And now she was going to besmirch their sanctuary with her smutty little assignation. The hut didn’t deserve to be a witness to her infidelity. It was a happy place, a safe place, that had brought them and the girls so much pleasure. How could she even think about asking Oliver here? She was selfish, selfish and disgusting. Not to mention quite likely to get caught. OK, it was still quiet, no one had come down yet for the season, but there was every chance that one of the other owners would pop down just as she had. Or that Roy, who looked after things when they weren’t there, might wander along to say hello. What on earth would he think, finding her here with another man? He was so lovely, Roy. He had a sort of strength and wisdom to him, with his hazel eyes and his calm, gentle voice with just a hint of a burr. But he didn’t miss anything. He was constantly observing, as people who live by the sea often are - they have to be aware of their surroundings to survive. What would he think if he saw her here with her lover? Would he keep her secret?
Sarah shuddered at the thought. Imagining herself momentarily through Roy’s eyes brought her to her senses. She couldn’t go through with this - she absolutely couldn’t. She’d let Oliver come in for a glass of wine, tell him she’d lured him here under false pretences, and if he was half a gentleman he would go . . .
And then she saw him, at the top of the beach. He was just passing the first hut. Her insides leapt involuntarily as she watched him walk over the sand. He had his shoes in one hand, a bottle in the other. Was it too late to run, she wondered? She could slip behind the huts, run along the back to the car park, jump into her car and flee for home. She’d be home by ten. She’d tell Ian she missed him. She could slip into bed with him, tickle his neck like she used to, he would roll over towards her with a smile. If sex was what she wanted, she could have it. No problem.
Her heart was thumping as she stepped back inside the hut. It was almost in her throat as she picked up her car keys, her handbag. Her legs felt as if they could barely carry her. Run, Sarah, run.
But if she ran, she’d never know. And she would never have the courage to orchestrate this situation again. She wanted to breathe the same air he was breathing, to touch his skin. It was a physical yearning that totally overrode any logic in her head. Like the rabid desire for chocolate two days into a diet. No matter how sternly she told herself no, she always gave in. She put her hand on the handle, hesitating.
She couldn’t resist temptation. She never had been able to.
She put her bag down, dropped her keys on the table. Her cheeks were burning. She had ten seconds to muster up the courage to tell him this was wrong, that she had to go, that he couldn’t stay.
‘Hey.’
She shut her eyes before she turned to look at him in the doorway. She could smell him. Sense him. His very presence in the hut changed the way the air felt on her skin. As soon as she saw him, she felt her soul shifting deep inside her.
‘Hi.’
What a ridiculous thing to say.
His eyes were roaming around the hut, taking it all in - the duck-egg blue woodwork, the ticking curtains, the abstract unframed canvases.
‘This is pretty nice.’ He walked in further, absorbing his surroundings, clearly impressed. ‘Is this where you bring all your lovers?’
‘God, no. Of course not. I’ve never brought anyone here. I told you . . .’
‘Oh yes. I remember. You’ve never been unfaithful.’
He put an ironic emphasis on the word. He was mocking her. She felt riled.
‘What’s so wrong with that?’
‘Nothing. Nothing. It makes it all the more . . .’
‘What?’ He infuriated her. She remembered that now. How he made her feel so unsophisticated when he teased her. Like a naive little schoolgirl. She was standing with her hands by her sides, no idea what to do. She didn’t want him to look at her immaculate interior design taste. She wanted him to grab her. She wanted him to be unable to contain himself, to consume her. She wanted him to feel like she did. Effervescent and out of control.
A drink. That would calm her down.
‘Do you want a glass of wine?’
‘Sounds lovely.’
She was struggling with the cork when he came and stood behind her. Her hands were shaking and her mouth was dry as she stretched up to take two glasses from the cupboard. She bent her head to pour the wine carefully.
He kissed her on the neck.
She gave a gasp. Liquid honey slid down inside her, settling in the pit of her stomach. She shut her eyes, swallowed, as he rested his hands on her waist. She turned, clutching the glasses as if they were weapons.
‘Here.’ She held one out to him.
He chuckled.
‘I feel like a fox,’ he told her, ‘with a tiny frightened rabbit.’
‘I am frightened. I’ve never done this. I told you. I don’t know the rules.’
‘The rules are,’ he took the glass out of her hand and put it next to his on the side, ‘there are no rules. We can do what we like. No one knows we’re here.’
And he pushed her up against the wall and kissed her.
Sarah woke at five the next morning. She’d had, by her estimation, about one hour and forty minutes of rather disturbed sleep. She longed to pull the covers back over her, snuggle into Oliver and drift off again, but her mind was racing. She slipped out of bed, pulled on her jeans and a jumper. The kitchen was piled high with the detritus of the midnight feast they’d had. She’d made crab linguine, dicing garlic and chilli and flat-leaf parsley while he watched. Wild animal sex gave you an appetite like nothing else.
Sarah ignored the mess and crept through the door.
Outside the world was a pale grey. The air was cold and damp but she inhaled it sharply into her lungs. Her eyes were stinging, her head muzzy, every muscle in her body ached. She hugged her arms around herself, for comfort as much as warmth, and walked down towards the water as it inched its silver way along the shore.
Last night had been incredible. They’d had fighty, bitey, can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other sex. Teasing, laughing, playful sex. And, most heartbreaking and inexplicable of all, tender can’t-take-your-eyes-off-each-other sex, which had made her cry.
‘Why are you crying?’ he’d asked, bewildered.
‘Because it’s so wrong,’ she’d sobbed. ‘Because it’s so right, but it’s so wrong.’
‘It’s not wrong,’ he tried to assure her, but of course it was.
And now, as she looked out at the horizon, where a reluctant sun was starting to nudge its way tentatively into the next hemisphere, she prayed for the strength to stop straight away. She’d go back to the hut, wake Oliver up, tell him he had to go and that was the end of it. She shivered as the dawn breeze danced round her, wishing it was yesterday, wishing she had found the courage then to put a stop to the madness.
She sat on the bed next to him.
‘Oliver.’
He opened his eyes sleepily and smiled. He put out a hand to touch hers.
‘My God, you’re like a block of ice.’ He lifted the duvet. ‘Come in here. I’ll warm you up.’
‘No.’
‘Come on.’
He sat up, wrapped his arms round her and pulled her back down with him, wrapping the covers over her. Frozen to the marrow by the early-morning mist, she craved warmth. Just five minutes, five minutes, and then he would have to go.
He did have to go. Eventually. After they had spent another crazy hour exploring every inch of each other’s bodies, because despite her protests, despite every intention that she would resist any overture, her clothes had magicked themselves off her in seconds. And early-morning, cold-light-of-day sex was even more intimate than late-night, slightly drunken sex.
She’d started to tell him this couldn’t go on, that this was a one-off, but he put a finger to her lips.
‘Don’t be a cliché,’ he told her, laughing, and she gasped with indignation. She lay under the covers watching him get dressed, completely poleaxe
d by all the emotions she was feeling, unable to put them into any order. She couldn’t just let him walk away without making it clear, absolutely clear, that this wasn’t her thing, she wasn’t an adulteress, she was basically a happily married woman—
‘Bye,’ he said, swooping down to deliver an almost paternal kiss to her brow, and then he was gone. Her mouth was still open with unspoken words when the door shut behind him.
Then she was alone. Shivering uncontrollably under the duvet. She thought she might be in shock. She looked at the clock over the sink in the kitchen area. It was still only seven o’clock.
She slept fitfully till nine, when she dragged herself out of bed and started to tackle the mess, flinging crab shells and empty bottles into a black bin-liner. Normally she would sort everything carefully for recycling, but she couldn’t be bothered. It was all she could do not to throw herself back onto the bed and howl. But she had no sympathy for herself.
You’ve made your own bed, girl.
It was OK. It was just a one-off. Everyone was allowed one mistake. She would bury it, move on. She wouldn’t see him ever again. She’d delete him from her phone. Even better - block him. She wasn’t sure how to do that, but she’d figure it out. It was unlikely she’d bump into him in the near future. He knew the Johnsons, but they didn’t have that many friends in common, he and his wife lived in Warwickshire, she lived in Worcestershire. Another county entirely. She’d find another project to take her mind off him. She had several more ideas for children’s books - her publisher was always badgering her for more. She’d get on with it. In fact, she had a brilliant idea for a seaside book-a whole series based on a friendship between three mermaids who were also vampires, aimed at the teenage market.
She tried desperately to focus on her idea as she worked. It was a great visual - mermaid vampires with long black hair, tattoos, red lips. She could see it taking off, becoming the next big thing. A movie, maybe. Fame, fortune, a sequel . . .
And then she picked up the pillow he had slept on and breathed in his scent. She sat on the bed, falling backwards with a groan. Who the hell was she trying to kid? She lay there, reliving every kiss, every touch, every orgasm. How could she live without that again? When would she see him again?
She didn’t want an affair, she reminded herself. She’d had a taste of sin, and that was enough. She didn’t think her system could cope. The anticipation, the guilt, the panic, the regret, the longing, the wonder of it all - and that was before you even took into account the physical rollercoaster.
Eventually she curled up into a ball and drifted off. Maybe if she wasn’t so tired, she could deal with the maelstrom raging inside her. Yes, she’d definitely feel better if she got some sleep . . .
She was woken by her phone. She jumped up, startled. Her first thought was that it might be Oliver. She desperately wanted to hear his voice, hear him say what an amazing night they had shared.
Vanity. That’s what an affair was about. Vanity and the need for reassurance.
She grabbed the phone from the draining board. IAN flashed up on the screen. She swallowed her disappointment. She put the phone down without answering. She couldn’t face speaking to him. He would know. He’d be able to tell by the tone of her voice. And she didn’t trust herself not to cry, to break down completely and confess all.
So she left it.
When the phone finally stopped ringing, Sarah thought she might be sick. She ran outside the hut, bent double, retching into the sand. Whoever said adultery was glamorous?
Eventually her retching subsided. She remained bent over, her hands on her knees, breathing in deeply to keep down the rising panic and the nausea.
‘You OK?’
Shit. It was Roy. He was ambling along with a box of tools, obviously on his way to repair one of the other huts.
‘Fine. I . . . had some crab last night. I’m not sure it agreed with me.’
She stood up, pushing her hair back from her forehead.
Roy gave a sympathetic chuckle.
‘Crustacean’s revenge, eh?’
She nodded, gesturing weakly at the hut. ‘I’m just . . . getting ready for the first lot of guests.’
‘We’re set for a good summer.’
‘Let’s hope so, after last year. I’m surprised we’ve had any bookings at all, after all that rain.’
‘People love the seaside. They always will.’ He lifted his toolbox. ‘Anyway, I must get on. I hope you feel better. Flat lemonade. That’s what I recommend.’
Sarah slumped back down onto the steps and watched him go. Her stomach felt stronger, but she was drenched in sweat. The sea was a good half-mile out, but that’s what she needed. Total immersion, so she could wash away her sins.
Half an hour later, Sarah lay on her back looking up at the sky as the waves nudged her back in to shore, feeling the salty brine wash every last cell of Oliver’s DNA from her body. She wished she could lie here for ever, like some ineffectual sea creature, and never have to face the consequences of what she had done. There was no escaping it. She had to look at her life, her marriage, her state of mind and figure out what had gone wrong.
There was nothing as painful as shame and regret. She had no one to blame but herself. She certainly couldn’t point the finger at Oliver. He had just been the catalyst. At no point had he forced her into anything against her will. No, she was entirely culpable.
Eventually she became completely waterlogged. She could feel the tips of her fingers wrinkling. She stood up and waded back into the shore, her lips dry and cracked. She had a terrible thirst. Not surprising, given the amount she had drunk, and the physical activity, and the heat of the sun beating down on her.
She looked along the beach and her heart stopped. She could see Ian, walking determinedly towards her, a girl in each hand. They were in their home clothes. What on earth had happened? Hadn’t they gone to school? Had he taken the day off to surprise her? What if he’d come down the night before, and had walked in on her and Oliver? Her blood ran cold at the thought. Or what . . . what if someone had cottoned on, and had phoned to tell him what was going on? Surely Ian wouldn’t bring the girls with him to confront her?
She couldn’t read his expression as he arrived, and anyway, the girls were leaping all over her, squealing with excitement at this unexpected trip.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, trying her best to look pleased, and not guilty in any way.
‘I can’t talk at the moment. Wait until the girls are tucked up in bed.’
He seemed subdued. A little grim. Sarah’s heart was leaping frantically in her chest, as if it was looking for the quickest way out.
‘Did you take them out of school?’
‘I picked them up early. They were chuffed to bits.’ He smiled, but the smile didn’t seem to meet his eyes. There was definitely something wrong.
‘Well, I haven’t got enough food in to do supper . . . We better get fish and chips.’ Shit. What if he looked in the bin? Two crab shells, the empty bottles. And she was pretty sure the wine glasses were still on the draining board. She’d left them there to dry. ‘In fact, why don’t you go and get them and I’ll . . .’ What? Tidy away all the evidence of my infidelity? ‘Just finish up my jobs. You can leave the girls here . . .’
Thank goodness he agreed. As he made his way back up the beach to head for the chip shop, Sarah shot back inside, leaving Meg and Amy to play in the sand. She sniffed the air - did it smell of sex? Oliver’s distinctive cologne? His cigarettes, which were so much stronger than her roll-ups? Would she have time to change the sheets? She was glad she had brought two spare sets from IKEA. She couldn’t, absolutely couldn’t, face the prospect of sleeping with Ian in the same linen that was soaked with the sweat of their - well, lovemaking wasn’t the right word. She whipped the duvet off, wrenched the sheet from underneath, pulled off the pillow cases, all the while looking wildly round for any other evidence. She tugged the rubbish bag out of the bin and tied it up - Ian would h
ave no reason to look inside, she could make an excuse to take it up to the big bins in the recycling centre later, arguing she didn’t want the hut to smell of fish and chips.
Adultery was certainly testing her ingenuity. Although for all she knew, she was wasting her time, and had already been caught. Her stomach was on spin cycle, as was her head. She lit two of the scented candles she had bought, put away the glasses and cutlery. Emptied the cafetière - she hadn’t drunk coffee since she’d had the girls, only tea, so Ian would undoubtedly wonder who she had made it for. Her skin was crawling with prickly paranoia.
Ian was in the doorway, holding a bag of fish and chips aloft.
She smiled. There was absolutely no way she was going to be able to face food.
‘Lovely. We don’t need plates, do we?’
They ate on a rug on the sand at the front of the hut. Sarah forced down as much as she could, swallowing each chip with difficulty, picking at the snow-white flakes of cod in their golden batter. Meg and Amy provided enough chatter for them to seem like a happy family. Anyone passing by would have felt their heart melt at the idyllic scene.
Afterwards, Sarah jumped up and gathered up the wrappers, pushing them into the bin-bag and tying it into the tightest knot possible.
‘I’ll take this up to the recycling—’
‘No. I’ll go. You put the girls to bed.’
‘No, I—’
‘I’ll take it.’ His tone was firm. Not to be argued with. And to protest would arouse suspicion. Sarah relented.
She watched as her husband carried the bagful of evidence across the beach, praying he wouldn’t find some reason to open it. She could find an excuse for most of it. Probably. But not the condoms. She imagined the irrefutable evidence nestling amongst the detritus. Shame released its bile into the chips in her stomach, and for the second time that day she thought she was going to be sick.
The Beach Hut Page 7