Meet Me on the Beach

by Hilary Boyd

  Why won’t Sophie return my calls? she wondered. Was she annoyed with her about something? Then she decided the girl was probably just on a trip to London. Jennifer had said she’d look after Largo if Sophie had to go up to town, so perhaps she should ring her and check everything was alright. But then she decided she was being stupid. Sophie was a woman of thirty, who was quite capable of looking after herself. Karen would be going home next week anyway, in time for the dreaded village fête. The thought of all the mayhem involved hit her suddenly—memories of previous years coming afresh to her mind. But now that dread had been partially replaced by a sense of anticipation, knowing she would be so near William again and have a legitimate reason for being together, even though it would be under the beady eyes of the village.

  Sophie rang a couple of hours later. “Sorry, yeah, phone needed charging. No need to worry.”

  It sounded odd, her excuse. Sophie was wedded to her phone.

  “I’m coming back on Thursday, to help with the fête.”

  “Thursday?” there was a note of panic in Sophie’s voice.

  “Yes, there’s always so much to do in the run-up. And everyone wants to know stuff and drop things off. It’s not a pretty sight.”

  Sophie didn’t respond.

  “Are you there?”

  “Umm . . . what time will you be coming?”

  “I’ll set off after breakfast. It’s only an hour, I should be home by mid-morning.”

  “OK . . . OK, well, I’ll see you then.”

  And the girl was gone even before Karen had had time to ask about the dog, or say goodbye.

  What was that panic about? she wondered, then laughed to herself. The place was a total tip, no doubt, and Sophie knew she would have to clear it up before Karen got back. But still . . .

  If Maggie had been there she would have called her and asked her to drop round, but she didn’t want people in the village nosing about her business, as they undoubtedly would, pressing all kinds of questions on Sophie about why Karen hadn’t been at home for so long. She hoped Sophie wasn’t doing anything stupid—like moving some unsuitable boyfriend in, or taking drugs—she was certainly not sounding like herself.

  *

  “Do you want to do another month in the flat?” Mike asked the next morning as they were sitting having a coffee before the crowds appeared.

  “Has it really been a month?”

  “Longer, five weeks . . . didn’t realize myself till I checked last night.”

  Karen hesitated. She would never sort herself out while she could indulge in the distraction of Mike’s café and the beach. The winters would be wearing here, she imagined. Mike shut up shop from December to March; he said there weren’t enough punters to justify the costs of keeping the place open. He spent the winter doing private catering for functions, particularly around Christmas and New Year.

  “I suppose I ought to go home,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

  She laughed. “No, well . . . back to reality.”

  “And the polisher zone.”

  “Don’t call him that. Please.”

  “I’ll stop calling him that when he stops cheating on his wife and leaves you alone.”

  Karen touched Mike’s hand across the table. “You’re looking out for me, and I appreciate that. I don’t know what I would have done without you these past weeks. But you’re wasting your time. I’m a hopeless case.”

  “Yeah, looks like it. I’ll miss you,” he added. “But if it doesn’t work out and you need to escape again, just give me a bell. I won’t get any takers for the place so late in the season.” He turned as a couple entered the café then got up, pulling his apron tighter around his narrow body. “Anyway, I’m picky about my tenants.”

  “You mean you only take hopeless cases?”

  “Something like that,” he grinned as he went off to serve the customers.

  Karen, now she had made the decision to go home, felt calmer than she had in a while, putting worries on hold in her mind and just enjoying these last days of freedom before the responsibility of the fête, the house, the dog, Sophie, all intervened. And she had a lot to occupy her mind. Surely the other night would have consequences, she kept thinking. Was it remotely possible to ignore the strength of their feelings for each other? Or was Will capable of putting the other night back in the box and letting the lie insidiously eat away at his soul?

  The more Karen thought about it, the more it seemed inevitable that something had to give. But whenever she reached this point in her mind, where William’s cover was blown, it was exactly like imagining a real explosion. The debris fell in a totally unpredictable scatter of chaos. What her part might be in the aftermath, she wasn’t able to tell.

  Whatever the putative position, however, the reality was that there had been complete radio silence from him since the night they’d made love. She had checked her phone every ten minutes the next day. At first she had excused him because she knew he was teaching at the archery club that morning. Then because he’d be home with Janey. Then because he was still home with Janey. But when no text was forthcoming and the excuses palled, she accepted what she had always known, that he was simply overwhelmed with guilt.

  She kept hoping the silence meant that he would soon be back on her doorstep, pushing her backward on to the sofa in an orgy of lust.

  But as the days went by and there was nothing, she knew that his conscience had won this round.

  *

  Driving into the village it was as if she had never been away. She waved to Roger Standing, out with his dog, just as if she’d seen him yesterday. Up since dawn packing up and cleaning the flat, the quick coffee she’d had with Mike seemed a long time ago as the wheels of the car scrunched over the gravel of her drive. She was looking forward to something to eat and a large cup of coffee—albeit from Sophie’s annoying machine—in her own kitchen again. Immediately assailed by a barking, jumping, tail-wagging Labrador, who rushed joyfully up to her as soon as she was out of the car, her heart melted as she held him, hugged him, patted his soft fur, fending off his paws on her bare legs.

  “Hey, boy, hey there . . . God, I’ve missed you . . . yes, yes . . . I’m back . . . glad to see you too.” She laughed with pleasure, pushing him out of the way in order to get her bags from the back seat.

  There was no sign of Sophie.

  Inside, the house was silent and appeared to be in darkness, the curtains in all the downstairs rooms drawn closed. Karen went round pulling them open, calling her stepdaughter, who finally emerged from her bedroom, looming at the top of the stairs. Karen was shocked. Sophie must have lost more than a stone in weight in the five weeks she’d been away. She looked pale and unkempt, her dark hair straggling in dry, bushy waves around her face, her baggy tracksuit pants, gray T-shirt and grubby pink slipper-socks making her appear much younger than she was.

  “Hi,” Sophie said, attempting a smile.

  “Hi, Sophie . . .” She waited for the girl to come downstairs, but she hovered on the landing, not moving. “Cup of coffee?”

  This seemed to galvanize her. Sophie gave a small sigh then nodded and began to descend the stairs, running her hand down the banister as if she needed support.

  Karen didn’t say any more until they were both seated at the table with cups of coffee. She felt like an intruder in her own house. The kitchen was scrubbed to within an inch of its life, every surface gleaming, not a speck of dirt anywhere. But more puzzling was the fact that everything that had been on the worktops—a basket with a variety of teas, a fish-shaped trivet, a metal egg timer, coffee grinder, knife rack, drinks tray, glass biscuit barrel, salt and pepper mill, bottle of olive oil, bread bin and board—even the Lake District calendar Maggie had given Karen as a memento from when she’d gone climbing there—had vanished. It was like a holiday rental before the new tenants arrive, with only the kettle and coffee machine in sight. Karen didn’t want to ask Sophie where all
the stuff was just yet, she looked so frail.

  “How are you?” she asked, not knowing how to express her concern.

  “I’m OK,” came the laconic reply.

  “If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look OK.”

  Without smiling, Sophie just flicked her eyebrows up and then turned her attention back to her coffee cup, which she held carefully in both hands.

  “You’ve lost so much weight.”

  “Not really.”

  “You have. Haven’t you been eating properly?”

  Sophie didn’t answer.

  “Sophie, look at me,” Karen insisted. And when her stepdaughter finally raised her eyes, which looked blank and dead, not even defiant, she said, “What’s wrong? Please, tell me.”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Are you depressed?”

  “No. I said, I’m OK.” The stubborn note was warning Karen to back off.

  But she was worried. “Have you been out, you look so pale.”

  Sophie gave an exasperated sigh. “Yes, I’ve been out, OK? I go out every single day, twice a day, to take Largo for a walk.”

  “Right . . . and what else has been happening?”

  “God, I don’t know. Not a lot. What do you want me to say? Can you get off my case, please?”

  Karen nodded. “Sorry . . . I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t be. I told you, I’m fine.” She got up, leaving her mug on the table, and walked out.

  That went well, Karen thought. I’ve only been home ten minutes and already I’ve antagonized her.

  She got up and started opening cupboards. All the things were there, neatly put away, made room for, apparently, by a drastic cull of the tins and jars that had previously taken up most of the space. The bareness felt angry and soulless, as if Sophie were deliberately trying to expunge all character from the kitchen.

  She went through to the other rooms, all equally immaculate, only the bare necessities on view. It seemed strange. But maybe Sophie was just being efficient and preparing it for the fête. Because it all happened in the kitchen. The sandwiches—egg mayonnaise, ham and cucumber—were made up there, the scones spread with jam and cream, cakes and biscuits put out on plates, the teapots and milk jugs filled, crockery washed, all prior to being taken through to the tea tent. It was the place where the helpers came to rest, the hub of all activity. So yes, it was probably a very sensible thing to clear the decks beforehand, Karen told herself. But she was left with a nagging doubt about Sophie’s real motive.

  She went upstairs to unpack, her stomach suddenly knotted with the knowledge that Will was only four doors down the lane. She would surely bump into him later—or tomorrow, maybe, when the fête preparations really got under way.

  Karen realized she was happy to be home. She had missed the space, her bedroom with its luxurious Heal’s mattress—Harry had insisted on the best—her large kitchen, the sitting room with its deep sofa covered in cornflower-blue linen, the wide-screen television in the den, her garden, her beloved dog. The house was, by many people’s standards, old-fashioned—in fact, it suddenly looked old-fashioned to Karen after her weeks in Mike’s modern flat—but it was still comfortable.

  *

  Sophie slouched down for supper and sat picking at the chicken salad Karen had made. It was a warm evening, and they were eating on the table outside, overlooking the lawn at the back of the house.

  “When are you going back?” Sophie asked.

  “Back to the seaside? I’m not.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’ll have to put up with me nagging you again.”

  This brought a faint smile to the girl’s face. “Actually I don’t like it here alone. It’s weird.”

  “Have you made friends with anyone in the village?” Karen asked, relieved by Sophie’s response. It explained her mood. She had obviously just been lonely, nothing more sinister.

  Sophie rolled her eyes. “There isn’t anyone under sixty, so no, I haven’t.”

  “Slight exaggeration.”

  “Fifty, then.”

  “There’s Rachel Haskell.”

  “She’s in Spain.”

  Karen did a mental trawl through the inhabitants of the village and realized Sophie was right, apart from the estate agent, Dominic, who couldn’t be more than forty and had a wife and two small daughters.

  “Anyway, I don’t want friends. I’ve got plenty, it’s just they’re in London.”

  “Have you been up to see them?”

  “Not much,” she said.

  Karen noted her shifty expression and suspected the girl hadn’t budged from the house. It was pointless bullying Sophie into a circular discussion about her prospects of work and social interaction—not least because she herself was virtually in the same boat as her stepdaughter.

  “At least you’re over the vicar,” Sophie said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you went away to get over him. So if you’re coming back you must have succeeded.”

  “Yes . . . yes, totally. It was just a silly moment,” Karen blurted out. “I was in a bad way after your father’s death, and William was there for me.”

  Sophie nodded. “That, and probably a touch of the uniform syndrome. We’ve all got it.”

  “‘Uniform syndrome’?”

  “Women love men in uniforms, you must have heard of that.”

  “I thought that meant soldiers. Heroic types.”

  “Yes, but priests and vicars are sort of heroic when they’re all dressed up in their robes being holy. It helps us look up to them as someone special.”

  Karen just nodded.

  “Take William, for instance,” Sophie went on. “He always wears black trousers, black shirt, black shoes, white dog collar. So he stands out, we respect him as a holy person. But the other morning I saw him in shorts and trainers and he looked like any ordinary Joe.” She smiled. “And when I said hello he seemed all sheepish, as if I had caught him out in something shady. Obviously he’s not cool with normal clothes.”

  At that moment, the doorbell rang and Karen jumped up, relieved not to have to respond.

  “Who will that be?” she asked.

  “Better not be the vicar,” Sophie chuckled.

  It was Jennifer Simmons.

  “Karen, welcome back! I saw your car and thought I’d just drop in and touch base.”

  “Hi, Jennifer. Good to see you. We’re out in the garden, come through.”

  “Phew!” Jennifer plumped down on one of the garden chairs, fanning her face with a sheaf of papers she was holding. “Hello, Sophie.” She wheezed quietly for a moment. “Can’t get my breath in this heat . . . not that I’m really complaining, of course.”

  “Perfect for the fête,” Karen said, handing Jennifer her own glass of water that she hadn’t touched.

  “Yes, now the fête . . . all seems to be going to plan on that front. The reverend has been marvelous, an absolute saint. So much better than dotty old Bob, who just got underfoot.” Jennifer said. “Anyhoos, I won’t bore you with the details now, my dears, but I wanted to warn you the men are coming tomorrow with the tent. Probably quite early. Is that alright?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you want someone here to supervise? I can get Trevor to pop round.”

  Trevor was the caretaker at the primary school in the next village and did Jennifer’s garden in his spare time.

  “Maybe get him to check they’ve done it right before they go. Not sure I’d know. Harry always did that.”

  Even with a few whiskies inside him, Harry still functioned in areas related to their day-to-day living, such as insurance, house maintenance, the car, banking. Karen had thought she’d miss his input after he died, but in fact it felt good to be more in control, to know exactly what was what, not to be waved away as a mere woman from anything that required a form to be filled in, money to be spent. But the tent was a step too far.

  “
Right. Will do.” She began to haul herself upright. “Mustn’t keep you from your supper. I’ll ring in the morning and we can go over a few last-minute things.”

  Karen showed her to the door.

  “Must say the seaside certainly agrees with you,” Jennifer commented as she said goodbye. “You look positively radiant.” She patted Karen’s arm. “Good to get a break after what you’ve been through with dear Harry. Such a shame.”

  Karen, as she went back outside to Sophie, felt the village closing in around her again. Which, although comforting in one way, brought with it a constant need to dissemble—or perhaps “deceive” would be a more appropriate word.

  *

  Friday at seven thirty brought the men with the tent. There was a lot of teeth-sucking and head-shaking, despite Karen leading them to the exact same spot the tent had sat on—very successfully—for every fête in the last decade.

  “Not sure that’ll be big enough,” said the older man, eyeing the patch of grass, “what with the slope an’ all.”

  “It is. It went there before.”

  “Yeah? Same size tent, was it?”

  “I imagine so.” She knew Bernard, the committee secretary and man in charge of hiring equipment, would never deviate from one of his set plans without a fair amount of torture.

  Tent man was slowly shaking his head again, arms akimbo, khaki T-shirt already stained with sweat, as he scanned the grass—brown now in patches from the hot summer.

  “See . . . if we put it up and it’s too long, then the end’ll be hanging down the slope. And a sloping tent’s no good to no one.”

  “Well, why don’t you measure it, then?” she suggested.

  The man’s brow lightened. “Yeah, that might work.” Then it fell again. “Don’t have a tape measure with us, do we, Joe?”

  Joe, who was busy texting, didn’t reply.