I throw my clothes into the washing machine and it makes me smile as I think of flailing about in the waves. It’s years since I’ve done anything like that and I realise that, most of the time, my life is quite buttoned-down. When did Chris and I last get silly together? I can’t even remember. We used to once, I’m sure, but it seems like a long time ago. Perhaps we’ve both been so consumed by our careers, by being chic and sophisticated that we’ve forgotten how to belly laugh for the sheer pleasure of it.
My mind wanders to Ned too and how kind he is. He has such a sense of fun and he’s easy, relaxed company. Maybe it’s all that yoga on the beach. Perhaps he’s right and I should give it a go. Even rolling around on the sand has lifted my spirits.
Upstairs, I rescue my beautiful grey coat from the doormat. It’s still wet through and caked in sand. I don’t think cashmere is meant for dunking in the sea and I’m not sure that it will survive its very thorough drenching. I’ll put it on the radiator to dry and then see if a there’s a dry cleaners locally who can rescue it. I’m sure Marilyn will know these things. I’m going to have to go out and get another jacket. Again, I’m sure that Marilyn can tell me of a good place to shop.
I take the shells I collected out of the pockets and put them on Bill’s shelf. He’ll probably throw them in the bin, knowing my brother, but I like them. The delicate pink inside reminds me of a baby’s skin. Then my heart plummets. That’s something I don’t want to be reminded of.
Chapter Eighteen
I text Marilyn. Where can I go to buy a new, warm jacket? Have ruined my coat. J xx
Instantly, she replies. Have you? I’m not busy. I can take you out now? Mxx. A pig, a smiley face, a ghost, a bikini and an umbrella follow the words.
No idea.
That would be great. Thanks. Jxx. I should have known that she would immediately come to my rescue.
Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later, Marilyn rocks up and toots her horn outside. I’m ready for her, so I go straight out. Marilyn’s car is some sporty number, in banana yellow – of course – and she has the top down. Thankfully, as I’m coat-free, I’ve put on a couple of jumpers.
‘You’ll catch your death of cold,’ she scolds. ‘Where’s your coat?’
‘That’s why we’re going shopping,’ I remind her. ‘I had an unfortunate accident on the beach where the sea won.’
‘Oh. I can’t leave you alone for five minutes,’ she tuts. ‘And you say that you don’t need looking after.’ More tutting.
I decide, wisely I think, against telling Marilyn the part that Ned played in this.
‘I want something plain and warm. Maybe a padded jacket.’ I hope that implicit in that statement is ‘no leopard-skin print’.
‘Plain. Padded,’ Marilyn repeats. She doesn’t look impressed by this concept. ‘You don’t want something fancier?’
‘No. Just serviceable.’
She raises her eyebrows at that. ‘OK. There’s an outdoor shop near to here. It’s very boring.’
By that, I think she means none of its clothes are electric pink and covered in glitter. ‘Boring sounds good.’
Marilyn shrugs her disappointment but, nevertheless, we set off in her sports car at breakneck speed. Obeying the speed limit seems to be viewed as an optional extra. The heater is cranked up to max and our hair is streaming out behind us. I feel like I’m in Thelma and Louise.
A few minutes later, we pull up at a shop that clearly sells all requirements for an outdoor life and is catchily called ‘Outdoor Life’. I probably could have walked down here, given directions, and I think that Marilyn has just been glad of the opportunity for a bit of girly shopping. I must be such a disappointment to her.
‘There are nicer shops in Newport or Ventnor,’ she says. ‘It won’t take long to go either. Nowhere here takes long to get to.’
‘This looks fine,’ I assure her. I need a jacket, any jacket, not red-carpet couture. We get out of the car and head for the store, Marilyn clip-clopping ahead of me in chunky gold sandals.
When she pushes the door open, we’re greeted by racks and racks of perfectly adequate outdoor jackets. Admittedly, most of them are in shades of navy blue and dark green.
‘These look fine,’ I declare.
Marilyn stares at me aghast. She definitely thinks I’m Mrs Drab from Drab Town.
‘I want to be warm,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t really care what I look like.’
She recoils as if I’ve slapped her. ‘You should care,’ she says. ‘You’re too young to give up on your appearance. You’re as pretty as a saucer. You should make the most of it.’
My days of caring about designer clothes or the latest fashions are gone. What does it matter? Who will look at me here?
I head to the navy blue padded jackets. Like a flash, Marilyn shoots off in the opposite direction. Picking one in my size, I try it on. It fits perfectly. That will do.
Marilyn comes hurrying back. Clearly, she has other ideas as she’s brandishing a sunshine yellow down jacket at me, the same colour as her car.
She leans against the clothes rail, clutching at a stitch in her side. I think she’s run round the entire shop in record-breaking time. Obviously, she realises that my shopping mojo will be short-lived and has but one chance.
‘This one,’ she pants. ‘Try this one.’
I grimace. ‘I don’t do yellow, Marilyn.’ Though I realise it is one of her more favoured colours.
‘Do yellow,’ she puffs.
‘Seriously, I’d need sunglasses to wear this.’ I shade my eyes to make a point. ‘It’s burning a hole in my retinas.’
When I still don’t budge, she thrusts it into my hands and gasps out, ‘For me.’
So with a pointed sigh, I take off the perfectly nice navy jacket and slip on this thing the colour of Big Bird.
I make a fuss of wriggling into it. Yet, once on, it feels surprisingly soft and comfortable. I’m loath to admit that it even fits better than the navy one. The shape and style are flattering. The colour, though.
‘It’s lovely,’ Marilyn says. ‘Cheery. Have a look in the mirror.’
‘I don’t do mirrors.’
‘There’s a lot of things that you “don’t do” that you should do.’ She grabs me by the shoulders and steers me to the mirror.
Staring back at me is a very jolly-looking jacket. It’s actually quite nice. The reflection of the yellow gives a glow to my pale skin. ‘I look like a banana.’
‘You do not.’
‘It’ll clash with the red woollies I’ve just bought.’
‘Excellent,’ Marilyn declares. ‘Get it.’
‘Can’t I have the navy one?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘Nice things will happen when you wear a yellow jacket. People will smile at you. And, if you’re not thinking too hard about it, you might even smile back.’
I’m not going to get out of this place without it. I know enough about Marilyn to realise that. With a resigned breath, I say, ‘I’ll get it.’
She smiles broadly at me. ‘Look, it’s working already.’
Chapter Nineteen
We get back into Marilyn’s sporty car that matches my new jacket. I don’t just feel like a banana, I feel like a banana in a bowl of custard. Can’t deny that it’s toasty warm, though.
‘Stop looking like the cat who got the sausage,’ I tell her, using one of her tangled phrases. ‘You got me to buy an outrageously coloured jacket. It’s a small victory.’
‘That’s how wars are won.’ She grins at me. ‘One small victory at a time.’
I look out of the window while I smile.
‘I like spending other people’s money. I’m going to put Personal Shopper on my CV,’ she says, somewhat triumphantly.
She’d certainly be a persuasive one. I never for one moment imagined that I’d be using her as my style guru.
‘Come to my house for lunch,’ she says as we hit the road again. ‘I’m picking up two of my grandbabies on the way.’
She tuts at me again. ‘There’s being quiet and there’s being a recluse.’
‘Another time,’ I assure her. But not yet. Definitely not yet.
So Marilyn hits the warp speed button on her car and seemingly moments later we pull up at Sunny Days.
She turns to me. ‘Are you sure you won’t come for a spot of lunch?’
‘No. I’m fine, thank you.’ I give her a sideways glance. ‘Besides, I have a fridge overflowing with food.’
I open the door.
‘Make sure you take that nice new jacket for an outing. A walk will do you the world of good.’
‘I might take it for a spin.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Marilyn says.
‘Thanks for my shopping trip. It was very kind of you.’
She flicks a hand at me. ‘It’s what friends do.’
Climbing out of her car, I wave goodbye as she roars off down the road.
I know that Marilyn will check, so I eat some of the food from the mountain in my fridge and then, rather than doing as she instructed, mooch about for the rest of the day.
Flicking through Bill’s books, I choose an historical novel featuring those troublesome Tudors and try a few chapters, but it’s not gripping me and my eyes slide over the words. I sit out on the front deck and crane over the side to see if Ned’s there, but he’s not and his carving lies abandoned. The gentle sun on my face is soothing, the air is fresh and invigorating. I put the book to one side and watch the pretty little boats bobbing in and out of the harbour.
The day crawls round to supper time and, when the sun sinks, I go indoors, closing the blinds against the impending night, and watch Pointless. By the time I get home my general knowledge will be second to none, but I turn off the television before the news as it’s always too depressing. I think about phoning Bill and Della, but don’t really want to talk to either of them. I’ll want to talk about work with Bill and Della will only want to revisit old ground. As a compromise, I text Bill to say I’m OK and vow to contact Della tomorrow.
Marilyn texts me. Don’t forget to have dinner! Mxxxxx followed by a face crying with laughter, a bag of fries, a skull and crossbones, a lipstick and some sunglasses.
I shake my head, bemused.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I eat more of the stuff that Marilyn keeps putting in the fridge – some scrambled eggs on heavily buttered sourdough this time. It still doesn’t seem to have made much of a dent in it.
After I’ve cleared up, I peek out at Ned’s boat. The lights are on and I can see him pottering about in the galley kitchen. I tear myself away as it’s not nice to spy on your neighbour. But, as I do, I see the lights go off and, a few moments later, hear the door bang. Ned’s out on the gangway with a guitar case slung over his shoulder. I duck back as he hesitates and glances in the direction of Sunny Days as he passes. He clearly thinks better of calling for me, as he then heads off towards the beach path and the pub for his gig.
I’d completely forgotten that he’d asked me, but I’m restless now and fidget about, unable to settle. I can’t stay here by myself again, thinkingthinkingthinking. I’ll go mad. A glass of wine feels like a very good idea and drinking alone is never as much fun when there’s a warm pub and music calling. Part of me is intrigued to see what kind of songs Ned’s band plays. I bet he’s good at the guitar, too. He looks like he should be.
Before I talk myself out of it, I go and slip on my jeans and a jumper. Then I grab my shouty yellow jacket and, as my boots are still wet through, put on my trainers. I wrap the red scarf round my neck and pull on my matching gloves. They clash hideously with the yellow jacket, as I knew they would. Marilyn would love it.
A few minutes later, feeling slightly anxious, I’m heading out of Sunny Days in search of alcohol and company.
Chapter Twenty
The Jolly Roger is right on the beach, down at the far end of the broad sweep of sands of the next bay. I haven’t been onto this beach before as it’s in the opposite direction to Ida’s café and, so far, my path has always taken me that way.
As it’s dark, I walk down the road instead of crossing the sand which takes a little longer but I’m less likely to end up in the sea again. If I dunked this jacket, Marilyn would never forgive me. I hoped that I might be able to catch up with Ned, but he’s nowhere in sight.
Although the evening can’t be classed as warm, there’s a hardy throng of smokers on the deck outside beneath the two Jolly Roger flags which are flapping in the breeze. Their laughter is caught on the wind and thrown out to sea. The pub looks like a theme park and is strung with multi-coloured fairy lights. There’s a ship’s figurehead painted in fluorescent paint that’s shining out in the night, a spotlight on a sailor climbing up some rigging, and a large rowing boat planted with bold and brassy spring flowers.
George is standing at the entrance, striking a pose. ‘Hey,’ he says, relaxing as I approach. ‘Good to see you. Great jacket. Makes you want to smile.’
‘Thanks.’ I think Marilyn must have him on her payroll. ‘Evening, George. Are you coming in for the gig?’
‘I’d be too hot in there with all this on.’ He indicates his bulky steampunk outfit. ‘And it takes an age to get all the make-up off. It would all be over by the time I was ready. Thought I might try to earn a few bob before I call it a night.’
For once, his box certainly seems full of change.
‘I’m keen to get back to my book, too. I’ve got a great chapter planned.’
‘So how’s the writing going?’
‘OK,’ he says. ‘One good thing about being a statue is that I’ve got a lot of time to think when all I have to do is stand still for the day. I might look as still as a stone but my mind is always busy.’
For the record, George never looks as still as a stone. It’s harder to catch him still than it is moving. ‘What kind of book is it?’
‘Romance,’ he says. ‘Girl meets boy. Boy meets boy. Girl meets girl. It’s quite modern.’
‘I expected you to say that you were penning a dark, dystopian steampunk novel.’
‘Oh no.’ He shakes his head. ‘Under this brash costume there beats a very tender heart.’
That makes me smile. ‘I’m sure there does, George.’ I’d like to know more about the man behind the mask. I guess we all have a public face, though George’s is more extreme than most. ‘How did you come to be doing this?’
‘My own story’s very dull. I wanted to be an actor, but I found that I was far too shy. I had crippling stage fright. I’d be so sick and all the words would rush out of my head. I stuck at it for a while, but I felt I was letting everyone else down, so this seemed ideal. I can make up my own little show and the audience have no idea who I am. I’m just anonymous.’
‘They say all writers are frustrated actors too.’
‘Do they? I hadn’t heard that. The writing thing might suit me too, then.’
‘I’d like to read it, if you’ve got a copy? Nothing on my brother’s bookshelves is holding much appeal. I had a brief struggle with the Tudors today.’
He smiles brightly at me, his teeth shining out amid the bronze. ‘I’ve never shown anyone my writing before,’ he says. ‘Seems a bit scary. I really have no idea if it’s any good. Are you sure?’
‘It’s not too slushy?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘There are no cheating husbands in it, are there?’ I don’t want to spend hours reading something only to find that her man goes off with his co-worker who he laughingly calls his ‘work wife’.
‘Not a one,’ he assures me.
‘Then I’d love to. If you don’t mind sharing it with me.’
‘I’ll drop it off at the café for you.’ He does a theatrical sweeping bow. ‘Have a great time tonig
ht.’
‘Thanks.’ George resumes his pose and, with only a moment’s hesitation, where I think about turning round and racing back to Sunny Days, I brace myself to walk up the terrace and head inside.
Chapter Twenty-One
A wall of animated chatter hits me as I open the door of The Jolly Roger and there’s a lovely warm fug in here, a crush of people around the bar. In the summer I’d guess it would be packed with tourists but, for now, it seems like the place to be if you’re a local. The pub has very much embraced the seaside theme inside too. There are ships’ wheels and a variety of lifebuoys on the walls, ropes and upturned rowing boats hanging from the ceiling and those coloured glass balls in nets, which look great as decoration even though I’ve no idea of their original purpose. Storm lanterns with fake candles burning in them grace every table giving it a cosy air and there’s the scent of freshly cooked seafood in the air.
It’s ages since I’ve been to a good old-fashioned boozer like this. All the places around where I live are achingly trendy, mind-numbingly expensive and often soulless bars. Plus I haven’t had anything alcoholic to drink for what seems like a very long time and I can feel that a large glass of wine is calling me. I’ve fancied one for days, but haven’t succumbed yet. Now seems like the ideal time to break my abstinence. And why not? I don’t care if it’s good for me or not anymore.
In the far corner I can see the band setting up on a small stage area and, feeling anxious, I make my way towards them. Right next to the stage, Ned and Ida sit together at a table looking very comfortable. I guess the people with them must be the rest of the band and their partners. As I draw closer, Ned looks up and sees me. I feel relieved as he breaks into his customary grin and waves me over to them. Is it my imagination or is Ida’s smile a little forced when she greets me?
Sunny Days and Sea Breezes Page 8