearing Noah’s Range Rover pull up outside the cottage makes my heart skip a beat. Another complication that I could do without. But perhaps the fact that I’ve got on so well with Noah and had so much fun with him has made me realise even more what’s missing in my own relationship. Harry and I certainly don’t have any fun together any more.

  I listen to Noah and Flick giggling, as they lift the shopping out of the car, and then I hear the front door of the cottage bang.

  Reluctantly hauling myself out of the bath, I rub myself down and, hoping that Ella doesn’t mind, slather myself in some of the bod
y lotion that’s on the shelf. My skin feels dried-out from the sun and the surfing. Time to put my face on for the evening ahead.

  I have a lot to think about and, at this moment, like Harry, I can see the joys of embracing the oblivion of wine.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Noah is already busy frying chicken in the kitchen when I come downstairs. Ella is standing next to him chopping onions. There’s already a growing pile of prepared vegetables next to her – carrots, green beans, tomatoes.

  I take the knife from her. ‘Sit down now, woman.’ I try to sound as if I mean business.

  ‘I’ve just been having a lovely nap,’ she protests.