In at the Deep End

by Kate Davies

  As we boarded the train, I saw Ella jogging towards a different platform. She saw me and waved. I smiled at her.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Sam, turning to look.

  ‘Just someone from dance.’ I didn’t want to say Ella’s name.

  We managed to score a table seat on the train, and we’d both come prepared, Sam with Marks & Spencer chocolate-covered raisins, me with cans of gin and tonic. We toasted the weekend ahead with our cans and soon we were definitely drunk, laughing too hard at a cat photograph Jasper had posted on Facebook. Sam read her book and I gazed out of the window at the trees, turning gold to red to brown, fantasizing about getting off at the next station and starting my life all over again in the middle of Devon. I used to listen to The Archers on Sundays over breakfast at my parents’ house; I reckoned I could make a go of it.

  We caught a cab from Axminster station. It twisted through the narrow lanes of central Lyme Regis, coming to a stop halfway up a hill outside a tiny terraced house. Sam fiddled with the lock as I stood on the cobbled street, breathing deep, filling my lungs with the cold sea air.

  ‘There’s a wood-burning stove!’ I said, as we walked inside. I dropped my bag, rushed over and knelt in front of it, but Sam said, ‘Not yet.’

  I stood up, obeying her automatically, and then I realized what I’d done and I knelt back down again. ‘I want to light it,’ I said.

  ‘First things first,’ Sam said, kneeling down behind me and kissing me on the neck. ‘We have to christen the house.’ She undid my bra through my T-shirt and by that time my nipples were already hard – it had been a week, let’s face it – and we had sex right there on the thick shag pile rug, Sam fucking me from behind. I was facing the window, and the Venetian blinds weren’t twisted shut. A couple of people walked past and I grabbed Sam’s wrist to stop her in case they saw us or heard us, but that made the whole thing even hotter.

  When I’d come, shuddering to my stomach, Sam lay on top of me and kissed my ear. ‘I’ve always wanted to fuck on a rug like this,’ she said.

  ‘You mean that was your first time?’

  ‘Yes. I was a shag pile shag virgin.’

  It’s funny the difference a place can make to the way you feel about things. Sam and I seemed to make sense again in Lyme Regis. The things that mattered in London didn’t seem to matter here; there was no Alice to make me question my relationship, no Cat to remind me of what I’d done in Edinburgh, and no Jasper and Polly to remind Sam of the exciting sex she was missing. We were both relaxed and happy and excited about each other again. The little house had no Wi-Fi or phone reception, which made me feel claustrophobic at first – I wondered whether Sam had booked this cut-off cottage on purpose, and why – but then I thought about it for a while and realized the only things I’d miss out on were calls from my mother, loudly advising me to break up with Sam while Sam was in earshot, and reading about other people’s engagements on Facebook. If I needed to get in touch with someone I just had to walk to the end of the road. I wasn’t exactly in prison.

  On Saturday morning we walked along the beach, scarves around our necks against the wind. Sam insisted we walk to the very end of the Cobb, Lyme Regis’s famous curved stone harbour wall, even though the waves whipped arcs of saltwater across our path. I worried we’d be washed in, but Sam insisted we wouldn’t, and she was right.

  Afterwards, we browsed in the shops on Broad Street, which were mostly expensive and touristy, except one: a beautiful, ramshackle second-hand bookshop, the sort that only really exists in films set in Hampstead these days. Sam walked straight to the back and started leafing through a biography of Josephine Baker. I stayed in the fiction section, feeling that if I could just find the right book I might become a different person, a person who had intelligent things to say about the Booker Prize shortlist and had never had racist sex in the Shard.

  Books spilled out of the shelves as though begging you to choose them, and framed photos of the shop’s bestselling authors peered down at us; I felt Virginia Woolf’s eyes on me as I picked up a Jilly Cooper. I put it back down and picked up an Angela Carter novel instead.

  Sam moved to the art section and approached the white-haired man who worked there. ‘I’m looking for a book by Grayson Perry. I think he’s written a memoir.’

  ‘Portrait of the Artist as a Young Girl.’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  I felt my phone buzz in my pocket – I had signal again, and three messages had come through at once.

  ‘We had a copy, but someone bought it a few weeks ago,’ the white-haired man was saying.

  A message from Dad: Nice documentary about earthquakes on BBC iPlayer if you’re interested.

  And another from Ella: Hellooooo! Good luck with Sam this weekend!!! When are you back?

  A voice behind me said, ‘Who’s that from?’

  I felt my body jolt, as though I had been caught out. I put my phone in my pocket. ‘Just Dad,’ I said.

  ‘How’s his YouTube channel coming along?’

  ‘Disturbingly well. BuzzFeed featured him on a list of seventeen surprisingly hot YouTubers over 50.’ Which was, unfortunately, true.

  Sam had booked us a table for dinner in the saloon bar of The Volunteer, a trendy pub by Lyme Regis standards, with mismatched vintage furniture and too many antique mirrors on the expensively grey walls. The booking turned out to have been completely unnecessary as we were the only people in there. Occasionally people would push the saloon bar doors open and tumble into the room, stopping short when they saw the two of us eating a Lady and the Tramp-style candlelit dinner before retreating to the other side of the pub, away from the intensity of our relationship.

  ‘We should do a toast to second chances,’ Sam said, after we’d finished our fish pie. ‘I’ll order us some fizz.’

  No one was serving in the saloon bar, so she pushed through the swing doors to find a barman.

  As soon as she’d gone, I pulled my phone from my pocket to text Ella back. Going OK so far. Will fill you in when I get back xxxxx

  As I was putting my phone away, Sam came back into the room carrying two glasses of prosecco.

  ‘Here you go, babes,’ Sam said, passing a glass to me. ‘I love you more every day.’

  I nodded. ‘You too.’

  We drank our prosecco and I felt myself warming up from within. We talked about Sam’s new gallery, and what my chances were like for the Fast Stream, and whether I should take on any swing dance teaching, for a bit of fun on the side.

  ‘I didn’t think you liked having fun on the side,’ said Sam, raising her eyebrows.

  I laughed – it was a bit of a hollow laugh, but Sam didn’t seem to notice.

  I went to take a sip of my prosecco and realized I didn’t have any left to sip. ‘I’ll get us a refill,’ I said. I picked up my wallet and pushed through the saloon doors.

  The main part of the pub was packed with old men in Fair Isle jumpers and women in fleeces sipping at pints of bitter, and the heat and noise made me feel drunker and more excited. I elbowed my way to the bar and ordered us two more glasses of prosecco.

  As I sat down at our table again, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it and handed Sam her glass.

  She smiled at me. ‘Aren’t you going to check who’s texting you?’

  ‘I’ll check it later.’

  ‘Go on,’ she said, her smile a little forced now. ‘Check it now.’

  ‘No,’ I said, reddening.

  ‘You’re hiding something from me,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not!’ I slid my phone across the table to her. ‘You’re being paranoid,’ I said.

  Sam looked at my phone. ‘You’ve been texting Ella.’

  ‘So? She’s my friend.’

  She scrolled back through my messages.

  ‘You’re not going to find anything else in there,’ I said, face hot, praying that I was right.

  She was still looking through my phone.

  ‘What are you doing?�
� I said, trying to grab it, but she pulled it back.

  ‘Why are you looking at my Instagram?’

  ‘Why? Don’t you want me to?’ she asked.

  I leaned over to see what she was looking at. She had opened my DMs. And there, near the top, was the message from Jane. It’s like she had known it would be there.

  ‘No,’ I said, standing up. ‘No, no, no, no—’

  Sam turned my phone around for me to see, eyes cold, furious. ‘What’s this?’

  Didn’t want to text you just in case … Last night was hot. Don’t worry, I won’t tell her. Call if you ever need someone to talk to, and look after yourself.

  Why hadn’t I deleted that message? Why had I been such a fucking idiot?

  Because your girlfriend isn’t supposed to look through your social media messages. Your girlfriend is supposed to trust you.

  But she had been right not to trust me. I had proved her right, right to be jealous, right to be paranoid.

  Maybe I’d meant her to see it.

  I desperately wanted to claw back what had happened, what I had done, but I couldn’t. ‘I was drunk,’ I said, pleading. ‘It was a terrible mistake, and I wanted to tell you—’

  ‘When?’ she asked. She had started to cry.

  ‘In Edinburgh,’ I said, crying too. ‘Before you said anything about being monogamous. Just one time.’

  She looked up at me. She didn’t seem angry. Just hurt. ‘You could have just asked.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry,’ I said, reaching across to touch her hand.

  But she snatched her hand away and her face was getting redder, and her rage was returning, like a wave, bigger, with more momentum. She said, ‘Why did you come to Lyme Regis with me if you were fucking someone else?’

  ‘I’m not fucking her,’ I said, scared now. ‘It was once. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You asked me to come here with you when you were seeing someone behind my back.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you,’ I said. ‘You asked me.’

  ‘Oh, right. So you didn’t actually want to come. You were forced to.’

  ‘That’s not what I said!’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re denying that this was your idea.’

  ‘It wasn’t! It wasn’t, though!’ I was unsure of what I thought I knew. I wasn’t wrong, was I? Why was she trying to make me wrong?

  ‘Why are you lying about this?’ Sam asked. She looked genuinely upset.

  ‘I’m not!’

  She looked at me. She shook her head. She dropped my phone onto the table and pushed her chair back. ‘I’m going,’ she said.

  ‘Sam—’

  ‘No, no.’ She was pulling on her coat now. ‘You’re a fucking liar and a cheater. And you didn’t even want to come here, apparently.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said to Sam’s back. She was already walking out of the pub.

  I stood there, staring at the two glasses of prosecco on the table, the bubbles rising to the surface, waiting for a toast that wasn’t going to come.

  46. A DYKEY FRENCH LIEUTENANT’S WOMAN

  I wrapped my coat around me and stumbled out into the cold, dark street. The wind was slapping my hair into my face, as though it was trying to shake some sense into me.

  I phoned Sam. She didn’t pick up.

  I phoned her again.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  ‘How long have you and Ella been fucking?’

  I stopped walking. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Jane wasn’t enough for you, was she? Got a taste for it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Look, I am so, so sorry about what I did. But I’m not interested in anyone else—’

  ‘Liar!’

  ‘I’m not a liar!’

  ‘You’re seeing Ella behind my back!’

  ‘I’m not!’

  ‘Don’t insult me!’

  ‘I’m not insulting you! You don’t need to be jealous of her! There is nothing between us!’ A pair of teenage boys turned to look at me, curious. I realized I was shouting.

  ‘Don’t lie.’ Her voice was quieter now, though. She wanted to be talked down.

  ‘Baby,’ I said. ‘Baby. I am so sorry for what I did. I am so sorry I didn’t tell you. I am so disgusted with myself.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, voice calmer still. ‘OK. A hundred per cent honesty now. Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Do you find Ella attractive?’

  ‘No—’

  ‘That’s a lie! You want her!’ Her voice was creeping up the octave again.

  ‘I don’t!’

  ‘You’ve already been unfaithful to me!’

  ‘You’re such a hypocrite!’ I shouted, completely desperate with guilt and frustration and fury now. ‘You slept with Virginie when we were together!’

  A moment of silence.

  ‘That’s different,’ she said then. ‘You knew what was going on. You knew about Virginie from the moment we got together.’

  ‘But nothing’s going on with me and Ella! I don’t want anything to be going on! I just want you!’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re treating me like this.’ She was working herself up now, as if on purpose, like a child, mid-tantrum. ‘I’ve allowed myself to be so vulnerable with you. I told you about my mum dying. I told you about my dad in Dubai—’

  ‘That’s it! That’s literally it! I know hardly anything about you!’ And as I spoke, I realized that was true.

  I could hear Sam breathing on the other end of the line.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ I said. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you care. Don’t pretend you care what happens to me,’ she said, and she hung up. I was standing on a cobbled street, in front of a slate-roofed cottage. Through the window I could see a couple sitting on a sofa watching Saturday-night TV, her arm around his shoulders.

  I ran to the house we were staying in, but Sam wasn’t there. I stood on the doorstep, panting, thinking. Where would I go if I were Sam? Where would I go if I were hurt, a hypocrite, a massive fucking drama queen?

  To the sea. Obviously to the sea.

  I ran down the hill till I reached the beach, the wind wailing, encouraging me or warning me, I couldn’t tell. The water was silver-black under the moon, the waves roaring and scratching, roaring and scratching.

  I ran along the raised paved walkway that curves around the bay, past pastel beach huts, threatening and grey in the moonlight, standing to attention like a useless army.

  I knew where she’d be. She’d be where all the drama takes place in Lyme Regis. She’d be on the Cobb.

  And yes, there she was, right at the end of the curved wall, like a dykey French lieutenant’s woman, silhouetted against the moonlight, gazing out to sea, ignoring the huge waves crashing behind her, her scarf waving in the wind.

  ‘Sam!’ I shouted, but she didn’t seem to hear me.

  Even then, when I felt solid with rage because of her, I couldn’t believe how beautiful she was. So angular and tall and noble and perfect. How could she still look perfect to me?

  ‘Sam!’ I shouted again. ‘Come back!’

  But she didn’t. I was going to have to go to her.

  I’m afraid of the sea. But I ignored the sign warning people not to walk on the Cobb in high winds and I climbed the steps. The stones were slippery with seawater. I walked towards Sam, keeping to the edge of the Cobb nearest the bay, but a wave curved up above me and slammed right into me, bringing me to my knees, leaving me gripping the paving stones and wiping stinging water out of my eyes and wondering how the fuck I’d got to this place.

  ‘Sam!’ I screamed again, and she heard me this time.

  ‘Fuck off back to your girlfriend!’ she shouted.

  ‘What?’ My vision was still blurry from the saltwater. ‘Come on. This is stupid. Come back!’ I stood up, arms out to steady myself like a surfer, and took a few faltering steps.

  But Sam was storming
towards me, collar up, hands in her pockets, scarf streaming behind her.

  I reached out to her as she neared me but she turned towards me and spat on the ground in front of me. ‘Dirty fucking slut,’ she said, and she just kept on walking, jogging down the stone steps as I made my terrified, crab-like way back to the safety of dry land.

  ‘Wait!’ I shouted, but she was running again now.

  I ran after her but then she swerved to the right and started running over the pebbles towards the water, stumbling as they turned beneath her feet, taking off her jacket, flinging it onto the beach along with her phone.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I called, which was a silly question, because it was clear what she was doing: she was running, fully clothed, into the stormy, black October sea.

  ‘Come back!’

  She waded further out.

  ‘Stop it!’ I screamed. ‘Stop it!’

  She was up to her knees now, slowing down.

  ‘Come back! Please, Sam! Please!’

  She turned towards me, eyes wide with rage and, frankly, madness. ‘You made me do this!’ she screamed. ‘You made me do this!’ And she launched herself into the sea and started swimming as hard as she could.

  So I tore off my coat and ran in after her. I’m a strong swimmer, despite my fear of the sea, and I caught up with her easily, but Sam screamed, ‘Fuck off!’ and pushed me away.

  I tried to put my arms around her but I was out of my depth and I could feel myself sinking, and every time I got a grip on Sam’s waist she lashed out at me.

  And then we were inside a wave, being slammed against the stones on the seabed, and then our heads were above water and we were spluttering for air, and I took my opportunity and dragged her by the arm until we were on the beach, our chests heaving.

  And I looked at her, and her hair, her face, her clothes were shining in the moonlight, and she looked at me, and then she was on top of me, pulling at my clothes and kissing me, and I kissed her back and bit her lip, hard, and she cried out and touched her lip, because I had drawn blood, and then she pinned my arms to the pebbles above my head, which hurt, and she started undoing my jeans, which was difficult because they were heavy with seawater, and then finally, finally, I thought to myself, What the fuck am I doing? And I pushed her away so that she fell back on the stones. And I sat there next to her, panting, out of breath. She reached for the jacket that she’d left on the beach, pulled a packet of cigarettes out of the pocket and lit one. And I stood up, shaky, wondering whether to walk away.