Christmas at the Beach Hut

by Veronica Henry

  Luke typed in her password. They all knew her password. Lizzy wasn’t the type to have secrets on her iPad. He started scrolling through her apps and messages.

  Simon suddenly felt nervous. What if there was something awful on there?

  ‘I don’t know about this,’ he said. In his mind, he suddenly conjured up a sturdy, kindly, weather-beaten gardening type who she had met – where? Stranger things had happened. Lizzy wasn’t classically beautiful but there was no doubt men were drawn to her: her warmth, her kindness, her laugh, her twinkly eyes …

  And had he been paying her as much attention as he should? Had he been as reassuring about her redundancy as he could have been? Or had he just left her to flounder? She’d been a bit subdued and anxious, although he had told her not to worry about getting a job straight away. He was doing better than ever at work; his bonuses were rolling in. He hadn’t said they wouldn’t miss her salary, because he didn’t want to belittle her contribution, but he didn’t want her to feel pressurised either. He wanted her to do whatever made her happy.

  Guilt and gin collided in his stomach and started to climb his gullet. He pushed it down with an ill-disguised belch that he managed to turn into a cough. Images of Porn Star Martinis floated past him, washed down with chasers of gut-stripping cheap champagne. He reminded himself it had been his duty to stand in for Colin, to shepherd the younger ones, put money behind the bar, keep morale up.

  He looked at the note again. It must be a joke. She really must have got up early and gone off to beat the crowds somewhere, leaving this to shake them up a bit.

  Only Lizzy was never sarcastic. It wasn’t her style. He felt sweaty with panic: too much drinking always made him anxious, even without a reason to be so. He tried to collate his thoughts. Car. He needed to get the car. They couldn’t do anything without that.

  ‘There’s nothing weird in her emails,’ said Luke. ‘Only orders for Christmas stuff.’

  ‘Don’t look,’ said Hattie. ‘You don’t want to know what you’re getting. Let me see.’

  She tried to take the iPad off Luke, but he snatched it back off her.

  ‘Oi!’ said Hattie, tetchy with the stress of it all.

  ‘There’s nothing there,’ said Luke firmly, and shut the iPad back in the drawer.

  ‘Guys, I need to get the train into Birmingham and fetch the car. Why don’t you hold the fort here? Maybe do a bit of tidying up? I bet Mum will be back by lunch.’

  Even as he said it, he didn’t believe himself. The note was so unlike her, it unsettled him. But he had to put on a brave face for Hattie and Luke, who were both looking uncharacteristically distressed. It was a funny age, this – teenagers could be so insouciant, yet it didn’t take much to rattle them: a change in routine or an unexpected event.

  And Lizzy’s bombshell was totally out of the blue.

  What the hell were they going to do if she really had run away?

  15

  The walk from the sea’s edge to the car park took longer than Lizzy expected. The wind was against her and walking on damp sand was strenuous. She’d be as fit as a flea if she did this every day, she thought. And a windswept walk on the beach was much more pleasurable than jumping on a treadmill or joining an aerobics class.

  And you could think, out here in the fresh air without the demands of everyday life interfering. She wanted to figure out who she really was and what she wanted. It wasn’t that she was unhappy with Simon but that she felt she was losing control of her life. That everything familiar was slipping away from her and that she was being eternally compromised by all the baggage of marriage. Of course you had to compromise, but she felt as if she was the only one doing it. Which wasn’t really compromise, was it?

  She supposed what she wanted was everyone to recognise that, without her having to tell them. Running away was her way of shocking them into thinking about her. Was that dishonest? Or was it passive aggressive – which seemed to be the greatest crime you could commit these days? Something had to change, even though her marriage was fundamentally sound. She and Simon were made for each other. It was other people who got in the way.

  She smiled as she thought back again to what they now referred to as Operation Fruit Shoot. It had been two o’clock before she had got home the night of Amanda’s wedding – an occupational hazard. It had been no wonder she was still single because she always seemed to end up working on a Saturday night, and was home so late that Sunday was often a write-off.

  It had been quite a struggle to get rid of all Amanda’s wedding guests, who wanted to linger on and drink the bar dry. Then she had supervised her team of cleaners to sweep through the marquee and make it immaculate. She never left the mess for the next morning. She gathered up the lost property – two pairs of very expensive high heels, a pair of glittery earrings and someone’s car keys. Presumably they’d got a taxi home and would realise the next morning their keys were missing.

  She opened her front door, kicked off her shoes and headed for the kitchen to make a cup of tea, wondering if Simon had got home safely with the little ones. She remembered the touch of his hand and the look in his eye. As she trickled the last of the milk into her cup of tea, reminding herself that she needed to do a supermarket trip the next day come hell or high water, she realised that tonight was the first time for a long time she had felt drawn to someone.

  She took her tea up to her bedroom and crawled under the duvet. Tomorrow she would finish painting the spare room and start putting it back together. Nesting always made her safe. It was satisfying, building a home, even if it was just for one. She’d go to the antiques market tomorrow and see if there was something she could pick up to renovate: an old chest of drawers or a little bedside table. Projects like that absorbed her and made her feel uplifted, even if she wasn’t very good at it; it was sort of mindless and constructive at the same time.

  On Monday morning a huge bouquet of lilies arrived at Craven Court reception. Lizzy walked past them – flowers often arrived for guests, so it was nothing out of the ordinary. But the receptionist called to her.

  ‘Lizzy! These are for you. At least, I think they are.’

  ‘They can’t be.’ Lizzy walked over to have a look. Her heart was lolloping like a baby rabbit across a lawn.

  On the envelope was written: To the Wedding Organiser with the curly hair and the forget-me-not eyes.

  ‘Forget-me-not eyes,’ breathed the receptionist.

  Lizzy looked at the words, turning them over and over to see who else they could possibly mean. She was arguably the wedding organiser, and she had curly hair – she put up her hand to feel whether this was still the case, and yes, her head was covered in a mass of ringlets – and her eyes were certainly blue, though she would need to check her Observer Book of Wild Flowers to ascertain if they were the exact hue of a forget-me-not.

  ‘Open it!’ Kim urged.

  She pulled up the flap of the little envelope that came with the flowers.

  Thank you so much for rescuing me on Saturday. Would you have dinner with me so I can thank you properly?

  Simon

  Underneath was written his phone number.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ said Lizzy, thinking that this was probably the best and most exciting moment of her life so far.

  ‘Ring him. Ring him now!’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can! He’s just sent you a huge bunch of flowers and asked you out for dinner.’

  Lizzy buried her nose in the lilies while she thought. They had a heavy sweetness that was intoxicating and she felt a little removed from reality. Did he really want to take her out for dinner? Or was he just being polite? She turned the little card over in her fingers, reading the number. She couldn’t imagine having the nerve to dial it. What on earth would she say to him when he answered?

  ‘Right,’ said Kim, swiping the card off her and pic
king up the reception phone. ‘If you won’t do it, I will.’

  She started pressing the buttons.

  ‘No!’ squeaked Lizzy.

  ‘Hello, Mr Kingham? I have Lizzy Matthews on the line for you?’ Kim held out the phone.

  Lizzy shut her eyes in agony. She reached out one hand and Kim pressed the phone into it. She put it to her ear.

  ‘Hello?’ she managed.

  ‘Aah,’ said Simon. His voice was warm and amused, and achingly familiar. ‘So your name’s Lizzy.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you for the absolutely beautiful flowers. You shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I know. I should have brought them in myself. And asked you out to dinner face to face. But I was too nervous.’

  ‘Nervous? Of me?’

  ‘Not of you. Of what you might say. So would you? Have dinner with me?’

  Lizzy swallowed. ‘Well, yes. I’d love to.’

  By now she had opened her eyes and could see Kim clapping silently.

  ‘Tonight?’

  My goodness, he was really keen. ‘Tomorrow,’ said Lizzy firmly, thinking of all the restoration work that needed doing.

  ‘I’ll book a table at Pinocchio’s,’ said Simon. ‘For eight o’clock?’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Lizzy. She loved Pinocchio’s, the buzzy little Italian restaurant in Leadenbury. ‘I’ll see you there.’

  She handed the phone back to Kim, who bounced up and down in her chair with delight.

  ‘I’ve got a date,’ Lizzy said in disbelief. ‘You don’t think it’s a joke? Or a trick?’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Kim. ‘No, I don’t. This bouquet has been sent by a man who is seriously smitten.’

  ‘Smitten,’ said Lizzy, not feeling at all like the sort of person anyone would be smitten with.

  Kim picked up the phone.

  ‘Right, I’m booking you in for an MOT in the spa. Eyebrows, facial, bikini—’

  ‘I don’t need my bikini doing,’ protested Lizzy. ‘That’s going a bit fast.’

  ‘It’s psychological,’ said Kim. ‘If you’re all trim and tidy down there, it gives you confidence. Trust me.’

  Lizzy wrinkled her nose. Trim and tidy? Never mind her bikini line, what was she going to wear?

  Six months later, Lizzy and Simon were arranging their own wedding. They were sitting in her kitchen, writing out a guest list over a bottle of Australian Shiraz.

  She loved the way he fitted into her house. It had felt as if he belonged there the moment he’d walked in, whether he was sprawled on her sofa watching telly or curled up under her duvet. She still couldn’t believe it when she opened her eyes and saw his dark hair on her pillow.

  ‘We want Mo and Lexi there, don’t we?’ asked Lizzy. ‘I hate those po-faced weddings where they don’t invite children.’

  ‘Of course. I expect my mum will look after them,’ said Simon, filling in the names on the diagram of the top table Lizzy had drawn.

  Lizzy frowned. ‘But surely your mum will want to enjoy herself?’

  ‘I suppose so …’

  ‘Won’t Amanda look after them for you? After all, you looked after them at her wedding.’

  Simon looked at her and sighed. ‘I’m not even going to ask.’

  ‘It can’t hurt to ask.’

  ‘Honestly, Lizzy. It’s just not worth it.’

  ‘Is she really that selfish?’

  He sighed and topped up her wine, pushing it over to her. ‘Can we not talk about Amanda? This is about us. As far as I’m concerned, from now on, Amanda isn’t part of my life any more.’

  At the time, he had seemed so definite. She’d had no reason to disbelieve him. But as Lizzy reached the beachside car park, she reflected on the irony of those words. Twenty years on and Amanda was still pulling the strings. Lizzy didn’t know why she couldn’t take control of the situation. Was she that feeble and ineffectual? Or maybe Amanda was more important than she was?

  Maybe by running away she was enabling everyone to have the Christmas they really wanted, relieving them all of duty and tradition and obligation. Maybe she was doing them all a favour.

  She opened the boot and pulled out her case and the tote bag of books she’d hastily packed. She decided she would spend the afternoon curled up by the wood-burner with her slipper socks and a hot chocolate and read, without interruption. Her Christmas, her way, safe in the knowledge everyone else was doing just as they liked too. It would be absolute bliss.

  16

  Simon stood on the station platform, anxiously looking down the line, his eyes flicking up to the departure board. He wanted to get in and out of Birmingham as quickly as possible. He’d considered a taxi but the train would, on balance, be quicker because the traffic would be terrible. But not if the train was delayed … He shivered in the cold air, then felt a surge of relief as the nose of the train appeared round the corner and headed determinedly for the station.

  Moments later he was squashed up amongst the panic-shoppers heading into town for their last-minute present buying, sporting a mélange of fake fur, reindeer antlers and flashing earrings. He managed to slink into a window seat. He felt queasy, and he wasn’t sure what was causing it: his over-indulgence, his fear for Lizzy or the smell in the carriage, a mixture of a hundred noxious perfumes, the alcohol-infused sweat from last night’s hangovers (including his own) and stale cigarette smoke.

  He sat hunched up in his seat, arms crossed, head down, urging the train to go faster. In the absence of company or a newspaper, he had no choice but to use the journey to think things over, and it made him uncomfortable.

  He cursed himself yet again for going out the night before. Why hadn’t he remembered Lizzy mentioning the tree? Why hadn’t he left after one drink? He could easily have done that. Why hadn’t he left at a reasonable time, instead of stumbling in after midnight no good for anything?

  Because he’d wanted to feel young? Because he’d wanted to go out with a bunch of young people and drink and laugh with them? Because he was vain and selfish and shallow and insensitive? Thoughtless at best. Self-indulgent at worst. What kind of a man did that? One who was afraid of getting old. One who didn’t deserve the love of a woman like Lizzy.

  Simon knew he didn’t look his age yet, because he dressed well and appropriately, and he went running three times a week to keep any paunch at bay. But there was no denying his hair was getting thinner, his widow’s peak more pronounced, and he had to keep it much shorter because there was nothing more tragic than a middle-aged man with thinning long hair. And there were a few streaks of silver in it. Yes, it was quite distinguished – or was that just what you told yourself, or other people told you, to soften the blow of the ageing process?

  He’d had the urge to let that thinning, silvering hair down a bit. There was nothing more sinister to it. He certainly wasn’t going to chat up any of the girls in the office. Yes, there’d be a bit of banter, but the thought of anything more intimate made Simon shiver. He lived in horror of being thought predatory.

  He’d seen it often enough. Men his age, dressed up in too-tight skinny jeans and fitted jackets and Peaky Blinders haircuts, homing in on glamorous thirty-somethings, thinking that their wealth and their sophistication and charm made them contenders. He’d seen the young women catching each other’s eyes and smirking. He would never, ever put himself in that situation. He wasn’t that kind of a man.

  Though he had been once, he reminded himself.

  He was sweating now; the train carriage was overheated. Every now and then a cluster of twenty-somethings started a rousing chorus of ‘Rocking Around the Christmas Tree’ and tried to get everyone to join in. Simon just couldn’t find it in him.

  ‘Cheer up, mate, it might never happen,’ said one of them to him.

  He sighed, pushing back his hair and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
Another ten minutes and they’d be in Birmingham.

  Nina.

  Nina had been his downfall. Or had she just been the catalyst? They hadn’t had an affair. He could put his hand on his heart and say that. Although what constituted an affair? Did having feelings for someone other than your wife signify infidelity? An emotional betrayal?

  Nina had run the photocopy shop two doors down from his office, where Simon often went to have brochures and leaflets printed out. They would get into conversation while he waited and their friendship had blossomed from there. Nina was kind and reassuring and gave him support at a time when he was floundering helplessly, trying to keep his high-pressure job going with two small children and a wife who made constant demands. After having Mo and Lexi eighteen months apart, Amanda seemed to want her life to stay the same: late nights out and lie-ins. Simon had been quite happy to drop down a gear and enjoy his family; Amanda seemed to have no notion of family or the fact that marriage was a compromise.

  Amanda had been impossible. When he described it to her, Nina had been appalled by Amanda’s expectations and lack of consideration. Gradually, she had given him the courage to start standing up for himself.

  ‘You’re being pussy-whipped,’ Nina used to tell him, because she was straight talking and, although she was five years younger than him, very perceptive.

  Amanda didn’t like the new assertive Simon. She liked things her way. Her eyes narrowed every time he put his foot down. When he told her they were a team, and not in competition with each other, she had been mystified. Amanda didn’t really do teamwork.

  ‘What’s got into you?’ she demanded, when he refused to look after Lexi and Mo one Saturday while she went to the gym. He suggested they should all get in the car and go for a walk in the nearby forest instead.

  ‘I’ll take you for tea afterwards,’ he promised, and she looked at him as if he was mad.

  ‘Tea?’ she said, as if he’d suggested eating their own arms.