The Beach Hut Next Door

by Veronica Henry

  Chloe pulled him to her. ‘I can think of plenty of things to do,’ she whispered.

  Jenna drove the ice-cream van carefully across the sands and pulled up in front of Tim’s hut. She never failed to enjoy this moment, when people’s heads turned and they saw her and their faces lit up with joy. No matter what age, the prospect of ice cream from a van seemed to strike a chord with everyone.

  She was so lucky, she thought, although as Craig had pointed out to her, she’d made her own luck, by having the idea and being determined and putting in the graft. Although, to be fair, it was Weasel who’d had the inspiration – weasel he might be, but she couldn’t take that away from him.

  The weather over the summer had helped, of course – day after day of glorious sunshine. She had got to the point where she couldn’t scoop fast enough, and the farmer who supplied her couldn’t make the ice cream fast enough.

  As she stopped the van, and slid open her window, and waited for the first of the guests to crowd round and make their choice, she looked out at the beach, the beach where she had first met Craig. That meeting could have taken another turn entirely, she thought, as she remembered the dark place she had been in, and the wrong choices she had made.

  Until he had stepped in and come to her rescue. Thank God he had seen the good in her, she thought. If he hadn’t, if he’d decided to do his duty and turn her in, she wouldn’t be here now. She could see him, through the crowds, sipping his beer, chatting easily. Her hero. Her saviour.

  She smiled, slid back the lid of the freezer, revealing a rainbow of ice cream flavours, and began to scoop.

  Kiki didn’t take Vince’s rejection personally. If being in prison taught you anything, it was not to judge anyone. She went back over to the bar to get herself another drink. It was good to let her hair down. She spent most days on show to the general public so she was going to make the most of her chance to relax. Being artist-in-residence was a dream come true, but it was hard work: her beach hut had basically been open to all and sundry throughout the summer, while they watched her paint. But she had an amazing body of work to show for it, and was looking forward to putting together an exhibition when her residency came to an end.

  She was pouring herself a glass of wine when one of the other guests came up to her. She recognized him as the boyfriend of the girl with the ice-cream van. He was a copper, but she didn’t hold that against him. Just because she’d been inside didn’t mean she had an irrational hatred of the law.

  ‘I want to ask you a favour,’ he said.

  ‘Sure,’ she said. He probably wanted a portrait painting.

  ‘I’ve got this mad, crazy idea,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think I’m up to the job. I thought you might be able to help.’

  ‘If I can. I like a challenge.’

  ‘It will mean getting up really early in the morning.’ He looked at her full glass. ‘Tomorrow.’

  Kiki was intrigued. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll make this my last drink, in that case. But only if you fill me in.’

  Craig looked embarrassed. ‘You’re going to think I’m mad.’

  ‘Mate, you forget. I’ve done time. Nothing surprises me. Go on, tell me.’

  Vince was skulking about on the edges of the party, watching Kiki talk to Craig. He felt self-conscious, even though no one could have any idea what he was thinking or planning, but he felt as if his intentions were obvious. Although, to be truthful, everyone was probably oblivious by now, judging by the empty bottles.

  He didn’t know how to go about approaching her. If he hadn’t been such an ungracious and curmudgeonly bastard, it wouldn’t matter so much. Turning on the charm now was asking for a slap in the face. And he wouldn’t blame her. She had done her very best to be nice to him and he’d cut her dead.

  He’d been a rotten neighbour, too. He’d watched her painting earlier, peering over the windbreak. She’d taken to putting one up every day now, whether there was a breeze or not, and it was hardly surprising. She wouldn’t want a miserable bugger like him gawping at her while she worked. It was the equivalent of a cold shoulder.

  She’d had a large canvas on an easel, and a palette of a very few colours – blue, red and black. Thick, treacly paint that she dipped into with a fat brush, daubing the strokes seemingly at random. He’d wondered about her thought process, or if there even was one, as the brush danced over the canvas, too quickly for him to keep up. Was there any logic to it, or was she just doing what something inside her commanded? It seemed entirely abstract to him. He thought he could probably do it himself, slosh a load of paint all over the place like that.

  But gradually, as he watched, something definite began to emerge. It was crude, naive even. A lagoon, an island, and seagulls – big, fat beady-eyed seagulls, each one consisting of barely more than half a dozen lines, but so emphatic in their seagullness that Vince realized he had been watching a real talent at work. The scene was impressionistic, but so vivid you could almost smell it.

  He’d watched her back as she worked, her thin shoulder blades, her wiry arms, the tiny wrists. Her hair was piled up, as usual, in a brightly coloured scarf, the honey-coloured strands spilling out over the top. She was wearing a tiny turquoise sundress covered in flamingoes. A digital radio spilled out Northern soul and her brush seemed to dance in time with the music.

  She was an inspiration, a ray of light, and he’d been a fool not to see it.

  It was now or never. If he didn’t ask her today, his life would never change. He would be stuck as miserable Vince, alone and loveless. He needed to put his Murphy hat on; get some confidence.

  ‘Man up,’ he told himself. ‘What’s the worst that can happen? She can say no, and that would be no more than you deserved. So the only way is up.’

  He waited until Kiki finished her conversation with Craig. He tousled his hair a bit, tucked his T-shirt into his jeans then pulled it out again, stuck his hands in pockets. Then he grabbed his wallet and walked to Jenna’s ice-cream van – she was still serving, even this late on in the evening

  She looked delighted to see him.

  ‘Hey, Vince. What can I get you?’

  ‘Two 99s. With flakes.’

  ‘Two?’ She gave him a cheeky grin as she picked up two cones and started to fill them. Vince just kicked the sand with his shoe and didn’t reply, but he was smiling. As she handed the ice creams over, he went to give her the money but she waved it away.

  ‘It’s on me, darling. Good luck.’

  Jenna’d had a good summer, Vince knew. If there was any lesson to be learned from Jenna, it was that although you couldn’t control everything that happened in life, you were in charge of your own destiny to a certain point. The decisions you made and the risks you took shaped what happened just as much as fate.

  The realization made him resolute. He had to take control of his life.

  With an ice cream in each hand, he walked over to Kiki, who was sitting on a bean bag, drinking a glass of wine.

  She looked up as he approached. She was singing along to the music. He was struck by how incredibly happy she looked. How did people do that, make themselves so happy? He held out an ice cream without speaking, and she put down her glass and took it from him.

  ‘You’re a mind reader,’ she told him.

  ‘Years of practice,’ he told her. ‘Me and Derren Brown …’

  He crossed his fingers to indicate how close they were.

  She laughed, and he felt pleased. It gave him courage.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Do you fancy a trip out to Lundy?’ He pointed out to sea. The island was obscured by darkness, but the moon hovered over where it should be, as if pointing it out.

  ‘I’d love to!’ She nodded enthusiastically. ‘I’ve looked at it every day since I’ve been here, wondering what it’s like.’

  ‘Well, there’s not much there. A few sheep. But it’s
pretty special. I can take you over there in the boat tomorrow. If you like.’

  She looked pleased.

  ‘That would be amazing.’

  ‘It’s going to be good weather, so we could make a day of it.’

  ‘Wow. Cool.’

  She was smiling at him but she looked a bit puzzled, as if wondering what had brought about his transformation.

  ‘Listen, I’ve been an arse,’ he said. ‘Long story.’

  ‘Hey, we all have stuff that makes us behave badly. No worries.’

  He didn’t think he needed to go into detail. Not at the moment. She didn’t seem the type to bear grudges or need an explanation. There would be plenty of time for him to divulge his anxieties, if they ever got that far.

  ‘Be ready at nine,’ he told her. ‘Bring your swimming stuff. And your painting stuff. And something warm for the journey back, in case the temperature drops.’

  ‘Sorted.’ She beamed at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

  Vince thought he’d better get there early and tidy the boat up a bit. Something told him she wouldn’t care much; that she’d enjoy the experience for what it was, but nevertheless the boat really wasn’t in an ideal state for a romantic encounter. He’d better stick some cushions around the place at least.

  ‘It’s a date, then,’ he said, and she nodded at him, and he felt a little glow inside. All those years wasted on Anna, he thought. All the fun he’d missed. Still, Vince decided, he was going to make up for lost time.

  At two in the morning, Tim watched the last of his guests sway back down the beach towards the slipway.

  The last of his guests but one, that is.

  Lorraine was in the crook of his arm. They were both sitting on the front step as the last of the candles sank down into the bottom of the jam jars he’d wedged in the sand in front of the hut. There was little sign that there’d been a party at all; only the tin foil palm trees he’d stuck to the front of the hut rustling in the evening breeze.

  He supposed it was time. Until he slept with another woman, he wouldn’t be able to forget. And he liked Lorraine. He really did. She was bright, funny, interesting. They had lots in common. He liked her copper hair and her pale skin and her freckles. It was clear she liked him, by the way she was running her hand up and down his back. Her intentions were clear.

  The only thing wrong with her was that she wasn’t Rachel.

  But every girl he ever met wasn’t going to be Rachel.

  ‘Hey.’

  He turned to her, realizing he was being rude, drifting off in his reverie.

  She put a hand up his face, stroked his cheek, then pulled his face towards her. His mouth met hers. She tasted sweet, of pineapple and honey. Not like Rachel at all.

  Not like Rachel, but delicious. He could do this. Of course he could.

  Jenna woke up horribly early the morning after Tim’s party. She wasn’t sure why. She usually slept in after a party: nothing would wake her, but she thought something had been tickling her face. Now she was awake, she couldn’t see anything. She sat up. Craig was nowhere to be seen either, which was odd. She peered at her phone to see what the time was. Barely after seven. All she wanted to do was burrow back under the covers, but she wanted to know where Craig was. Perhaps he had gone for an early morning surf? He hadn’t said he was going to. And his wetsuit was still hanging up.

  She pushed open the door, letting the early-morning breeze envelop her. She breathed it in. It always smelled of newness, and hope. The sun was only just over the horizon, but she could feel its warmth. Another good day for selling ice creams. Part of her wished she could have the day off, but she knew the deal down here. Make hay while the sun shines. There would be plenty of time off come winter.

  She stepped out onto the sand, looking round for Craig. He was nowhere to be seen. She scanned the beach, then frowned.

  ‘Oh my God.’ What she saw made her stop in her tracks. Was she still dreaming? Or had she drunk more than she thought the night before?

  For there, on the beach, was a picture. A picture drawn on the sand, and decorated with shells. A full-size picture of an ice-cream van. Her ice-cream van. And underneath, written in white pebbles, two words.

  This was a joke. Some wags from the night before had obviously thought it would be a hilarious prank. Jenna frowned. Who would be that mean? It must have been someone who knew her. They were probably hiding somewhere, waiting for her reaction. Who would do such a thing? She’d rub it out before someone saw it and took the mickey. No, they were probably waiting for her to do that. She would pretend she hadn’t noticed it.

  She bit her thumb and turned back to the hut. Idiots. Drink did that to people.

  Then she saw Craig, standing in the doorway. She couldn’t read the expression on his face.

  ‘They’re just idiots,’ she said. ‘They must have been drunk.’

  ‘Hey?’

  She pointed. ‘Whoever did that. It’s cruel, really. To get a girl’s hopes up like that. Luckily I’m not that stupid.’

  ‘Stupid?’

  ‘I’m not going to fall for that, am I?’

  ‘Jenna …’ Craig was looking at her. ‘Don’t you realize who did it?’

  She shrugged. She felt embarrassed. She wondered if he thought she’d thought it was real. She hoped not.

  ‘Jen. It was me. Well, me and Kiki. I can’t draw something like that. We got up this morning. At the crack of dawn …’

  Jenna looked at Craig.

  She looked at the picture.

  She looked at the words again.

  Marry Me.

  ‘Are you …? Do you mean …? Is it … a proposal?’

  Craig burst out laughing. ‘Yeah. I didn’t want to do something ordinary. Because you’re not ordinary. Because you’re … amazing, and I really admire you for what you’ve done this summer. And because I want you to be my wife, and to get a house with you, and maybe start a family …’

  Jenna’s mouth fell open. ‘You’re totally kidding.’

  ‘That first day I saw you on the beach, I knew you were special.’

  ‘That first day you saw me nicking stuff?’ She started to laugh.

  ‘I knew I could save you from yourself.’ He was laughing too.

  Jenna looked again at the picture. It was perfect. There was even a little her in the window; a smiley face and a spotty dress.

  ‘The sea’s going to wash it away,’ she wailed. ‘I need to take a picture.’

  ‘We’ve taken loads of pictures,’ Craig told her.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Jenna.’

  His voice had a note of desperation in it. She turned to look at him.

  ‘What’s your answer?’

  She didn’t reply for a moment. Just stared into his eyes. Then turned and ran down the beach.

  For an awful moment, Craig thought she was going to stamp all over it. Then he watched as she took her finger and started drawing in the sand underneath. And, gradually, as the words emerged, he began to smile.

  YES YES YES they read.

  ELODIE

  Elodie was standing on the terrace of The Grey House, looking out over the sea that looked reassuringly the same as it always had, for although it was constantly on the move, it came always back again. Was that why people loved the sea, for its reassurance? She never felt the same anywhere else, that was certain.

  She looked at her watch. She’d made the appointment for two o’clock. She felt nervous of what she might find, and what reception she would get. And the possible consequences. And then she realized that the only consequences could be good ones. That nothing could destroy the love she and Colm had for each other.

  The home her mother had moved to was on the outskirts of a small town near Everdene – a conversion of a large Victorian house that would once
have been a home, then probably a hotel. It was high-end and luxurious, and tried to look as much like a private house as possible, with just a discreet sign that Elodie nearly missed, but even the most skilful interior designer couldn’t mask the fact this was an institution.

  Her mother’s room was large, facing the sea – no doubt she was paying a premium for the privilege – but the blinds were down, leaving it in a crepuscular gloom.

  ‘She doesn’t like the light,’ whispered the assistant, who was dressed in the house uniform of navy blue high-collared tunic and trousers, designed to look as little like a uniform as possible while being practical. ‘It hurts her eyes.’

  Elodie could see Lillie, sitting in a large wing-backed chair she recognized from The Grey House. She could pick out other familiar artefacts too, as if Lillie had tried as hard as she could to recreate her home in this room: paintings and china and pieces of furniture that had been part of their lives for so many years, but it didn’t quite work. Like a sensitive shrub, the atmosphere couldn’t be transplanted.

  Elodie felt a wave of something, she wasn’t sure what, settle on her shoulders. This place was so far away from everything Lillie represented, despite the superficial luxury. She realized the feeling was guilt – a sense of filial guilt.

  How, after everything that her mother had done to her, could that feeling suddenly be so strong? Was it because she herself was staring old age in the face – it was only round the corner – and she was looking at what she feared? Being alone in a place she didn’t want to be, with no one to care about her?

  ‘Hello? Who is that?’ The voice was unmistakably her mother’s. The accent as strong as ever. The assertive tone.

  Elodie walked towards her chair. She didn’t quite know how to announce herself, or how to address her – Mother, Mummy, Maman, Madame? She decided on nothing, for the moment.

  ‘It’s me.’

  She wondered if Lillie would recognize her voice. Its timbre must have changed over fifty years.

  She heard her mother take in a slow, juddering breath.