Meet Me at Beachcomber Bay

by Jill Mansell

  ‘We came here last summer,’ he explained as Marina worked on the painting. ‘Stayed at the caravan park, we did, and had such a lovely week. Couple of times we sat here in the café and watched you doing this. We both said how much we’d love to have one of your paintings with us in it, but … you know how it is. Money was tight and we decided we just couldn’t afford it, not on our pensions. So we bought a few postcards instead and pinned them up on the corkboard in our kitchen to remind us of the best holiday we’d ever had.’ At this point he brought a hanky out of the breast pocket of his crumpled shirt and wiped his eyes. ‘Sorry, I still get a bit … you know.’

  ‘You must miss her so much.’ Marina’s heart went out to him.

  ‘Oh, you’ve no idea. Every minute of every day.’ He gathered himself and managed a smile. ‘That’s why I wanted to come back, so I could relive last year’s holiday. And when I saw you again, that was it. I decided this time I’d get you to do a painting of us. Me and Maggie together, in our favourite place in the world.’

  Marina had worked extra hard to make the two of them instantly recognisable in the painting, and the man had been delighted with their smiling likenesses. She’d charged him less than the usual price and he’d disappeared briefly, returning to the café with a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums for her, which had in turn almost succeeded in reducing Marina to tears. As he’d left with the finished painting, the man said simply, ‘Thank you. I wish we’d had it done last year, but this is the next best thing. I know my Maggie would approve.’

  Marina smiled at the memory. That had been six days ago, and now she was working with quite a different kind of customer, albeit another one who’d seen her before.

  ‘OK, I don’t know if you remember me at all.’ The thirty-something woman, who’d introduced herself as Tess, was wearing a red and white polka-dot sundress and red sandals. ‘Probably not; you must do so many of these. And I don’t exactly look the same.’

  Intrigued, Marina said, ‘What did you look like before?’

  ‘Well, it was two years ago. I was here with my ex-husband, so I wouldn’t have been wearing anything like this, for a start. My hair would have been straight and brown, pretty much the same as my clothes. I wouldn’t have been wearing any make-up and I very much doubt if you’d have seen me smiling. Oh, and when you painted us, we were wearing matching khaki shirts and trousers. Not shorts, even though it was a warm day, because I didn’t have the legs for shorts.’

  Marina took a look at them. ‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with your legs.’

  ‘I know that now! But back then I was married to a horrible, jealous, controlling man who’d spent several years chiselling away at my self-confidence until I was left feeling about as worthless as a slug.’ Tess shrugged. ‘Except slugs probably don’t feel worthless, do they? They might have really happy lives, up until the moment someone sprinkles salt on them. Maybe I felt as worthless as a salted slug.’

  ‘And now?’ said Marina, observing her buoyant manner, bright eyes and ready smile.

  ‘My ex-husband was emotionally abusive and he made my life miserable,’ said Tess. ‘Luckily I came to my senses and managed to leave him. It wasn’t easy, but it was the best thing I could have done. Everything’s different now, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been.’

  ‘That’s fantastic.’

  ‘He kept the last painting you did of us. Not that I wanted it anyway.’ Tess grimaced. ‘But now I’ll have my own, with just me in it. And this time you can paint me smiling.’ As she said it, she kicked up her heels and struck a jokey pose. ‘New painting, new me! Whoops …’

  Her new-found confidence was heart-warming, but it was something she was still getting used to, Marina realised. Having struck her pose and attracted the attention of someone else in the café, Tess promptly looked embarrassed and pretended to be checking her watch instead.

  Marina glanced round and identified that the cause of the embarrassment was Ronan. She hid a smile, because this was the effect he tended to have on young women.

  ‘Sorry, I thought for a moment he was looking at me,’ Tess murmured as Ronan raised a hand in friendly acknowledgement and mouthed Hi at Marina. ‘He’s very good-looking, isn’t he? How do you know him?’

  He’s my son. Goodness, imagine being able to just say the words out loud. How would that feel?

  Marina glanced round again. Ronan was standing at the counter, chatting to Paddy and ordering two coffees, which meant Clemency would be joining him. ‘He lives here in St Carys. Works as an estate agent. Yes, he is good-looking.’ Recognising the clatter of heels behind them, she continued, ‘And that’s Clemency, who’s an estate agent too.’

  ‘She looks nice. Are they a couple?’

  ‘Yes.’ Marina nodded, because as far as everyone else in St Carys was concerned, this was the case.

  ‘I could tell. They look good together.’

  ‘How about you, have you met anyone else yet?’

  ‘No, I’m taking things slowly. Enjoying being single for now. What about you?’ said Tess.

  By chance, George had called her this morning, ostensibly to ask about the best way to clean the interior of his leather golf bag, but also to angle for an invitation down to St Carys. ‘Wouldn’t that be a treat for you, love? I could take you out to dinner again at that smart hotel you like. We can have proper champagne!’

  He’d been persistent, but she’d managed to put him off. Honestly, once George got an idea into his head, he didn’t find it easy to accept no for an answer.

  ‘Much the same,’ said Marina. ‘I was married, but now I’m enjoying being single too.’

  Once Tess had departed, delighted with her painting, Marina collected together her work materials and folded up the wooden easel.

  ‘Right.’ Finishing his coffee, Ronan tapped his watch at Clemency. ‘It’s almost six. We need to get going.’ He paused by Marina’s table. ‘Are you off home too? Let me carry that for you. We’re heading the same way.’

  ‘Are you? Oh, thank you, that’s so kind.’ Her heart expanded with love as Ronan picked up her heavy holdall and the easel. Such lovely manners. ‘Where are you two off to then?’

  ‘Gull Cottage is going up for sale. You know,’ said Clemency, ‘the turquoise one on Chantry Lane.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know that. Gull Cottage has the prettiest garden.’ Happily, Marina walked between them as they left the café and made their way up the hill. They continued to chat about their respective days, the upcoming wedding over at the Mariscombe Hotel, the likelihood of the weather staying warm and dry until next weekend. When they reached her cottage, she unlocked the front door and Ronan insisted on carrying her belongings right inside.

  Then Clemency stepped in too, closed the front door behind her and said, ‘OK, the thing about Gull Cottage being up for sale was kind of a lie.’

  ‘Sorry? I don’t get it.’ Marina looked at Ronan, then at Clemency, then at Ronan again. Belatedly it dawned on her that she’d been the subject of an ambush. Her heart began to clatter inside her chest, because surely Clemency hadn’t arranged all this expecting her to announce to Ronan that she was his mother. Oh please God, no, don’t let it be happening, this is the worst possible way.

  Feeling sick, she turned back to Clemency. ‘I d-don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Look, can I just say, I didn’t tell him. I may have accidentally dropped the teeniest hint, but I definitely didn’t tell him.’ Clemency was sounding sort of guilty, sort of excited. She waggled her hands as if it were the kind of accident that could happen to anyone. ‘He guessed!’

  ‘Guessed what?’ She couldn’t be the one to say it, because what if she’d jumped to completely the wrong conclusion and Clemency was actually talking about Gull Cottage not being for sale after all?

  ‘Last night, Clemency was asking me how I’d feel about meeting my biological mother.’ Ronan’s eyes were bright, his tone conversational. ‘And I said what if she wasn’t a nice person and I di
dn’t like her, and Clemency said I would like her. She didn’t mean she thought I would,’ he elaborated. ‘It was something she already knew for a fact.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to do it,’ Clemency pointed out. ‘It was an accident. It just slipped out.’

  Ronan said gravely, ‘There had been drink taken.’

  ‘But I didn’t tell him! I stopped myself! Even though it almost killed me.’ Clemency clapped her hands to her chest. ‘And that’s when I went home and went to bed, but at stupid o’clock in the morning he appeared outside the flat and threw stuff at my bedroom window until I woke up. Because he’d made a list of possibilities as to who his mother might be, but I kept saying no … no … no …’

  ‘Then I wrote your name on my hand and showed it to her,’ said Ronan, ‘and when I saw the look on her face, that was when I knew.’

  Marina couldn’t breathe. Nor could she tear her gaze away from him. ‘And how did it make you feel?’

  ‘Honestly? So happy. So happy.’ He nodded, and she saw the emotion in his eyes. ‘Clemency was right. I didn’t have to worry any more. I mean it, I couldn’t ask for a better person to be my biological mother.’

  And then they were hugging each other, and tears of joy and relief were spilling down Marina’s cheeks. The physical contact with her baby boy, which she’d longed for but been unable to allow herself to experience until now, was like nothing she’d ever felt before. Never had she felt so happy, so complete.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She spoke the words she’d wanted to say for so long. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you …’

  But Ronan was smiling and shaking his head. ‘You don’t need to be sorry … you know how lucky I’ve been. I’m just so glad you found me.’

  And then the tears gave way to incredulous laughter, because against all the odds it had happened, they’d found each other, and it was just the best feeling in the world.

  ‘Look,’ said Clemency. ‘I know I should have left you two alone for this, but I couldn’t, OK?’ In the kitchen doorway she was wiping her eyes too. ‘I just couldn’t bear to miss it. I’m so happy for you both.’

  ‘I know how worried you are about your mum,’ said Marina. ‘I know you don’t want to upset her. If you’d rather keep it just between us, that’s fine by me.’

  Ronan shook his head once more. ‘It’s OK, I’ve been thinking about it since last night. I’m going to have to tell her. I can’t not.’

  Chapter 27

  The stupid thing was, there was absolutely no shame in buying a cream bun. It was one of life’s little luxuries, choux pastry stuffed with fresh cream and topped with icing and glacé cherries. Belle had been happily eyeing up the one in the chiller cabinet that was destined to be taken home and eaten by her …

  Until ten seconds ago, when out of the corner of her eye she’d glimpsed a flash of neon pink and instantly felt like a drug addict queuing outside a dealer’s den for her next wrap.

  The bustling open-air market was held every Friday morning in the church hall car park in St Carys, and it was, by and large, a healthy place for healthy types to visit. Yes, there were a few cake and sweet stalls, but the majority sold good healthy food and drinks.

  Belle watched surreptitiously as Verity moved among the crowds, pausing at the stall that sold wheatgrass juice. OK, there’s healthy, but there’s also too healthy. She chatted briefly with the bearded man serving the juices before moving on. She was wearing her bright pink Lycra vest with grey leggings and pink and black flip-flops, and her hair was tied back in a high ponytail. She paused at the next stall to taste something in a wooden bowl, and laughed with the elderly lady next to her, who was pulling a face.

  ‘Right then, my lovely, you’re next. What can I get you?’

  Startled, Belle realised she was being addressed. She glanced at the cream bun and shook her head. ‘Sorry, it’s OK, changed my mind.’

  She headed over to the fruit and veg stall, where Verity was now looking at leeks.

  ‘Hey, how are you?’ Verity greeted her with a friendly smile.

  ‘Good, thanks. Just getting a few bits for lunch.’ Belle picked up a yellow fruit, gave it an experimental squeeze and realised she had no clue what it was. Actually, it might be a vegetable.

  ‘Me too. So much to choose from, isn’t there?’ Verity selected three glossy red peppers and put them in a brown paper bag. ‘Cooking something nice for that handsome boyfriend of yours?’

  They’d bumped into Verity the other afternoon, walking along the beach at low tide. She’d paused and said hello, and Belle had introduced her to Sam, who’d joked, ‘So you’re the one she sets her alarm for in the morning.’

  ‘Just me,’ Belle said now. ‘Sam’s in Dusseldorf today.’ She reached for a bunch of spinach because it made her look like someone who took care of her body.

  ‘Spinach smoothies.’ Watching her, Verity gave an approving nod. ‘Fantastic. Packed with minerals and iron.’

  How did you even make a smoothie out of spinach? Mash it up with milk, something like that? Oh well, she could always chuck it away when she got home.

  Belle watched as Verity filled a bag with mangetout, cherry tomatoes, tenderstem broccoli and red grapes. ‘OK, good. Now I need to pick up some extra-virgin olive oil,’ Verity said when she’d paid. ‘And some blue cheese.’

  ‘Really?’ Belle was taken aback. ‘Isn’t blue cheese full of … you know, fat?’

  ‘We need fat in our diet.’ Verity grinned at her look of shock. ‘I eat healthily, but I’m not a complete food Nazi. Did you really think I was?’

  Belle looked askance at everything she’d just bought. ‘Well, yes.’

  Amused, Verity said, ‘Well I’m not. I enjoy cooking. Look, do you have to rush off? Because I’d rather cook for two people than one. Come back with me if you’d like to, and have a spot of lunch.’

  Thirty minutes later, Belle found herself perched on a stool in the kitchen beneath Clemency’s flat, grating fresh Parmesan and chopping tomatoes while Verity deseeded the peppers and cut cloves of garlic into slivers. They talked about their contrasting childhoods – Belle’s here in St Carys, Verity’s in Bermondsey, in south-east London. They sang along to the songs on the radio. When the lunch was finally ready – baked stuffed peppers, mixed salad, cheese and bacon frittata and a glass of red wine each – they carried everything out into the tiny sun-dappled back garden.

  The meal was fantastic: healthy, fresh and utterly delicious. Just as Belle had found herself starting to enjoy the way exercise was making her feel, so she was beginning to realise that providing her body with the right food made a weird kind of sense after all. Talk about a revelation …

  Five minutes later, the bedroom window of the flat upstairs was flung open and Clemency stuck her head out.

  ‘Afternoon! Is that what I think it is down there?’

  That. Was she trying to be funny? Bristling, Belle rolled her eyes. ‘I do apologise on behalf of my stepsister. She can be so bloody rude sometimes.’

  Verity spluttered with laughter. ‘I’m pretty certain she doesn’t mean you.’ Beckoning to Clemency, she called up, ‘It is. You’re like a bloodhound. Come on down.’

  By the time Clemency reappeared, having made her way through the newsagent’s, Verity had piled three slices of frittata on to another plate.

  ‘It’s her favourite thing,’ she explained to Belle.

  ‘It’s amazing. When she’s making frittata, I can smell it wafting upstairs. All that cheese and bacon and garlic,’ said Clemency. ‘Best thing ever.’

  ‘Join us.’ Verity pulled out the third wicker chair and patted the cushion on the seat.

  ‘Thanks, but I can’t stay long. Got a viewing on Castle Street in twenty minutes. Just water, thanks.’ Clemency waved away the offer of wine. ‘What’s happening here anyway?’ She indicated the table, the glasses. ‘Am I interrupting a meeting of Joggers Anonymous?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Belle.

  Verity grinned. ‘We just happe
ned to bump into each other at the market. Bonded over the peppers on the fruit and veg stall. I invited Belle back for a bit of lunch and—’

  ‘BAAAH!’ Belle heard the bellow of alarm escape from her own mouth as the wasp flew straight at her face, attached itself to her fringe and swung its body millimetres from her right eye. Rearing back in her chair, she batted her hands in panic and felt her splayed fingers knock Verity’s arm. The wine glass Verity had been holding spun up into the air and landed with a tinkle of shattered glass on the flagstones.

  The wasp, supremely unconcerned, flew off.

  ‘Oh God, sorry.’ Belle fanned her face. ‘I thought it was going to go right in my eye.’

  ‘No problem. Don’t move,’ said Verity, pushing back her chair. ‘I’ll get a dustpan and brush.’

  By the time she returned, Clemency had picked up the larger pieces of broken glass and was holding them in the palm of her hand. When Verity had finished sweeping up the splinters on the ground, Clemency tipped the rest into the dustpan.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ Belle repeated. ‘I’ll buy you another one.’

  ‘Hey, no need. We’ve got loads more. Oops, looks like we have an injury.’ Verity pointed to the trickle of blood sliding down towards Clemency’s wrist.

  ‘Didn’t even realise I’d done it.’ Examining her hand, Clemency located the source of the bleeding; a sliver of glass had sliced through the skin separating her second and third fingers. ‘Honestly, it’s fine, doesn’t hurt at all.’

  ‘But you don’t want it dripping on your shirt. Let’s get you fixed up.’

  Clemency dipped a tissue in her glass of water and cleaned the blood off her hand. Belle watched as Verity peeled the backing strips off a narrow waterproof plaster and carefully fixed it into place.

  ‘There you go.’ She made sure the edges were securely stuck down. ‘All done. Now you can carry on eating.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Clemency picked up another slice of frittata. ‘One more injury courtesy of my sister. It’s OK, we’ll just add it to the list.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Verity’s eyes were bright. ‘Have there been many?’