The Beach Hut

by Veronica Henry

  As the music swirled round them, she closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder. He didn’t want to move, in case he broke the dream. He didn’t think about Marie, and what she would think if she could see them. He didn’t want anything to spoil the moment, in case this was all he ever had.

  Her eyes opened and she looked at him dreamily.

  ‘Come with me,’ she whispered, and she took him by the hand. As the sun finally slipped over the horizon, she led him around to the back of the beach huts. No one noticed them going. Things were getting quite raucous now; there were shrieks and guffaws.

  They stood together in the dark.

  ‘Hold me,’ she whispered.

  As he put his arms around her, Roy’s throat felt tight, his body felt hot. Blood pounded in his ears. He almost, almost didn’t think he could cope, as she brought her lips to meet his.

  It was everything he’d ever dreamt of. He wanted it to last for ever. Nothing could be better than holding her in his arms. He breathed in the lemony-soapy smell of her hair. She was so warm, so soft. He ran his fingers over her back, caressing her gently as he kissed her. He didn’t feel nervous any more. It felt so natural, as if they were made for each other.

  Suddenly she jerked away. She looked distressed. There were tears in her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, alarmed that he had gone too far, that he had taken some liberty that had frightened her.

  She just shook her head and walked off.

  Roy stood stock-still, fists clenched, dumbfounded. What had he done? It had felt so right. Surely she’d felt it too, that wonderful glow - it had seemed as if they were in a bubble, just the two of them, bathed in warmth. But no. Obviously she hadn’t felt the same at all. She couldn’t get away from him fast enough. Suddenly he shivered as the damp night air wrapped itself round him, any hint of that warmth now gone. He couldn’t face going back to join the party. He didn’t want to look at her, searching for an explanation. He felt ashamed, but he hadn’t forced himself upon her, had he? She was the one who had led him behind the huts, she’d asked him to hold her; she’d held her face up to be kissed. He would never, ever have tried to take advantage. Had he misread the signs? What had he done that was so repellent? He realised with horror that he was going to cry, and clenched his jaw to stop himself.

  He turned to face the wind that had picked up and was now sweeping in across the sea, and trudged along the back of the huts, hiding in the shadows so that no one would notice he was making his escape, wrapping his arms around himself to keep out the cold and trying to forget the feeling of her velvet skin on his.

  Jane arrived at her solicitors in Fitzrovia at ten past eleven. She was dressed in her new dress, and had also bought some low-heeled pumps. She was conscious that her legs were bare, which didn’t feel right for a funeral, but she hadn’t had time to get tights, and at least her legs were brown from the summer on the beach. She’d bought a double strand of faux pearls too, big, chunky ones that added a touch of Chanel glamour to the outfit. She’d decided against a hat, although her upbringing told her she should wear one. It was summer. It was Terence, for heaven’s sake. He’d always eschewed convention. She’d been surprised the funeral was in a church, but maybe he had found God in his final days. Though she doubted it. He’d considered himself to be God.

  She entered the cool of the foyer, with its black and white marble floor and comfortable chairs. Moments later, Norman greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks in his immaculate dark grey pinstripe suit.

  ‘We should go,’ he said, flicking a glance at the grandfather clock that quietly ticked away the minutes. ‘Though there are a few things I need to talk to you about . . .’

  ‘Not now,’ said Jane. ‘Please let me get this over with first. I don’t think I can take any more bad news.’

  Norman looked at her.

  ‘My daughter-in-law has left Philip. For Adrian.’ She gave a wry smile.

  Norman raised one eyebrow just two millimetres. He was rarely rattled by anything. ‘Nothing like keeping it in the family.’ He put a hand on her elbow to escort her out onto the street, where he looked for a taxi. ‘And actually, you needn’t worry. There’s no bad news this time.’

  He put up his arm to hail a black cab that was cruising towards them.

  ‘Well, that makes a change.’ Jane climbed inside as Norman held the door open, and settled herself on the back seat. She gave the driver the name of the church. Smack bang in the middle of Soho. Typical Terence. Never knowingly far from the nearest drink, even in death. She shut her eyes as the cab sped through the squares and side streets, avoiding the chaos of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street. Next to her, Norman maintained a discreet silence. He always knew exactly what to do. Why couldn’t she have found someone like Norman? A stalwart, a gentleman? Did his wife know how lucky she was, she wondered?

  The church was packed. The congregation ranged from shifty-looking Irishmen in bad suits to an elegant woman in black and white houndstooth and an ostrich-feather hat. Jane ran her eye over them all, assessing who they might be and what their association to Terence was. Bookies, lovers, landlords, a generous sprinkling of publishing types, drinking companions, other writers, more lovers, a traumatised girl with mousy, shoulder-length hair in an ill-fitting grey dress who couldn’t stop crying, family at the front - there were two men who must be brothers-a couple of nurses, perhaps from the hospice. He had clearly inspired loyalty throughout his life, even if he had never showed any.

  After all, she was here, wasn’t she?

  She knew he’d married twice, or was it three times, because there were always articles in the weekend papers about what a bastard he was to live with - torrid tales of his selfish, narcissistic, womanising, drinking ways, and none of it had surprised her, only that the women always seemed to go back for more and professed to love him. She tried to figure out which of the many women in the front rows were his wives, but it was difficult - they all looked equally upset. She recognised Barbara with a jolt - a shadow of that vibrant creature who had jumped out of the Mini that day. She was hollow-cheeked and sunken-eyed, her hair so thin you could see her scalp, but she was still as chic as she had been then, in a crêpe coatdress and spindly heels, clutching a pair of leather gloves.

  Jane and Norman took a seat in a pew near the back. She didn’t feel entitled to be any nearer the front - what had she been in his life, after all? And she didn’t want anybody wondering who she was. She opened the order of service - again, surprised that it was so conventional, but maybe he hadn’t had any input. She felt Norman, reassuringly solid and calm next to her, and as the vicar began, she took just one breath in. She was going to be able to handle it. She had to.

  The final address was given by an extraordinary creature of about thirty-two. She was tall, with endless legs, a mass of wild hair that had been dyed fuchsia but was fading, and burning green eyes. She wore a brocade mini-dress, and her bare legs sported crocodile cowboy boots that matched her hair. Around her neck was slung an assortment of necklaces that she might have picked up in one handful from a jumble sale.

  Terence’s daughter. By whom, Jane didn’t know, but she could feel the force of her personality ten rows back. The girl clutched the edges of the lectern fiercely with her fingers as she spoke, using no notes, with warmth and passion about her father. It was entirely unsentimental, but almost unbearably moving, as she recounted being lifted onto the bar of a Soho club by him at two o’clock in the morning to sing for the customers, then being made boiled eggs and soldiers when they finally stumbled home - she was six years old and she’d had the time of her life.

  There was hardly a dry eye in the church as she finished her reminiscence, because she had captured Terence’s spirit so perfectly.

  ‘Dad was never one to be predictable,’ she wound up. ‘He always liked to surprise. And he managed to surprise us right up to the end. The family went to hear the will read this mor
ning - some of us have flights to catch and we couldn’t wait till after the funeral.’ She laid her disapproving gaze on some poor unfortunate in the front row. ‘And it proved to be quite a revelation.’ She paused for a moment, clearly enjoying having the entire congregation in her thrall. She smiled a menacing smile.

  ‘To misquote the immortal words of Shirley Conran,’ she raked the audience with those hawk-like eyes which, Jane realised now, were carbon copies of her father’s, ‘which one of you bitches is Jane Milton?’

  The congregation gave a collective gasp, and there was only a momentary pause before they began to look at each other for an explanation. The girl just stood there, a smile on her lips.

  ‘Whoever you are,’ she went on, ‘just let it be known that we shall be contesting the will.’

  Jane froze. Her heart was pounding, but she understood immediately the importance of not giving anything away. She felt Norman’s hand on her arm giving her the same message. And although her instinct was to flee, she summoned up all her acting ability to put on an expression of innocent curiosity, exchanging a shrug and a smile with her immediate neighbours, as if to say ‘Jane Milton? I’ve never heard of her.’

  By now, the vicar had hurried up to the pulpit and ushered the girl away. She went quite willingly; clearly happy she had made her point, leaving chaos and consternation in her wake.

  Ten minutes later, as a pianist played Liszt’s ‘Funérailles’ and the congregation began to disperse, Jane felt as if she was in a film. She moved through the throngs with an impassive face, the music filling the air with its melancholic drama, Norman shadowing her closely as he led her swiftly out of the church, not loitering on the pavement to hail a cab as before, but walking her down the road, then left down a side street, and then right again, before finally calling a halt.

  ‘My God,’ breathed Jane. ‘Norman - what do you know of all this? What’s it all about?’

  He summoned a taxi from thin air and gestured her inside. Once they were seated, he told her.

  ‘Terence’s solicitor called me this morning. He’s left you the rights to Exorcising Demons. The family are furious. And, needless to say, curious.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘As am I, I have to confess.’

  She stared at him, astonished.

  ‘The rights? I don’t understand ...’

  Norman flicked a look at the taxi driver. They were always earwigging.

  ‘Let’s get ourselves settled somewhere quiet and I’ll explain it to you. It’s pretty significant, Jane.’

  The taxi drew up outside Browns Hotel in Mayfair. Jane followed Norman in a daze as he led her through to the English Tea Room and settled her on a velvet sofa in a corner, then crisply ordered champagne tea for two. Norman always knew exactly what to do on any occasion, and Jane was grateful for the discreet anonymity of the location and the imminent arrival of a drink.

  ‘He’s left you the rights to the book,’ Norman began explaining. ‘Which means you get the royalties. And they,’ he gave her a meaningful look, ‘are going to be pretty substantial. There’s going to be a huge furore over the rediscovery of the manuscript, which I gather was missing for nearly half a century. The publishers have organised a print run of two hundred thousand. Not only do they consider it to be a work of genius, his absolute best, but the fact that it was missing will add to the media attention it garners.’

  Jane’s throat was dry. She nodded as she took in the implications. This was Terence finally salving his conscience. As the waiter arrived with the tea, and presented the three-tier cake stand with a flourish, then poured a glass of champagne for them each, she was overcome with a desire to laugh. Which she did, then put a hand over her mouth.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Norman. It’s just ...’

  Norman’s eyes were twinkling. He was so used to dishing out bad news, and wrangling with dry and dusty legal loopholes, that this was a novelty for him. And Jane was one of his favourite clients. He had been outraged on her behalf at the mess Graham had left her in. This was a delightful postscript as far as he was concerned. Although not without its caveats, as he was going to go on to explain.

  ‘There’s no doubt this will go quite some way to solving your financial problems. But it carries with it its own thorny issues, not least the question of publicity. The publishers know there is a story behind this, Jane, and they’ll be pushing for it.’ He looked at her perspicaciously. ‘Apparently Terence made it quite clear in his will that the story is yours, and yours alone, to tell if you want to. It’s pretty valuable in itself - you could get a substantial sum from one of the Saturday broad-sheets, depending on the . . . subject matter. How . . . revealing it is. Of course, the juicier it is, the more copies the book will sell.’

  Jane nodded. She could see that only too clearly. The story was dynamite. She didn’t need Max Clifford to tell her that. She took a sip of champagne, quite shaken, and not sure what to think.

  ‘As I said, the family are not happy - particularly his most recent wife and the daughter you saw at the funeral. They’re talking about contesting the will, but they haven’t got a leg to stand on. Terence was quite lucid when he changed it, wrapped it up good and proper, thankfully, so it’s watertight. Which makes you potentially very wealthy, Jane. Even more so, depending on how you decide to play it. You might well decide that anonymity is worth more to you than the extra cash would be. But bear in mind that the press will probably now have your name, after that debacle at the funeral’ - Norman’s withering tone made it quite clear he thought the daughter’s behaviour out of order - ‘and although Terence wasn’t exactly ...’ he groped for a suitable analogy, ‘David Beckham in terms of popular appeal, he had a certain cult status, so there will be interest in tracking you down and getting your side of the story.’

  After several more sips of deliciously crisp Taittinger, Jane thought it was about time she spoke. She could see that Norman, despite his professional discretion, was itching for the truth. More than once, his eyebrows had risen more than their usual minuscule amount.

  ‘It’s a short and rather pathetic story,’ she told him. ‘It finally ended earlier this summer. But it began in 1964 ...’

  The day after the party the heavens opened and it rained solidly for three days, which suited Roy perfectly. It meant he could keep his head low, and it also meant that all the beach-hut owners, including the Lowes, hastily began to shut up for the summer and leave Everdene. By the time he went back down to the huts, The Shack was firmly locked. It was as if the party had never happened. A fine mist came in from the sea and heavy clouds hung over the horizon, as if his mood was dictating the weather. The beach was deserted. It was as desolate as he was.

  Nothing could have prepared him for the way he felt. Bereft. Abandoned. As if Jane had hacked a piece of his heart out and taken it back home with her. And he had no one to talk to. His friends would only take the mickey. His mother would say ‘I told you so’. He only talked to his dad about drill bits and fishing, not affairs of the heart.

  And he certainly couldn’t talk to Marie.

  He avoided her for as long as he possibly could. He had his hands full making the huts good for the winter, ensuring they were totally weatherproof and secure before the really bad weather set in. Twice she came down to see him while he was working, and he pretended to be busier than he really was. He’d taken the sandwiches and cake she’d brought him and turned away, climbing back onto the roof he was mending. He couldn’t bear to see the hurt on her face. She didn’t deserve his hostility. It wasn’t her fault he didn’t want the consolation prize. And he didn’t think it was fair on Marie to be the consolation prize either. No one wants to be second best.

  But he didn’t have the courage to tell her how he felt, because then he really would be left with nothing. After all, Jane wasn’t going to come knocking on his door, telling him she had made a mistake and declaring undying love. She was gone, back to London and the bright lights, probably, and chances are he wouldn’t see her again, at le
ast not until next summer, by which time she would probably be in love with some impossibly sophisticated man she had met in one of the nightclubs she kept talking about. He had just been someone to chat to while she was bored, a minor distraction.

  The thought depressed him profoundly, but Roy was nothing if not a realist, and he had plenty of time to ponder his predicament as he hammered and sawed and oiled and painted. By the time the following weekend came around, he had arrived at the conclusion that he would just have to make the most of what he had got. He would take Marie out for dinner, get dressed up, try and see if he could spark something up between them. He did like her, after all. She’d been good enough for him once. He wasn’t going to let Jane’s rejection ruin his life.

  He booked a table for two at Captain Jack’s, the tiny restaurant at the top of the town. Marie’s eyes had lit up when he told her, and she almost seemed to go into a panic, flustering about what to wear. He told her she’d look lovely in anything, but he could tell this wasn’t what she wanted to hear. And by the time the Saturday came around and he went to pick her up from the flat above the café where she lived with her parents, he could tell she had somehow, in the intervening days, gone into Bamford and bought a new dress. A yellow dress, not unlike one Jane had worn.

  Only on Jane it had looked simple, elegant, fresh. It didn’t really suit Marie. It was too tight around the bust, and the colour did nothing for her. But he admired her anyway, because that was what you had to do. They walked through the early-evening sun, through the streets, his arm in hers. She was chattering, excited. He could feel her body brush up against his as they walked. She wanted to be close to him. He wanted to be a million miles away.

  At the restaurant, they were treated like a king and queen. Most of the summer visitors had left, and so there were only a few diners. Nothing was too much trouble. They had a gin and bitter lemon at the bar before they sat down, and Roy ordered a bottle of wine - the maître d’ had guided him kindly, not condescendingly, towards his choice.