“That’s right, Celia said you were doin’ somethin’ new… yoga, is it?”
“Pilates,” Casey corrects him, just as a long, low whistle comes from behind us. She turns, grinning. “Watch it, Pete.”
It’s hard to put an age on Pete; he’s very, very tanned. His skin looks like leather, and his teeth flash white in stark contrast to it. His hair is also white, and wiry, and he’s wearing a Metallica t-shirt.
“Just admirin’ your dress,” he says, and his eyes move to me. “Who’s this, then?”
“This is Alice, she’s a friend of mine, so be nice!” Casey instructs.
“When am I anything but?”
We have a cider in the Rack, taking our drinks to a corner table. Casey clearly knows most of the people in the pub, which means they are friendly enough, but I feel out of place and I’m relieved when we’ve drunk up and she says it’s time to move on.
She links her arm through mine and we wander along the meandering back streets. There must be some kind of plan, but I’ve always found that, like an errant sat nav, my sense of direction goes askew when I’m walking through the town, and I used to be constantly surprised at where I’d find myself, when I’d been sure I was heading to the beach but ended up at the art gallery, or back near David’s house when I thought I was nearing the opposite side of the town. Now I know my way around confidently but it doesn’t mean it makes sense.
“Where to now?” I ask. I’m happy to let Casey take the lead.
“Why don’t we go to the Ecuabar?”
This is the poshest of the three clubs; sitting above one of the flash restaurants, on the harbour road, it boasts ‘the best view… and the best cocktails… in town’.
Casey must see my look. “Don’t worry,” she says. “We won’t have to buy more than one. It’s always full of the yacht brigade, down from Padstow and Rock. I bet you I can get us our drinks paid for.”
“OK,” I say. “Let’s give it a go!” I feel swept along by Casey’s confidence, and full of a sudden energy and excitement. It feels good to be out, and going somewhere new.
The Ecuabar is loud, full of smartly-dressed, loud men and women in posh frocks or expensive linen trousers and tops. Some kind of Spanish guitar music is being released into the room from the vast speakers, and the glass bar is lit from beneath so that different coloured shards of light shoot into the air. I don’t know how the bar staff manage to work without being blinded but they are all smart efficiency, in their black shirts and smart haircuts. “What’s it to be, ladies?” asks a good-looking barman, polishing a cocktail shaker.
“Can you do us something special?” Casey asks him. “We’ve had prosecco, and cider. We want something to compliment them, please.”
“A challenge… great,” the barman grins. “Take a seat, and I’ll sort something for you.”
He scans the myriad bottles and pulls a few out in turn, mixing and shaking, then placing two ice-cold glasses in front of us, pouring in his creation, and finishing with a few sprigs of mint and a wedge of lime.
“Here you go, ladies. Elderflower gin, apple juice, spiced rum, and a dash of tequila. What do you think?”
We both take a sip. It’s delicious. I tell him so.
“Fantastic,” he pulls out a smile like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, and disappears to his next customer. The bar is heaving but Casey says we should keep our seats. As we are nearing the bottom of our glasses, the smart barman comes back, topping them up with what is left of our drink. “Same again?” he asks smoothly.
I am about to say no, when a voice comes from behind me, “I’ll get these.”
Casey raises her eyebrows at me. See?
I turn to see a forty-ish man, in a shirt and chinos, offering his card. “And I’ll have the same again please, Nick.”
“No problem, Charlie.”
“I was going to introduce myself,” the man smiles, “but Nick’s just done that for me. I’m Charlie,” he offers his hand, first to me, then to Casey. “That over there is my brother, Nathan.”
I’m about to say my name when Casey pipes up, “I’m Tallulah, and this is Daphne.” I almost spit my drink out.
“Tallulah?” Charlie raises his eyebrows and smiles. “Fancy joining us? After you, Daphne…”
We walk with him to his table, where he places himself next to Casey and introduces me to Nathan who, he says, is married, “So don’t get any ideas.”
Nathan, while a nice man, is not likely to put any ideas into my head. He drones on and on about the intricacies of sailing, and how he’s been doing it since he was a boy.
“I nearly made it to the Olympic team,” he says earnestly.
“Wow, you must be really good at it,” I say, only half-listening to him; aware Charlie is getting quite ‘friendly’ with Casey. He has his arm draped around her shoulder, and he’s moving in to whisper something in her ear. I want to know she’s OK with it. I find out soon enough.
“Ow, you bitch!” Charlie exclaims.
“You shouldn’t be such a slimy bastard, then,” Casey says. She downs the rest of her drink and takes my hand. “Come on, Daphne, we’re out of here.”
“What happened?” I ask her as she storms out, dragging me behind her.
“He put his hand on my thigh. Almost up my skirt. I squeezed his bollocks really hard and asked him how he liked it.”
“You didn’t!”
“I bloody did,” she says.
As we head into the night, I become aware of how drunk I am but not, it seems, as drunk as Casey. She pulls me into a side street, and doubles over. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
I hold her hair back for her, and she retches, spitting out what she can bring up. Suddenly she doesn’t seem quite as glamorous. We walk back out into what light remains of the day, and I sit her down on a bench by the harbour, checking that there is no sign of Charlie before nipping into the chippy to buy a can of Coke. “Here, have this,” I hand it to Casey.
“Thanks,” she says, “I’m not really meant to have full fat Coke.”
“It’ll make you feel better,” I say firmly. I sit next to her.
“That bloke was such a prick. Why do I always attract men like that?”
Sitting at bars waiting to have drinks bought for you doesn’t really help, I think, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I let her continue. “It’s like, since I had Sophie, blokes think I’m a slag. Which is just stupid, because I’m not, I’m really not. OK, I’m not with her dad, and I’ve had a few flings round town, but nothing major. Sophie’s my life, my world, I don’t want her to get mixed up with any old bloke I fancy seeing.”
“I know,” I soothe.
“I’ve been on my own with her since she was two, nearly three, and it’s been just me and her since then. I’m allowed to go out and have some fun though, aren’t I? Just sometimes. I don’t mean like every weekend.”
“Of course you are. Is Sophie’s dad looking after her tonight?”
“Yeah, she’s staying at his place.”
“Shall I walk you home? Make sure you get there OK?”
“OK,” she sniffs.
This time it’s me supporting her. My ankle’s much better and it’s easier walking at this slow place. Casey is attracting more glances but I fear that this time it’s for a different reason. She is crying openly, and I can only half make out what she’s talking about; I assume she’s talking about Sophie’s dad. “I wish we’d never split up… she really loves him… I might do, I think, I could do…”
“Is he single?” I ask.
She nods. “I think so. I don’t think he’s really been with anyone else since we split up. When he’s not with Soph, he’s either working or studying, from what I can make out. I don’t know. He’s kept it quiet if he has been with anyone, but that would be just like him. He’s a very private person. He’s lovely.”
“Well, it sounds like you still have feelings for him. Have you tried talking to him?”
“No.
Well, yeah. Sort of. I don’t know. He says there are good reasons it didn’t work out between us. And I’ve got to give him credit for always being there for Soph. I can’t believe I let him get away.”
“Come on,” I say, “try not to worry about it tonight. We’ve had fun, haven’t we?”
“Yes,” she sniffs again. “I guess you won’t want to do it again, though; I’ve made a total tit of myself, haven’t I?”
“Of course we can go out again! And no, you haven’t made a total tit of yourself. Just a bit of a tit.”
I’m pleased to see her smile at this. “Thanks, Alice. I don’t really have many friends, you know. It’s been good having a night out.”
“No problem.”
We walk quietly, in step with each other, concentrating on making it up the steep hill, until we reach a block of flats. “This is me,” she says.
“Want me to come in?”
“No, it’s fine. Thank you, Alice.”
“Are you sure? I can make you a coffee, help you sober up a bit before you go to bed.”
“No, thanks, I think that Coke helped. And being sick. I knew it would make me feel better.”
“OK. Well, thanks for a lovely evening.” I grin and she laughs. “Really, it was a lovely evening. It’s been a laugh. And hopefully Charlie’ll think better of trying it on so readily in the future.”
“I can’t believe I did that!” Casey laughs.
I give her a hug then I turn and walk back down the hill. Although it’s a total pain having to walk up here, there’s a view of the bay which you don’t get from town. It’s dark now, of course, but the moon is rising and the sky is clear, so that a strip of sea is illuminated, and the odd star popping out above matches the twinkling of the lights on the boats below.
It’s not late, and I’m relieved. I have to get up and work in the morning. I stop at a restaurant for a large takeaway latte, and I carry it home carefully, heading back to the flat. My ankle is aching a bit, and I feel dehydrated. I smirk to myself about Charlie’s come-uppance. An evening out with Casey is definitely an experience. Maybe one I don’t want to repeat too often.
Chapter Fourteen
I stay up late to try and rid my body of its alcoholic embalming fluid, reasoning it’s better to be tired than hungover at work in the morning. I drink my latte then I clean the tiny kitchen, and the bathroom. I decide to have a bath and read my book but I’m flagging and afraid I’ll fall asleep in the water. Ever since I was a kid I’ve had a fear of falling asleep and drowning in the bath. Is that a real thing? Or a scare story my parents told me to make me be careful? I’m not sure but to be on the safe side I decide to go to bed. I still have David’s DVD player so I decide to watch some of This Life while I have the chance. I suppose in some ways the show is dated but the characters, mostly in their twenties, and their messy love lives and fledgling careers, are all too familiar to me.
I must have fallen asleep about a minute into the show because when I wake at 3.37am, my mouth thick with sleep and unbrushed teeth, the screen is glowing a deep, blackish blue and I don’t remember anything that happened in the programme. Now I am wide awake, and I watch the thin curtain at my small dormer window blowing gently back and forth in the dim light. I sit up and take a sip of tea, immediately regretting this decision. It is cold and unappetising.
There is enough time for me to get a bit more sleep before I have to get up but there’s something unsettling me. I can’t place what it is but I slowly recall that Julie is annoyed with me. Once I let that thought in, others come to join it. Unsurprisingly, many of them revolve around Sam. I can’t understand how he knew about Geoff. I don’t even like to think of that name; all its associations are negative. I was a young student, and heartbroken; he made full advantage of this. He was a little older so I believed he was wiser. He had a good job, with a good wage, so I believed he was reliable and would look after me. He was adamant about his feelings for me. Even when he was telling me what to wear, who I could be friends with, what music to listen to. It was for my own good. It was because he loved me.
A cold unease creeps in when Geoff is on my mind. It is impossible to sleep. So, instead, I open my eyes. I have a shower. I put the kettle on and place some veggie sausage rolls in the oven to bake while I stealthily pack my work clothes in a bag then get dressed in a hoodie and joggers, with a body-warmer over the top. I get my tartan flask - I miss Julie – and fill it with hot coffee. I grab an apple and a banana, wrap the sausage rolls in foil, and I’m good to go.
I tiptoe down the stairs so that I don’t wake David, then ease out of the front door, pulling it shut so gently – as the house is in the middle of a terrace, I run the risk of waking not only David but all of our neighbours.
The town is quiet. The light of the day is gradually swirling into the dark sky. I think the only other times I would have been out in town at this hour would be coming back from nights out. I feel like I’ve turned a corner somehow; like this is symbolic of getting older. I know that sounds daft. As my footsteps echo along the streets, I imagine the fishermen in decades and centuries past, walking down to their vessels in the early morning – in all weather, all seasons. History hangs heavy in these streets; there is no option for much to change; no room for new houses, no space for pavements to be built. The town is stubbornly itself, even though it is now largely inhabited by holiday-makers.
I walk along the harbour road, continuing along this line of thought; those men and women who used to live here, their struggles to make ends meet, the dangers they faced every day. What would they make of their homes turned into luxury holiday cottages?
There’s a town museum, walls hung with black-and-white photos, showing the fishermen and their families; the tiny school classes; the weekly market. The people in those pictures look out almost confrontationally, daringly meeting the eyes of anyone looking in on them; their own with that eerie, translucent quality typical of old photos. Like they know you; your thoughts and your wishes, and like you don’t know what life is about, or how hard it can be. You’ve spent your money, earned in a nice little office, on a week in one of their homes. Where it used to be cold and damp and dank, with a fire to heat the room where a family would huddle in the winter, to bake the bread and heat the water. When a bath was a weekly necessity, and the family would be placed in order to bathe in the same, increasingly murky, water, one by one.
Why is it I feel such an affinity with this place? My family do not come from here. We are a landlocked bunch, from the middle of the Midlands. I have never lived by the sea, never sailed. I’m a vegetarian, I do not eat fish. I’ve had a comfortable upbringing and never really had to struggle like the people of this town once did – and like some up in the far reaches, on the estates built uphill, still do today.
Why am I any different from any other tourist, bewitched and bedazzled by the beautiful sea and the white swathes of sand where it meets the land? I am not, I tell myself. I’m on holiday. This is not real life. And yet, I believe I belong here.
Now, as I walk past the harbour, the small fleet of boats making their way out through the incoming tide, the bars and restaurants are closed. The lone arcade is shuttered. Remnants of the previous day’s ice creams and fish-and-chip suppers still litter the pavement, awaiting their saviour, the street cleaner. These are the trimmings and trappings of a town so beautiful that everybody wants a piece of it. I don’t want a piece of it, I want a place in it.
I walk around the little path which curls to the headland, zipping my body-warmer and pulling my hood up against the cold – the air has yet to warm today and there is a cold wind coming in across the waves. I walk determinedly around, across the car park and the small piece of headland which separates it from the beach. As I top the brow, my breath is literally taken away, by a strong gust of sea wind, reminding me who is the boss here, and then the view. The beach: vast, inviting, entirely empty. With the sun barely making a dent in the sky, it is too early yet for even the surfers. It wo
n’t be long, I know, till a few brave souls make their way here, catching a wave before work, and before all the novices swarm in, saturating the sea like a cloud of jellyfish.
But for now, the beach is mine.
I take my shoes off at the top of the path and I run, faster and faster, onto the sand, which is cool beneath my toes, becoming colder still as I come closer to the shoreline, where the water seeps readily through the grains. I am out of breath – I am no runner – but I am filled with an intense joy.
And then I’m knackered.
I walk the rest of the way to the rocks, clutching my side against a stitch.
I set out my breakfast and pull myself up, keeping an eye out for any early-rising gulls. The sky is becoming a rich assortment of colours, with a bold pink suggesting ‘shepherd’s warning’. There’s been talk of a storm coming. I think I would like a storm. There’s a lot that needs clearing up.
As I take my time, sipping my coffee, eating first the sausage rolls and then the fruit, I have the absolute luxury of watching the sun rise across this beautiful town. I did this with Sam, the day before I had to leave. We had been out all night and set up a small tent on the far reaches of the beach.
We’d both fallen asleep, zipped into the tent, and wrapped in each other’s arms. There was barely room to move but it hadn’t mattered; in fact, I had loved it. Sometime in the early morning, I had become aware of a hazy light leaking into the tent, and I’d unzipped the door, shaking Sam gently. We had lain there, together, watching as the day came to life. I had been so sure that the practicalities of life would not get in our way. Convinced we were meant to be together. I am older now, and harder in my outlook, but maybe Julie is right. Perhaps I do need to be more like her.
Sod it, I think, downing the last dregs of coffee, I am going to bloody well do something. Sam said I owe him a beer. Well, he’s going to have that beer. And I am going to find out whether I really and truly am in love with him – or whether it’s time to forget it all and move on.
A Second Chance Summer Page 10