Helena looked over to the eating area and tried to imagine herself there in a year or so, pushing potato wedges into a reluctant mouth, dabbing at a tiny chin with a paper napkin, pulling a protesting body out of its high chair. It seemed an impossible future. But why not? She knew she would feel a strong pull to bring her child back to the place of its conception, and Everdene was ideal for family holidays.
Which meant she should probably avoid a local if she could.
She ordered a glass of white wine and soda from the bar. She was trying to avoid alcohol as part of her preconception regime, but she really couldn’t do this stone-cold sober. It wasn’t as if she was going to tank down a flotilla of alcopops and risk foetal alcohol syndrome. One or two wouldn’t hurt. She ran her gaze through the crowds, weighing up the potential. She knew that when she saw him, she would know.
In the end, she found him outside. The heat inside was stifling, the noise was becoming too much to bear, and Helena was finding it hard not to make it obvious she was on her own. She’d been approached several times. Not in a bad way, most people were just being friendly, but it did bring home to her the risky madness of her plan. So she went outside for some fresh air to clear her head, and to look at the night sky, which was bright and clear. Maybe she would find some guidance amongst the stars.
He was leaning against the stone wall that separated the pub from the road, nursing what looked like a Scotch or a brandy. He too was gazing at the sky.
‘You reckon the answer’s out there?’ She kept her tone light and friendly.
He turned, with a lopsided, quizzical smile.
‘I doubt it.’
She came and stood next to him, leant her forearms on the rough stone. From here she could appraise him more thoroughly. He was tall - six foot, she estimated - and well proportioned. Hair in a fashionably scruffy cut that would need attention in a couple of weeks but was looking its best right now. Logo-less black T-shirt that revealed well-defined but not overdeveloped biceps, one of which had a Celtic band tattooed on it. The faintest drift of some aftershave she didn’t recognise but approved of - slightly citrussy. Not public school but not a chav either, which was what Helena felt most comfortable with. She couldn’t bear arrogance, but she liked a man who could choose wine from the wine-list without going into meltdown. This guy looked affluent but not flashy - confident, attractive.
‘Do you come here often?’ she joked. She was going to have to resort to clichés to speed up the process.
‘As often as I can,’ he replied. ‘What’s not to like?’
‘I know.’ She took another sip of her drink. ‘It’s a while since I’ve been, but it seemed like the perfect place to get some down time. I’ve had a bit of a tough time in the past few weeks.’
She flicked a glance over to him to judge his reaction. Was he silently willing her to fuck off so he could carry on with his stargazing?
But he seemed quite happy to chat.
‘Me too,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve just been best man at my mate’s wedding. It all went a bit . . . tits up.’
‘Weddings can be a nightmare.’ Helena had never had to suffer her own, but she’d been to plenty and had seen the stress and the fallout.
‘This was beyond a nightmare.’
‘Did the bride and groom make it up the aisle?’
‘By the skin of their teeth.’ He turned to look at her, and as he smiled, she could see he had laughing eyes. Conspirator’s eyes. She felt her pulse increase a little. ‘It was all OK in the end. When they left for the airport this morning they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. I couldn’t face going back to work, so I’ve taken a few days off to recover from the trauma.’
He rubbed a hand over his face and ruffled his hair. Helena could see he had felt the strain - despite his tan, he looked tired.
‘What do you do?’
He gave a small grimace. ‘Well-I was going to be a professional footballer. Tried out for some of the second-division teams but . . . knee injury. The old cruciate ligament.’
‘Like Gordon Ramsay?’
‘Kind of,’ he replied. ‘Except I’m not a Michelinstarred chef. I’m a physiotherapist. I thought if my injury was going to stop me doing what I really wanted, then at least I could help others with theirs.’
‘Seems like a good plan.’
‘And actually, now I’m glad. My life’s my own. I’ve got a great client list. I earn a good living, but if I want to block some time out of my diary I can.’ He gestured towards the sea. ‘I spend as much time as I can here. I can’t play football or ski any more, but at least I can surf.’
‘It’s supposed to be addictive.’
‘Have you never tried?’
‘Do you know what - I’ve been here loads of times, but I’ve never actually had a go.’
‘You totally should. You’d love it.’
His eyes shone with the passion of one obsessed with his hobby. Helena grinned impishly.
‘I just need a good teacher.’
She saw the shutters come down almost straight away, and realised she was going too fast, too soon.
‘What about you?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘What do you do?’
She decided to pitch her status slightly lower. He didn’t look the type to be intimidated - in fact, he might consider it a challenge - but the less he knew about her, the less complicated it would be.
‘I’m a rep. For a drug company. Spend most of my time on the road.’
‘Bribing consultants to use your products?’
‘Shamelessly. Using every trick in the book.’
She met his eyes, laughing, knowing that she was both lying and flirting. She quite enjoyed it. He held up his empty glass.
‘Fancy another?’
It was so tempting. She’d already had one, but part of her wanted to let her hair down and enjoy her alter ego. But she had to be careful. She wanted to keep her wits about her.
She’d have one more. She could sip it slowly.
‘Go on then. White wine and soda. Thank you. I’m Helena, by the way.’
‘Liam . . .’
He took her glass and she watched him walk back inside with an appraising eye. So far, so good. A physio was a good job - to get a reputation you had to be dedicated and conscientious. He had great dress sense, good manners, he seemed to have a sense of humour. She only had her gut to go on to make sure he wasn’t a psychopath. And she trusted her gut. She had to, in her job.
She looked up at the star-studded sky, trying not to remember that it was the very same sky Neal would be looking up at in Florence. She wondered if he already had a replacement for her. They would be standing arm in arm, reckless after a bottle or two of potent Italian red, gazing at the navy-blue velvet . . .
Stop it. She was looking forwards, not backwards. She wasn’t going to spend another moment thinking about someone who’d wasted eight years of her life. Helena burrowed in her bag quickly for her Lancôme Juicy Tube, swiped it over her mouth, pressed her lips together so it wouldn’t be obvious, then ran her fingers through her hair. Focus, she told herself. Focus.
At the bar, Liam waited patiently for the barman, wondering why the hell he had asked whoever-she-was if she wanted a drink. Helena, that was her name. He had broken his resolution already. Well, not completely, but there was no denying he was embroiled in a conversation with an attractive woman who was clearly free and available and giving out signals. He’d fallen into the trap.
Had he learnt nothing from the past few weeks? The stag night fiasco had shaken him to the core. Both his own sordid one-night stand, and the five-act drama that was Dan’s. He still didn’t know what to believe, Jenna’s hastily revised version of events or her original story. Nor did he want the details. All he was glad of was that Dan and Kirsty had left for their honeymoon quite happy. But it could so easily have gone another way. One night of laddish behaviour in the Ship could have ended in the whole wedding being called off at the last minute, and it would
have been his fault. Liam remembered leaving the pub with his own conquest, passing Jenna astride Dan’s knee, and barely stopping to give his friend a warning.
He’d seen the woman again this morning. In the post office, this time on her own, taking some money out from the cashpoint. He had longed to go up to her and ask how she was. She looked fragile, tired. She didn’t see him. He followed her outside to see a sleek Mercedes pull up - the driver gave an impatient pip on the horn and she scurried to get into the car. Had the driver been the source of her unhappiness? The reason why she had clung so tightly to him during sex - he couldn’t call it making love; he didn’t even know her name. He hated not knowing the end of the story, but he couldn’t muster up the courage to approach her.
The wedding, the one-night stand - they had both left him feeling that someone had pulled the plug and he had been left with the scum clinging to him. And so he had resolved to turn over a new leaf and leave behind the hedonistic love-them-and-leave-them lifestyle he’d indulged in for so long. It had suited him to be footloose and fancy free, but when it left you feeling grubby and guilty, it was time to change. That kind of behaviour was OK in your twenties, but not in your mid-thirties. He had looked at Dan waiting for his beautiful bride and had felt a mixture of shame and envy. As the two of them had spoken their vows, he had vowed himself to make some drastic changes.
Only here he was again. Old habits die hard, he thought ruefully as the barman handed him the replenished glasses.
You don’t have to jump her bones, he reminded himself. You can just have a perfectly pleasant conversation and leave it at that.
He took the glasses, turned and walked outside. For a moment, he thought she’d got bored of waiting and had gone, and he felt a twinge of disappointment but no - she was still there. She’d sat down at one of the tables. She smiled at him as he approached and he was struck by how attractive she was. Attractive and quite a bit older than him, he thought. Just like the last one. A bit more together than the last one, though. Not quite so much baggage.
Just a friendly chat, he told himself, wondering if he’d be able to override his instinct. It would be easy, he knew it would. At his time of life, you learnt to read the signals.
They chatted for hours. They were very different, but they found things in common. A love of Indian food - she swore by Madhur Jaffrey, he swore by making it up as he went along. A love of Dan Brown-a guilty pleasure for both of them. They both wanted to go to Machu Picchu, preferably at Christmas time; they both hated Christmas. And as the pub started emptying, she looked at him.
‘I’m never going to sleep, if I go to bed now,’ she said. ‘I had a huge nap this afternoon. I’m going to take a walk along the beach.’
This was the time for Liam to say goodbye. The cue to say, ‘It’s been nice meeting you,’ and to go back to the hotel.
‘I’ll come with you.’
The moon shone brightly on the sand as they walked, the lights of Everdene twinkling behind them. Helena had taken off her boots and rolled up her jeans. She looked less intimidating without the extra height. Softer somehow. Liam found himself intrigued by her - she seemed a curious mixture of hyper-confident and strangely reticent. He wondered what her history was-a woman like her didn’t get through life without romantic entanglement, and she’d mentioned coming here because she’d had a tough time. A traumatic break-up?
He wasn’t going to ask. He didn’t want to get too familiar. Keep it casual.
‘Oh look,’ he said, pointing at the sky. ‘Orion’s Belt, as clear as you like.’ And felt like an absolute idiot.
She was as certain as she could ever be. After all, she’d given Neal eight years before she realised he was not the one, so why shouldn’t she make up her mind after a few hours? And if she’d gone down the donor route, she would have had no inkling. At least she knew Liam had a work ethic, a sense of humour and a zest for life. And he knew his constellations . . .
She shivered in the moonlight. It was chilly in just a T-shirt, and her feet were freezing.
‘I need to get back inside. I need a hot chocolate to warm me up.’ She paused. ‘Would you like one? I can stick a slug of brandy in it, or marshmallows. Whichever . . .’
She trailed off, suddenly losing confidence in her plan.
It’s OK, she told herself. You don’t have to sleep with him.
‘Can I just have the brandy?’ he asked.
In the end, she had brandy too, that spread its fiery warmth right through her body and gave her the courage to put her arms around his neck and look into his eyes. Their lips met for a moment, for the most fleeting of kisses, before he put his hands on her arms and pushed her away gently.
‘I can’t do this,’ he said.
Helena wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly.
‘Sorry?’
‘This - one-night stand thing. It’s not right.’
She gave a little laugh.
‘Come on. We’re both grown-ups.’
Liam peeled himself away from her. He stared up at the ceiling.
‘It’s not you,’ he said. ‘It’s—’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ Helena turned away and walked over to the kitchen area. She squirted some Fairy Liquid savagely into the sink and turned on the taps. ‘Just bugger off if you want to. I can handle it.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Liam. ‘I really like you. I want it to . . . matter. I don’t want to just get my leg over and walk off.’ He gave her a rueful smile. ‘I’ve done that once too often.’
Helena nodded sagely.
‘I’m guessing there’s history behind this?’
‘Like I said,’ he replied. ‘It’s not you ...’
Helena rolled her eyes.
‘Goodnight.’
She plunged their brandy glasses into the sink full of warm water. She heard the door of the beach hut click softly as he left.
Trust her to pick the one guy on the planet who had sworn a vow of celibacy to father her child.
The next morning, she heard a bang on her beach-hut door. She looked at her watch, bleary eyed. It was only just after seven. What was going on? She rolled out of bed and staggered across the room. Mornings were not her strong point. Not until she’d had two mugs of Earl Grey at least.
He was standing at the top of the step, dressed in a wetsuit, holding up another. On the sand behind him lay two boards.
‘Surf’s up,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘Let’s get the best waves before you get an audience.’
She stood in the doorway, speechless.
‘Come on. Chop-chop.’
No one did this to Helena Dickinson. Took her by surprise. Told her what to do. Set her a challenge she wasn’t sure she could meet.
He held out the wetsuit.
‘I reckon you’re about a size twelve? Stick it on. Let’s get going.’
Three hours later and she was exhausted. She didn’t know what ached more, her arms, her legs or her stomach muscles. She was battered from falling off - wiping out, as they called it - but she’d finally done it. She’d stood up on her board and rode in on a wave. Not very elegantly, granted, but she felt as if she was flying. When she finally fell, he came and gave her a hand to stand up.
‘I did it!’ she cried, triumphant. ‘I totally did it. It was fantastic!’
‘That’s it now,’ he grinned. ‘You’ll be hooked.’
Without thinking, she threw her arms around his neck. Their lips met, salty. It was a brief kiss, but a kiss full of promise, full of meaning, before a wave came up behind her and knocked her off her feet.
She came up laughing. He was right. She was hooked.
She managed to drag herself back to the hut on trembling legs. He teased her all the way. It was a new experience for her, a man who tested her, who wasn’t afraid to make fun. No one at the hospital ever did, and Neal certainly wasn’t one for light-hearted japes.
She made them pancakes, with sliced banana, Devon clotted cream and drizzles of maple syrup. T
hey lay on a rug in the sun afterwards, in a carbohydrate slump.
‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ said Helena.
‘Shit,’ Liam sat up. ‘You’re not married. Tell me you’re not married.’
‘I’m not married,’ she assured him. ‘But I’m not a drug rep either.’
And so she told him the truth. About her job, and about Neal doing a runner. And he wasn’t fazed, or freaked out, or pissed off that she’d lied to him. He lay there listening to her unburden herself, and when she’d finished he just stretched out a hand and took hers.
They fell asleep together in the sun.
10
PERFECT STORM
Sirens screeched. Bells rang. Somewhere in the background, Dizzee Rascal begged for someone to come and dance with him. Despite the cacophony, Serena was gripping the steering wheel with total concentration. She eased off the throttle as she took the corner, then put her foot down as she drove hell for leather down the straight before slowing down again for the hairpin bend. She could see the finishing line, the audience cheering either side of the road, as she maxed the car for the last half-mile, then swept under the flags to tumultuous applause two seconds before her rival.
‘Yesss!’ She jumped off her seat, arms in the air in a gesture of triumph.
Next to her, Adrian slid off his seat with a wry grin of defeat.
‘I never knew you could drive like that.’
‘I’ll let you into a secret.’ She leant in close to him, and he breathed in her scent. He should be used to it by now, but it still made him light-headed. ‘I used to come in here with Harry. When he was about thirteen. We played all the games, but that was his favourite. I bet our initials are still in the computer.’
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