‘I’m sorry, I’m such an idiot,’ I muttered, chewing my fingernail. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ I never have been very good at chatting to guys I find attractive.
‘’S OK.’ Then he looked at me as if for the first time. ‘I haven’t seen you around here before.’
‘I’ve lived here since I was seven. But I’ve been away, to uni.’
‘That would explain it,’ he said, passing me the Diamond White that Frankie had pushed in his direction, his hand brushing mine and sending an electric current through me. I could see Frankie over his shoulder, making kissing faces and causing me to blush.
‘I’ve only been living here a few years,’ he said, hopefully unaware of my discomfort. He told me then about growing up in Ireland, and moving to Brean when he was eight. ‘I moved to Oldcliffe last year. I live with my brother and his girlfriend in Dove Way.’ I had to stop myself squealing in excitement (that’s just not cool!) because he lives two streets away from me. ‘I quite like living with Lorcan. It’s kinda fun, they just let me do my own thing.’ He explained that he has nearly completed his HNC in computers, going to college in Bristol one day a week and working the rest of the time in the IT department of an insurance company. I could detect the slight Irish accent in his West Country twang. I told him my mum was from Ireland too.
I sipped my Diamond White and listened while he talked. And then I opened up about my ambition to work in publishing.
‘Do you want to be a writer then?’
I brushed my hair away from my face and tried to look nonchalant. ‘As long as I’m surrounded by books and words all day I don’t mind.’
‘Have you got anything lined up now you’ve finished uni?’
‘I’m applying for jobs. I did some work experience last summer so at least I have something for the CV and I’ve got an interview with a small publishing company on the outskirts of London in a few weeks’ time.’
I could tell by his expression that I’d impressed him.
‘That’s amazing. What’s the job for?’
‘Editorial assistant. I want to be a commissioning editor eventually, but it’s so competitive.’ I couldn’t bring myself to tell him of the two interviews at other publishing houses for jobs that I didn’t get, not to mention the endless speculative letters that I send out every week.
‘I’d love to be a poet but my parents wanted me to get a “proper job”.’ He used his fingers as quotations. ‘They don’t see the point of college or university.’
‘But they don’t mind you doing an HNC?’
He shrugged. ‘That doesn’t bother them because I’m getting paid. Although I had another job before this one. But the HNC, according to them, has prospects. Computers are the future, don’t you know,’ he said in a voice that I took to be him mimicking his parents. Despite his jokey tone a shadow passed over his face so that he looked sad, wiser, older. I had the sudden urge to hug him.
‘Shall we sit down?’ He indicated a small table in the corner that had just become vacant. I nodded, relieved to get away from Frankie, who was still standing behind him chatting to a group of guys but every now and again leering at me over Leon’s shoulder and making lewd faces.
‘So, you write poetry?’ I said as we both settled ourselves at the table. We were squashed in the corner. His shoulder was pressed against mine and I could smell his aftershave – CK One by Calvin Klein. I always have had a good nose for scents.
He nodded and took another sip of his pint. ‘Poems, song lyrics. Although I can’t play a musical instrument, unfortunately.’
‘Do you know my brother, Daniel Collier? He can play the guitar but he taught himself. He’s in a band.’
He frowned at the name. ‘I’ve heard of him,’ he said, which sounded ominous, but most people in Oldcliffe have heard of my brother, just like most people seem to know Frankie. They’re gregarious, able to make friends easily, unlike me.
We chatted about music and took it in turns to list the bands we loved. When I told him I’d never heard of Buffalo Springfield he promised to lend me one of their albums.
‘I have to say, Jez is a knob but he knows his music,’ he said as the DJ put on a Bluetones track.
I laughed. ‘Why do you say he’s a knob?’
Leon shrugged. ‘Look at him.’ He was leaning over his decks, earphones clamped to his head, chatting up a pretty blonde in a very short skirt and platform boots. ‘There’s always some girl hanging around him. Just because he’s a DJ.’
‘You sound envious,’ I laughed.
He scoffed and supped his beer. ‘Not when I’m sitting here with the best-looking girl in the place.’
‘You charmer.’ I swiped at his shoulder and he turned towards me with an intense stare. I held my breath, his eyes fixed on mine, his face edging closer.
‘There you are!’ Frankie stood over us imperiously, hands on her hips, breaking the moment between us. ‘You’ve been nattering, like, for ever. Come on, Soph, we need to dance. You love this song.’
‘Babies’ by Pulp. I hadn’t even noticed. Before I could protest, she dragged me from the table and away from Leon. I glanced back at him and he shrugged and laughed and carried on supping his pint. But I wanted to kick Frankie.
‘Why did you have to interrupt us?’ I hissed when we got to the dance floor. ‘We were getting on well.’
Her green eyes were suddenly serious. ‘He’s bad news, Soph. He’s not for you.’
Anger swelled within me. ‘How do you know who is and isn’t right for me, Frankie?’ I stopped dancing to illustrate my point.
She waved her hand dismissively, still clutching her bottle of Diamond White. ‘He’s a bit of a psycho, that’s all. Very intense. Doesn’t take no for an answer, if you know what I mean.’
Shock rippled through me. ‘What?’
‘Oh, I don’t mean in that way, he didn’t try it on or anything,’ she said when she noticed my horrified expression.
‘What do you mean then? Is he an ex?’
She shook her mane of dark hair and took a swig of her bottle. ‘He wishes,’ she laughed, infuriating me further. When she saw that I wasn’t joining in, the smile vanished from her face. She stopped dancing. ‘It’s just …’ She hesitated. ‘Look … I quite fancied him when I first saw him. We had a snog a month or so ago and he was just a little too intense afterwards, that’s all.’
‘He wanted to go out with you?’
‘Of course. He’s good looking, but not my type. He has no prospects, ambition.’ I opened my mouth to protest, to stick up for him, but she ignored me. ‘He sort of harassed me. In the end I had to tell him in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t interested. Threaten him a bit. He got the message. Eventually.’
My heart sank at her words.
‘But you’re friends now?’ I said, recalling that she was with him last week in Mojo’s, when I first saw her again.
Her lips turned up into a half-smile, almost as though she was harbouring a secret. ‘Well, it wasn’t his first choice. But I suppose you could say we are friends now.’ Oblivious, she carried on dancing, her eyes closed, with all the confidence in the world.
I was tempted to stomp off in a strop, but I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t Frankie’s fault that Leon fancied her. As we danced I let my gaze sweep over her in her short black and white dress and long black boots. Like a sex kitten from the 1960s. Of course Leon was going to fancy her. I didn’t stand a chance.
I tried to pick him out in the smoke-filled club but despite searching through the hordes of people, I didn’t see Leon again. We left just after 1 a.m., Frankie chatting all the way home about Jez, who (naturally!) had asked her out.
It wasn’t until this morning that I found a note in my coat pocket. A folded ticket stub with a cloakroom number printed on the front and a short message squeezed onto the small space on the back. He must have bribed one of the cloakroom staff to put it in my pocket. In small blocked writing, it read: MEET ME. OLD PIER. FRIDAY 7 P.M. L.
> 5
Frankie
I’m alone in the apartment for the first time since I arrived, and despite not seeing him for nearly eighteen years I’m missing Daniel’s reassuring presence, his banter. He’s the only thing worth coming back to this godforsaken place for.
Shadows move and shift on the high ceiling, and the sitting room feels chilly, the wooden floor cold under my feet. I throw some more logs on the fire and huddle around it as the flames dance higher and higher, licking up the chimney, and I breathe in the woody scent of burning logs, tasting it at the back of my throat.
Daniel’s parting words are still fresh in my mind. Leon is back in town, and, even worse, tomorrow I’m going to have to face him again. I think of all the excuses I could use to explain to Daniel why I had to return home: one of the hotels is in trouble, my father needs me, Mike’s burnt the house down. But even as these thoughts swill around in my head, I already know I have to accompany Daniel tomorrow, because if I don’t Leon might reveal things I’d rather keep hidden. Things about the past. And I can’t risk that.
I just hope you kept our secret like you promised. That you weren’t foolish enough to unburden yourself to Leon.
A breeze brushes the back of my neck. Why have I got this feeling that I’m being watched? A sudden gust of wind rattles the window frames and howls down the chimney, flattening the fire, and I jump back in alarm. It sounds as though a ghost is trying to break in. I try not to think about the view behind the heavy cream curtains. The dark, hulking shape of the decaying pier, the memories of what took place there all those years ago. Rain slashes against the glass like a maniac with a knife.
I desperately need a glass of wine.
I go to the kitchen and retrieve a bottle of red from beside the microwave. I knew this was going to be a stressful few days so I made sure to bring enough bottles of vino. I settle myself in front of the television, but the weather causes the picture to fizzle and crackle and, frustrated, I turn it off. Spending a night here is going to send me insane. Why did I agree to this? But I know the answer.
Maybe I should have booked a room at one of the hotels in the centre that overlook the gaudy Grand Pier, the promenade and the beach. Like the one I grew up in. These apartments might be more prestigious than the guest houses and B&Bs in town, but being high up on the cliff tops in winter isn’t for the fainthearted, especially considering my past. I feel isolated up here. Why is it that when I’m on my own all of the scary movies and television programmes I’ve ever watched play out as if I have the DVDs on a loop in my mind?
I think longingly of my house in Islington. It’s not as though I’m unused to solitude. Apart from my brief marriage and a few short co-habitations I’ve always lived alone. But in London I’m comforted by the city’s familiar sounds – the almost constant hum of traffic in the street, the honk of a horn, the blare of police sirens, the shouts of teenagers, the faint roar of an aeroplane – that tell me I’m never too far away from people, from civilisation. London is never quiet, even in the dead of night. I’d forgotten how deafening silence can sound.
And then I think of Mike in his dusty work trousers and muddy boots, making a mess of the kitchen and walking dirt through the hallway, and the thought of him in my home suddenly irritates me.
As if he’s read my mind, my mobile trills and his name flashes up on my phone.
‘Mike?’ The reception is sketchy but I can hear the background noise of people, glasses clinking, faint music that indicates he’s in a bar.
‘Just wanted to make sure you got there OK?’ he says. It’s a lovely gesture but it signifies everything that’s wrong in our relationship. Mike wants things from me that I can never give him. Commitment, children. We’ve never talked about love, but I know he feels it; it lingers between us in his kisses, the surreptitious glances when he thinks I’m not looking, the way he lovingly twists the ends of my hair around his fingers while we sit listening to music, or watching TV. And I can never reciprocate his feelings. How can I admit that I fancy him but I’m not capable of anything further? At least, not with him. Deep down I know he’s not the right man for me. The truth is, Soph, I felt sorry for him when I met him. You know what I’m like – I never could resist a lost soul.
I tell him I arrived safely and start to describe how remote the apartment is but he interrupts me, excitement in his voice. ‘I was thinking, why don’t I come down for a few days to keep you company? I don’t like the thought of you in that place by yourself. It sounds lonely. We never spend much quality time together, you’re always working late and I haven’t got much on at the moment …’
The thought of him coming here fills me with dread. ‘I’ve come back to help Daniel, for crying out loud, Mike. I’m not in Oldcliffe to have a romantic break with you.’ It comes out harsher than I intend.
‘Fran …’ The line breaks up and I move to the window to get better reception, but his words fade in and out: ‘… pushing me away … not want to be with me? … tell me honestly … so cold to me sometimes …’
‘The line’s bad. I can’t hear you,’ I cry, then the phone goes dead. I slump onto the sofa, still gripping the mobile as the wind howls outside. Then I pour myself another glass of wine, and for some reason my thoughts turn to Jason.
Do you remember when we first met Jason? My mum recruited him to help her in the hotel kitchen cooking bacon, black pudding and overdone baked beans. He wanted to be a chef. He was seventeen, a year older than us, and he was the best-looking bloke that our sixteen-year-old selves had ever seen in real life. He had dark wavy hair and sun-kissed skin. It was an unusually hot June and we had come straight from the beach. We still had sand in the turn-ups of our denim shorts and sea salt in our hair. We smelt of candy floss and sun cream, trailing our towels and beach bags through the dining room, gossiping about boys. He was sitting at one of the pine dining tables being interviewed by my mother, his face serious, trying (as he later admitted to me) to appear grown up and responsible, desperate for the summer job. I can still recall exactly what he was wearing the first time I clapped eyes on him: a khaki T-shirt with a sun on the front and a pair of baggy jeans – and he had those dog tags around his neck. He loved those things, didn’t he, Soph. He was wearing them the night he died.
A baby is crying, its wails high-pitched and persistent. The sound shocks me awake. I must have fallen asleep on the sofa, my neck at an odd angle on the purple cushion. I sit up, rubbing my shoulder and flexing my joints. An empty bottle of wine sits on the coffee table in front of me. I look at my watch. It’s 2 a.m. The fire has burnt itself out and the apartment is freezing. I wonder where the baby’s cries are coming from. It sounds like they are somewhere within the building, although Daniel said the flats are empty apart from the one directly below mine.
I get up from the sofa with great effort; my limbs feel stiff, my feet numb. The curtains to the bay window are wide open, framing the pier as though it’s scenery on a stage. A wispy fog swirls around the amber light emanating from the two Victorian lamps that still stand proudly at its entrance. I frown, puzzled. I don’t remember leaving the curtains open. In fact I’m almost certain I closed them. I go to the window and look out onto the pier and the rough sea beyond. I’m just about to thrust the curtains shut when, through the ethereal fog, I see you. Standing on the pier, illuminated by the lights, in a long dress, the wind whipping your hair across your face. I blink a few times. I’m mistaken – of course I am. I’ve drunk too much, I’m still half asleep. When I look again the pier is empty, as I knew it would be.
All those ghost stories we told each other when we were young, I never believed in any of them. But despite my rational thoughts, a chill runs through my body and I hurriedly close the curtains on the pier. And on you.
To take my mind off being back here I unpack my laptop and, balancing it on my knees, try and catch up with some work. With the opening of the new hotel there is so much to do: decorating to oversee, staff to hire. Luckily my dad made sure he em
ployed a hard-working manager, Stuart, but even before his stroke I’d taken on more responsibility so that my parents could semi-retire. My mother is unable to help because of all the hours she spends at my father’s bedside. A wave of guilt washes over me that I’m not sitting with her.
Before driving down here I made a detour to visit my dad.
His room was unnaturally warm and smelled of boiled vegetables with an undercurrent of disinfectant. Witnessing him lying there in his hospital bed, hardly able to move, a drip in his arm, brought tears to my eyes. My strong, capable father, who I admired and looked up to, now appeared shrunken, wizened, old. It had been three weeks since his stroke and there was little improvement in his condition.
Mum barely glanced up when I entered, and didn’t even register surprise at my early arrival; I usually visit Dad after work. She continued to fuss around him, wiping his brow, smoothing back his greying hair and placing a wet sponge to his lips. I could tell by the rigidness of her shoulders, by her mouth pursed in a disapproving line, that she didn’t think I visited enough. I wanted to scream at her that I had the business to take care of, and when I did show up, which was every few days, she made me feel like I wasn’t wanted. But I swallowed my resentment, telling myself I was here for my father, not for her. I dragged a chair closer to his bed, the plastic feet making a screeching sound across the floor, causing my mother to wince.
‘Did you have to drag it, Francesca?’ she said, a pained expression on her face.
Ignoring her I took his hand; it felt heavy and cold in mine. ‘Dad,’ I said in a low voice. I knew he could hear me because he opened his eyes. ‘How are you today? Are you comfortable?’ He blinked at me twice, which meant yes. One blink meant no. The doctor had told us a few days before that they’d noticed some improvement to my father’s left side, but who knows if he will ever recover further. And if he does, what then?
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