New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

by Erin Green

  ‘Funny how people’s heads are turned at the mention of money,’ says Ruth wryly.

  We both sigh heavily before exchanging a thousand words in a single glance.

  ‘If Emma wants a summer fling, then all well and good, but that wasn’t her plan when we talked at the barbecue on our second night,’ I remind her, knowing we’d all made vows that night.

  ‘If her focus has changed purely because of his sudden interest in her redundancy money . . . well, there’s the issue,’ sighs Ruth, putting her cutlery down to sip her cup of tea.

  ‘Which Emma may well be blind to,’ I add, finishing my toast.

  ‘Sadly she’ll only see what she wants to see.’

  ‘Especially if he’s got under her skin with sunset walks and a few carefully chosen promises. But her friends aren’t so smitten, are we? We won’t allow him to blindside our new buddy.’ I hold my glass aloft as Ruth exchanges her teacup for her champagne glass.

  ‘We’ll watch her back, and if needs be, we’ll fight her corner too,’ she says, gently clinking her glass against mine.

  ‘Despite her bossiness over the kitchen space to blend weird and wonderful flavours of ice cream.’

  ‘Exactly!’ says Ruth, sipping her bubbles. ‘And I’m grateful that we’ve no such complications threatening to sideline our future dreams.’

  Emma

  I couldn’t possibly suggest or change anything regarding ­Benni’s clothes, but her hair and make-up, well, I can certainly offer a helping hand.

  It might make up for my crabbiness this morning.

  ‘What’s wrong with my ponytail?’ she asks, flinching as I rake my hands through her tethered mane.

  I hesitate, deciding whether to be honest.

  ‘Well, if this is your daytime look, you need to try a little harder for your date look, that’s all I’m saying.’

  Silently I praise my own tact. There’s no need to upset her. But given the rushed manner in which she’s got ready, this ponytail looks exactly like that of a stable-bound nag. Bushy, frizzy and shapeless.

  ‘Look, if you’ll let me, I could put this up in a messy bun complete with twisted tendrils in a matter of minutes.’

  Benni eyes me cautiously.

  ‘Seriously, the transformation will be amazing. Ziggy will think you’ve spent hours getting ready for your night out.’

  ‘He said it’s nothing special. I don’t want to make too big a deal of it.’

  ‘That’s fine. A messy bun can be dressed up or down depending on the occasion.’

  ‘I never wear my hair up. I’ve thought about learning how to do a fancy fishtail plait, but I haven’t got round to it.’

  ‘You never wear it down either; you simply pull it back into that damned bobble,’ I say, hoping my advice isn’t falling on deaf ears. ‘Look, make an effort for the man. He’ll appreciate the sentiment and you’ll feel more confident.’

  ‘Emma, we’re only friends, you know. There’s nothing going on between us. If anything, I think he feels sorry for me.’

  ‘Are you serious? If he’s asked you to go out with him, you need to pay a little attention to how you look.’ Clearly Benni understands nothing about men. I’d never dream of going out on a date looking the same as I do in ordinary life. Surely she’s not that naïve? Though given her chosen outfit of an elasticated skirt and yet another baggy T-shirt, I can’t imagine she’s had much experience.

  Finally she agrees, and I race to it, knowing she is running out of time. I grab my wide-tooth comb, drag that damned awful plastic bobble from her hair and get to work.

  It’ll take a matter of minutes. And I will hairspray it thoroughly to ensure it stays in place, whatever they get up to.

  ‘And what does madam think?’ I say, offering her the mirror once I’ve finished.

  Her face says it all. Her mouth is open, her gaze staring.

  ‘You like?’

  ‘Oh Emma . . . is that really me?’

  ‘Beautiful, eh? How about I add a little colour to your eyes and define those brows just a touch?’

  Benni is speechless, so I have to assume she trusts me when she closes her eyes. I fetch my make-up bag. I know perfectly well that you shouldn’t share make-up, but in these circumstances I have no choice. I doubt Benni even knows what a make-up bag looks like. From what I’ve seen this holiday, she’s a soap, water and talcum powder kind of girl.

  Benjamina

  ‘Stop worrying, will you,’ says Ziggy. ‘You look fine. It’s a beach barbecue, not a fashion show.’

  He’s attempting to reassure me as I tug and pull at my clothing, feeling anything but satisfied with my appearance. It took me an hour to select an outfit from the five nondescript ensembles I’ve brought with me. Each consists of a cotton skirt with an elasticated waistband, ballet pumps, and a batwing baggy top covered with a slouchy cardigan. Not an ideal look, I think, remembering the trio of tanned, svelte beauties striding along the quay, but a look that I can afford and that covers every inch of my flesh. I’m grateful that Emma has styled my hair and make-up, adding flair to my usual look. I owe her one. I’ll have to ask her for a lesson sometime during our remaining days.

  I attempt a smile, knowing that Ziggy’s being kind. I’m certain he’d much prefer to be taking a fashionable, slender woman to meet his mates; instead he’s called at Rose Cottage to collect me. As we begin our trek towards the cove, I imagine him holding hands with a woman dressed in tight-fitting jeans, knee-high boots and a figure-hugging top that highlights her assets whilst maintaining her modesty. The kind of outfit I saw earlier on a mannequin in the high street. The chances of me morphing into such an image are slim.

  ‘Benni?’ His voice jerks me back from the daydream. ‘Give me your hand.’

  I do as I’m told, uncertain of his intention, which only becomes clear as he wraps his fingers tightly around mine. Our clasped hands are all I can focus on as we walk along the cliff edge.

  At the signpost, we follow the path towards Churston Cove. It descends through a densely wooded path, and my ballet pumps slip and slide on the dried mud. Sporadically the uneven track dips and drops as it twists between the trees, leading us through an enchanted wood.

  All I can think about is my hand in his.

  ‘The guys are all great,’ Ziggy says. ‘Mainly lads I went to school with and their girlfriends . . . and some ex-girlfriends too, which sounds weird, doesn’t it? But it’s how the crowd are: we hang together and have a laugh.’

  I nod, as if used to such a situation. The reality is, I’m not. I’m used to whispered remarks, snide comments about my size, loud piggy noises and contemptuous looks from girls who should know better and young men who’d never speak to me.

  I’m trying my best to hide it, but inside I’m dreading this. I have been all day. I’m only here because Ziggy was kind enough to invite me. I’ve never been given the opportunity to attend a beach barbecue before, and I doubt I ever will again. I want to embrace tonight; . . . I need to join in on occasions such as these, find ways to relax, and make the most of chatting with people of my own age. I can’t afford to keep shying away from social situations. That was the old Benni; this holiday is meant to be a new beginning for me.

  ‘Mind your step,’ says Ziggy as the dirt track descends swiftly. He releases my hand and I clutch at his shoulder to steady myself as my gaze fixes upon the sight below. The natural cove, with a shale beach sloping down towards the lapping water, is picture perfect. In the centre of the beach, midway between the cliff and the water’s edge, is a sprawling group of young people mingling around the beginnings of a campfire. In the twilight hue, the scene looks intriguing; as a meeting point it certainly beats the graffiti-covered bench in Burntwood’s local park around which our youths congregate, swearing and swigging cheap cider. I reckon that about fifteen bodies are lounging around, unpacking bags or larking
around as we descend into the cove.

  Ziggy takes my hand for the final few steps as we clamber over boulders towards the shale.

  ‘Ziggy, my man!’ calls a voice from the sprawling crowd.

  ‘Smudge, you lazy mucker . . . you call in sick then come out to party!’ hollers Ziggy, helping me over the final rock before we hit the shale.

  ‘Doctor’s note signed and sealed, my man; that’ll keep your father happy!’ replies Smudge, jumping up from his supine position to back-slap Ziggy in an affectionate welcome.

  ‘Skiving more like!’ replies Ziggy, dropping my hand to return the manly gesture. ‘Smudge, this is Benni.’

  I watch as Smudge withdraws from his male bonding to deliver a warm, welcoming smile and extend a hand in my direction.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Benni. Come and meet the crew . . . but first, what’s your poison?’ I turn to look at Ziggy, who is smiling broadly.

  ‘See, I told you,’ he says. ‘They’re just like me.’

  ‘What have I said wrong?’ asks Smudge.

  ‘Nothing, Benni here had never heard anyone say that phrase before me and now . . . well, it says it all really.’

  I laugh, grateful for the immediate acceptance, which chases away my self-conscious nerves.

  ‘Come on, Benni,’ Ziggy says encouragingly. ‘No one here cares a jot.’

  ‘I do,’ I mumble, my harsh refusal softened into a stern whisper.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Just go . . . you’re embarrassing me,’ I say curtly, gesturing for him to leave me alone. I’m aware that three girls sitting to my right are watching and listening intently.

  Ziggy stands and momentarily pauses, looking out towards the lapping water where numerous bodies are jumping and splashing as their limbs meet the water, before staring down at me. In the distance, despite twilight falling, I can make out the majestic lighthouse on the far side of the harbour.

  ‘I’ll ask one more time before I head in . . . are you coming?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Fine.’ He hastily peels off his jacket and T-shirt and drops his trousers in a pile before running full pelt towards the water. I stare at the discarded clothes by my feet.

  Is he out of his tiny mind? Or simply blind? The chances of me ever taking off my clothes in public are close to zero. I feel angered by his persistence. How insensitive can a guy be?

  I fix my stare towards the open water as my mind swirls with rushing thoughts and annoyance. Alongside me the blazing campfire offers warmth and much-needed light to view the proceedings.

  ‘Are you not joining them?’ asks a girl sitting to my left.

  ‘Nah, it’s not my scene,’ I lie. I don’t wish to strike up a conversation with anyone at this precise moment.

  ‘You can go in wearing your underwear; no one cares around here. It’s the same as a bikini, isn’t it?’ she adds, flicking her mane of chestnut hair as she speaks.

  ‘I suppose I could, but I don’t really feel like it.’

  ‘Well, if you change your mind, I’ve got a spare towel.’

  ‘Cheers, but I’m happy sitting here,’ I say firmly.

  ‘If you’re sure . . . I’ll be heading in then . . . see ya.’

  I watch as she jumps up, strips as quickly as Ziggy did and dashes down the shale beach before screaming as her feet meet the water. I watch her move elegantly into the water. If I had a figure like hers I’d be showing it off too, but Christ, can you imagine it . . . me in my undies wobbling after her trim silhouette. Lord, it’s one image I can save this crowd from. I imagine most of these young men wouldn’t give a girl like me a second look fully clothed, let alone partially naked in my sensible knickers and sturdy bra.

  The trio of girls sitting to my right jump up and follow suit, de-robing down to their lacy undies in seconds and joining the crowd splashing in the sea. I glance around. I’m sitting alone on a shale beach, cradling an empty wine glass and disliking intensely the only person who is holding me back in life: me.

  It brings back memories of primary school sports day, when I would sit on a bench feigning a twisted ankle because I didn’t want to take part in the egg and spoon, wheelbarrow race or skipping competition. In secondary school, I successfully avoided swimming lessons for four entire years, feigning an allergy to chlorine. My refusal to attend netball practice, cross-country runs and Duke of Edinburgh expeditions floods my mind. Obviously I’ve made a hobby of avoiding anything and everything relating to exercise or public participation where others can view me alongside other people. Not because of any lack of skill or my straitened circumstances, but simply due to my size.

  My usual excuses of being big-boned, having a slow metabolism or an inherited family trait have become my comfort blanket . . . that and a second helping of rice pudding.

  I watch as a slim silhouette emerges from the water and walks steadily up the beach towards me. When she’s a few feet away, I realise that it’s Marla, from the Queen’s Arms.

  ‘Hello, it’s nice to recognise a familiar face amongst the crowd,’ I say, delighted to see her. ‘I hope my friend Emma isn’t driving you potty with her tubs of ice cream. I thought she’d have moved premises by now and started using the parlour’s equipment rather than continuing to pester you guys.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Marla says cheerfully. ‘She’s slipped me a few quid to thank me, and my boss isn’t fussed, so there’s no worries. Are you coming in, Benni?’ she asks, crouching on to her haunches beside me. I’m certain she’s wearing only underwear but it could be a black bikini for all I can tell. Her damp skin glistens as she leans closer. ‘The water is lovely and warm . . . warmer than out here.’

  ‘I don’t think so . . .’ My words trail off. I can’t feign an excuse. She’s female; she understands.

  ‘Ziggy’ll take care of you; nothing bad will happen,’ adds Marla, pushing her damp hair back from her delicate features. Why would anyone this beautiful be bothered about me joining them? I’m sure she’s saying it just to be kind. Or I bet Ziggy sent her.

  ‘Honestly, I’m fine. I don’t like water anyway.’ Even my lie sounds heavy and clunky.

  ‘I think you know my younger sister from the stables,’ she says, sitting down on the shale, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms tightly around her legs, possibly a poor attempt to keep warm.

  ‘Maddie? Yes, she’s been great. She’s shown me so much and taken me out when she’s exercised Bruce. I saw your horse Wispy too.’

  ‘Yeah, Maddie’s horse mad, stable mad and Bruce mad . . . or that’s what my dad says, anyway. She mentioned over dinner that you’d been helping out in the yard for most of the week.’

  ‘I have. I’ve loved it. I always wanted to ride, but . . .’ I don’t need to explain. ‘I’m hoping to visit each day for the remainder of my holiday, if they’ll put up with me.’

  ‘They’ll welcome the extra pair of hands; there’s always work to do in the yard. Maddie’s enjoyed your company.’

  ‘I’ve learnt that there’s something very special about being around horses. They look at you and . . .’ Words fail me. How can I explain what I feel when I look into those dark eyes?

  ‘They hold your gaze and almost read you from the inside out,’ says Marla, giving me a knowing glance. ‘That’s how it feels to me, anyway.’

  ‘Exactly. You get what I mean.’

  Silence descends. Marla begins to shiver, and goose bumps appear on her porcelain skin. She begins to rub frantically at her slim legs.

  ‘Are you sure you aren’t coming in? I’ll wait for you and we can head down together,’ she says, looking from me back to the water, where the crowd continue to splash and play.

  ‘Nah, it’s really not my thing.’

  Secretly I’d love to. But I’m not going to say yes, so I’
ll continue to say no until everyone is fed up or distracted. I have my pride, and it won’t allow me to uncover this body before strangers – correction, before anyone – in its current size and shape.

  A little later, I look up to find a woman offering me a fresh glass of wine, which I take gratefully as she settles beside me. She’s like me, big-boned.

  ‘Reckless is what I think it is,’ she says, staring out to sea as heads and shoulders bob about in the dark water. ‘A total disrespect for health and safety. I keep telling them alcohol and night swimming don’t mix. They’ll pay the price one of these nights and then who will they blame? Not me. It’ll be the likes of me that’s left to raise the alarm with the lifeguard when one of them gets into difficulties.’

  I hear what she’s saying; she’s not wrong but I can also detect the lie. It’s the same lie I could imagine myself repeating week after week if I were a regular in this crowd.

  ‘I’m Helen, by the way.’

  ‘Benni . . . nice to meet you, Helen.’

  ‘Foolish behaviour, don’t you think?’

  I imagine I’m about to hear round two of the lie.

  ‘It must feel good, though . . . they look like they’re having fun, despite the danger,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, maybe, but still . . .’

  Mmm, but still, we won’t be joining in because we’re embarrassed by our bodies. Not our big bones, slow metabolism or family genes. My excuses have dissolved. I’m more concerned with the size of my thighs, the flesh circling my abdomen and the pendulous movement of my unbridled chest.

  ‘The water is beautiful, you should have come in,’ says Ziggy as we sit beside the campfire cradling our drinks, the crowd singing songs as one guy strums a guitar nearby.

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Seriously, what’s the issue?’ Ziggy’s hand reaches for my arm; his gentle touch feels too tender to belong to a man.

  The truth sounds ridiculous, even inside my head; there is no way I will allow the words to spill from my lips. He’ll laugh. Fancy having to admit that your dress size determines how you enjoy yourself, or not as the case may be.