Seven Days: The Complete Story

by Dale, Lindy

  “I’m not a kid,” I say, moving to brush a stray hair away from my face.

  “Far from it.” Nicholas moves closer. His lips are against my ear. His breath is hot on my neck. I quiver again as his fingers rest on mine and he tucks the hair behind my ear. “That’s the worst part, isn’t it?” he adds.

  “What?”

  “Everyone thinking you’ll fall apart, so you do because that’s what’s easier. You can wallow in your own shit because people expect you to do that. They almost want you to sink as low as possible so they can say how they were the one to talk you out of a funk. I didn’t shave for a month after Mum went. I sat in my own filth and punched walls and drank tequila. I wasn’t a good person to be around. At least that’s what they tell me.”

  I wonder briefly who ‘they’ might be and whether they’re male or female. It’s absurd that such a thing makes me feel a twinge of jealousy. It’s a conversation. He’s not telling me about his long lost love or anything.

  “When did your Mum die?”

  “Three years ago. A rare strain of breast cancer. Things were just starting to come together with the company and I was working insane hours. I thought she’d be okay, especially when she seemed to have beaten it. I mean, who dies of breast cancer these days when it’s caught early? But then, she found a lump in her neck and within two months she was gone. I wasn’t there for her enough. I felt like a shit son for a long time after that. The guilt was enormous.”

  “What pulled you out of it?”

  “Funnily enough it was this kid I saw sitting in the street one day. I’d seen him a few times on the train with his dad. He looked sad and he was dirty and skinny, really unkempt and unloved. His dad was ignoring him, talking on the phone to someone. Then later in the day, I saw them both outside my building. The kid was begging for money and the dad was just sitting there, letting him do it. Every time someone walked past without putting money in the hat the dad hit the kid around the head to make him cry. That was when I realised that everyone has one life and, sure, my Mum was gone, but I had to live the life I was given. There’s heaps of people who have it worse than me.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m cool. About a year after Mum died, I found a letter she’d written me. She told me how proud she was of everything I’d achieved and how I wasn’t to feel bad or guilty. Even if I hadn’t been in the hospital every second, she knew I loved her and thought about her. She knew I was trying to build a future for myself that had to endure after she’d gone. She didn’t blame me or feel sad. In fact, she said I’d been there when she needed me most. Which was the exact opposite of the way I’d seen the situation. That helped a lot, knowing her view of the events and mine weren’t in sync and she didn’t feel alone or abandoned.”

  “I wish I’d had some sort of closure. It makes me sad every day that I didn’t get to see Mum at the end.”

  “That’ll pass. You won’t forget but you’ll learn to live with it and remember your mother with fondness.”

  “I hope so,” I say, wondering at how Nicholas knew the exact moment when I’d be relaxed enough to talk without weeping? How can he know that? It’s like the hole in me that I always thought was missing has been filled.

  *****

  After a while, we stop near a beach and drop anchor. The shore bends in a curve a few hundred metres in either direction enveloping the little boat. The beach is quite empty. The breeze has picked up now and though it’s still relatively calm, I feel like I’m bobbing in a beautiful aquamarine fishbowl complete with tiny sea creatures. It’s glorious.

  “Want some breakfast?” Nicholas asks. He disappears below and comes back with a large picnic basket. Inside is a thermos filled with coffee, muffins still warm from the oven and croissants, jam and juice.

  “Please tell me you didn’t get up at three this morning to make this?” I say, feeling a tad remorseful that I’ve contributed nothing to the feast.

  “Would I get brownie points if I did?”

  “Definitely. I can’t cook more than beans on toast and two minute noodles.”

  “Then I did.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as he grins at me.

  “Liar.”

  “You got me. I know the guy who owns the bakery next to The Beach Hut. I sent him a text last night and asked him to make me something suitably impressive. I made the coffee though,” he qualifies.

  “I’m glad.” I pick up a croissant and take a bite. It’s good.

  “Why?”

  “I’d have felt bad thinking you did this for me. Especially when I’ve contributed nothing.”

  “Two minute noodles aren’t that good for breakfast.”

  “Sure they are. I’ve lived on them for the last three years. But seriously, you should have told me to bring something.”

  “I didn’t want you to. You’re my guest.”

  “Yeah. But—”

  He puts a finger to my lips. His face moves close to mine and for a second I think he’s going to kiss me. “Eat your breakfast.”

  Later, we strip to our bathers and stand appraising each other before preparing to leap into the fishbowl ocean. I don’t feel self-conscious with Nicholas’ eyes on me and I’m not embarrassed to be doing the same to him. It’s like we’re silently agreeing that we like each other physically and it’s okay to look. It’s an odd feeling. Every other boy I’ve been with has made me feel as if I need to cover myself when we weren’t making love. But then, Nicholas is no ordinary man. I’m beginning to see that. There’s something about him that tugs at my heartstrings.

  “Ready?”

  I nod. The water is calm like a millpond and so clear I can see the bottom. I’m scared. I don’t do water unless it’s in a swimming pool and I can touch the bottom without losing breath.

  “On the count of three?” he says.

  “Will you hold my hand?” I ask him, hoping he doesn’t get the wrong impression from my request.

  His hand clasps mine. He smiles like he understands.

  “You’re very pretty, Sadie,” he says.

  “Smooth talker.”

  “I mean it.”

  “But how can you say it when we barely know each other?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is you’re all I’ve been able to think about for the last twelve hours. I almost walked in front of a taxi on the way home last night; I was so obsessed with thoughts of you. I can’t explain it.”

  I look into his eyes and I know he’s telling the truth. “I feel it too,” I say. “My obsession had been, shall we say … worrying?”

  And constant. And orgasmic. Definitely that.

  *****

  In the afternoon, after Nicholas has dropped me at the cottage and gone to his meeting, I lay on the hammock in the shade, a glass of iced tea and a book beside me. I planned to do some pre-reading for my courses this semester but all I do is fiddle around on Facebook and complete a silly quiz to find out what my princess name would be. I’m exhausted. Swimming and sun always do that to me.

  I close my eyes and a smile tugs at my lips. My mind is swimming in Nicholas. The gentle way he touched me, his fingers on mine as we steered the Constance along, the way he made talking so easy. I see his face; feel his arms around my body. I hear his voice, soft in my ear. I relive the feelings as his eyes raked over my body. I begin to fantasise about his body underneath his clothes. I see us in the bedroom. He’s stripped me of my shirt and, with his hands about my waist, is pulling me close to him, so close I can feel the drumming of his heart. His teeth are nipping at the skin of my neck as he undoes my bra. Then his hands reach to cup my breasts and he kisses me fully—

  On the ground next to my drink, my phone rings and I fall from the goddamn hammock in surprise.

  Shit. That hurt.

  I pick myself up. “Um, hi… hello?”

  “Hey, honeybubble, how’s it going at the beach? I’m soooo envious. I’ve been sitting here with the fan and a bottle of water the entire morning. It’s like a freaking saun
a in this flat. We, seriously, have to get something done about the air con, it’s making a noise similar to the one Gary used to make when he was about to come. You know, sort of grunting and whining? Hashtag scary.”

  It’s my best friend Emily, or as I call her ‘Machine Gun’. Emily can talk faster than the speed of light and change subjects at such a rapid pace that if you’re not paying full attention you end up thinking we’ve invited the cast of Supernatural for dinner (I did once. Sooo embarrassing). If Emily were able to run at the speed she talks, she’d be declared a superhero, though she’s already one to me. She’s saved my life on more than one occasion.

  “I’m awesome,” I say. “Mega relaxed.”

  “You sound refreshed. Not too many tears, I hope.”

  “No. I’ve hit the books and I’ve been clearing out the garden. It was so overgrown. I even went swimming in the ocean this morning.”

  “And what’s brought about this change?”

  “Not sure. But I have been reading this really good book on making your dreams a reality.” I don’t know if I’m ready to share Nicholas with Emily yet. She tends to jump the gun when it comes to boys. She’ll have us married by tomorrow morning. Emily and I are polar opposites in that regard. I’m wary when it comes to men. I like the trustworthy, stable, quiet type. Emily will fall in love with anyone who winks in her direction. And even though she longs for marriage and a baby, unheard of at our age, she ends up making the most disastrous choices — serial womanisers, greasy haired bikers. It’s like she’s so desperate to be loved she’ll settle for anyone.

  “Boooorrrrring! Haven’t you met anyone? At least had a dance with someone cute?” I visualise Emily sprawled on the couch in her short shorts, her legs draped over the back of it, a glass of something icy in her hand. She probably has some poor boy there now, massaging her feet in the hope it will lead to something else. She’s such a hussy.

  “Not really.” I hope I sound convincing.

  “Oh. My. God. You totally have.”

  Okay. Sometimes I wonder whether Emily has psychic abilities.

  “What’s his name? What does he look like? Please tell me he’s not one of those buttoned-up straight types you always go for. You need some spice in your life.”

  The questions are firing through the phone so fast my brain can hardly focus. “Slow down,” I say, attempting to not get caught up in Emily’s enthusiasm.

  “Name,” she demands.

  “Nicholas.”

  “Age?”

  “Late twenties. Maybe thirty.”

  “Ooooh, the older man. Are you sure you’re up for a man of the world? You know they have chest hair, right? And they like all sorts of things you’ve never even fantasised about.”

  She makes me sound like Maria from The Sound of Music.

  “And how do you know?”

  I can hear her eye roll through the phone. “What does he look like? And don’t say ‘nice’,” she says.

  “Hot. Six two. Broad shoulders. Smooth, rock hard chest. And you should see his abs—”

  I’m embellishing a little for her benefit but it will make her happy.

  “You’ve seen his naked chest already? Geez Louise, you don’t waste any time.”

  “Shut up or I won’t tell you the rest.”

  Emily shuts up.

  “So…he’s got these gorgeous pink lips and he has sort of dirty blond, sort of shaggy surfer hair and a tattoo on his left bicep. It’s a cross, I think, or maybe dagger. I know there’s a name written in it.”

  “I’m not going to ask how you got so up close and personal as to notice that.”

  “It’s summer Emily. Most of the men here are topless.”

  “Now I’m even more jealous. Are you sure you don’t need me to come and supervise your extra curricular activities?”

  We both laugh.

  The conversation descends into the realm of smut I’m not comfortable talking about even in Emily’s presence, the type of stuff she loves to tease me with when she’s calling me a prude. But I’m not a prude and I’m not innocent. I just don’t like to talk about it, that’s all.

  “Are you going to see him again?” she asks, finally.

  “It was discussed.”

  “And you didn’t take three days to decide this was the right option?”

  “No. I knew straight away. It was like we connected. You know what they say about when you meet the right person…”

  “You’re not saying you’re in love with him, this older man with the naughty hair and tattoos?”

  “Don’t be silly. I only met him yesterday.” But I am deeply into Nicholas. And it’s scaring the crap out of me. I have no idea what to do with this feeling.

  “Good. Well, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  I snort. “That leaves me with a very short list.”

  “Funny. Not. I’ll see you next week. Rested and ready for the beginning of our last year as students.”

  “Bye, Em.” I hang up the phone. That goofy smile is on my face again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next day is Friday. In a few more days I’ll be going home to reality. The school year will be upon me and I’ll have tonnes to occupy my time. It’s frightening to think it’s ten months till I’ll never be at school again — I’ll be joining the workforce like a real adult — so I suppose I should make the most of this time. I won’t have holidays like this again.

  After breakfast, I get dressed in a pair of shorts and a tank top. I pull my hair into a ponytail and put on a cap and some sunglasses. Exercise has been sadly lacking in my daily routine of late but after my over-sharing effort with Nicholas yesterday, I feel ready. The man should be a counsellor. He’s done more for my mental health in twenty-four hours than anyone’s been able to in a year.

  I leave the house, closing the beach gate firmly behind me. I walk down onto the firmer sand near the shore. I jog for a while and then, when I’m too tired to run anymore I take off my shoes and socks and paddle in the shallow water. It’s not as hot as it was yesterday so I dawdle for what must be a good half hour with my ankles in the surf before I realise how far I’ve come. I’m miles from anywhere, in a part of the bay I’ve never ventured to before, which is sort of nice. I’m loving these new feelings of exploration. I feel free, the way you’re supposed to feel when you’re twenty-one, I guess.

  Reaching the edge of the beach where the sand is punctuated by huge bleached boulders, I stop. I look in both directions. I scan the dunes at the top of the beach but for as far as I can see the beach is deserted. There’s a flock of seagulls fighting over a dead fish but other than that, nothing. I look left and right again. I bite my lip with indecision. Then — and I don’t know how this happens or why — I strip to nothing, leaving my clothes on the beach. I pelt into the ocean. The coolness of the water hits my skin. The adrenalin rush is instant. That feeling I’ve longed for, from doing something impulsive, is exhilarating. So exhilarating that I literally whoop with joy… until I realise I look like a complete nut job and stop myself from doing it again.

  After a second or two my body adjusts to the temperature, so I swim further out past the break before turning over to float on my back. As a rule, I don’t like to be where I can’t feel the bottom. But today I just feel like doing it, stretching myself a little more. It must have been that swim with Nicholas. He’s made me see what I was missing. I still don’t like the bits where I can’t see below me though.

  The sun is blinding, so I close my eyes and let its warmth seep through my lids. I listen to the gurgling of the waves under the water.

  This is fabulous, I think. I could stay here all day.

  It’s peaceful and liberating somehow, being naked in the water. I can understand why people say skinny-dipping is fun. Having the water on your body without the barrier of clothing feels different, not like being in the bath at all. Although, at this moment, I’m starting to wish I was in my bath.

  Alone.

  There’s
a splashing noise to my left and a sort of coughing sound, like someone choking on a jellyfish. I open my eyes and there — sitting on a surfboard — staring at me like I’m an apparition, is a man.

  The scream that comes from my mouth as it fills with water is more of a terrified gurgling yelp. I pull my body under the surface and try pointlessly to cover myself but there’s only so much skin two hands can shield.

  Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

  Suddenly, the idea of being naked isn’t so appealing. And treading water while attempting to keep my privates from being on show isn’t that easy. I could drown if he doesn’t avert his eyes.

  “Hello,” he says, as calm and composed as if he comes across naked girls in the waves every day. “Do you need a hand?”

  I don’t know how to respond to this. I am undressed and he is not. He clearly has the advantage.

  I spit out the water and give him a strained smile. Below the surface my feet are pounding the water for dear life. The water that felt refreshing thirty seconds ago is now giving me goosebumps. I think I’m going into shock. “No. Thank you.”

  He points to the left. “You’re getting pretty close to the reef—”

  There’s a reef? Could this get any worse?

  “And there’s a rip over that way—”

  I guess it could.

  “—Are you sure you can get back to the beach?”

  Even if I couldn’t, I cannot suffer the mortification of being naked on this man’s surfboard, if that’s what he’s offering. I’m never skinny-dipping again. Never.

  “I think I’ll be fine. I’m a strong swimmer.”

  In my head, I am.

  “Sure?”

  “Positive.” And to demonstrate I commence a freestyle back to shore, attempting to look as if I narrowly missed selection for the Olympic swim team. His seeing my bottom is preferable to seeing my other bits.

  The man paddles along beside me. His mouth is bent in thinly disguised amusement. I see it every time I swing my face in his direction. He’s so annoying.

  “Watch out for that coral there,” he says. “You’ll cut yourself to ribbons.”