Meet Me on the Beach

by Hilary Boyd

  But she just looked at him, unable to explain.

  “I’ll come now,” she said. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  “Do you want to speak to her?” Patrick asked.

  “Please, yes . . .”

  Her hand was sweating so much, the phone felt sticky in her palm, but she clung on to it, waiting with a pounding heart for Patrick to go back into Sophie’s room and give her the phone.

  “Hi,” Sophie said, eventually.

  “Sophie, are you alright?”

  “Not really.”

  Then Karen heard her burst into tears.

  “Oh, Sophie . . . listen, I’m on my way. I’m so, so sorry I wasn’t there. My phone was switched off, I’ve only just got Patrick’s messages.”

  “It’s OK,” the girl said flatly.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “OK,” she said again.

  “Will you pass me back to Patrick, please?”

  “He’s gone to get a coffee.”

  “Right. Well, see you in an hour, darling.”

  Sophie hung up.

  Karen told Mike what had happened. “Sorry to leave you in the lurch, but I’ve got to go.”

  “Of course. Are you sure you’re OK to drive?”

  She shrugged. “I’ll have to be.”

  “I can close up and take you if you like.”

  “God, no. Thanks, you’re very kind, but I’ll be fine.” She hugged Mike tightly. “Talk later.”

  *

  All the way to the hospital in the car, Karen’s head was spinning. Not with the after-effects of the white wine, but with the horrible certainty that she could have stopped Sophie harming herself. It was so clear that the girl was depressed, but Karen had chosen to ignore it, or at least do nothing about it, too wrapped up as she was in her own pointless love affair.

  How could she have been so selfish? How could she have left Sophie yet again, when it was clear as day the girl was so thin, fragile, lost? By the time she was fumbling with the coins for the exorbitant hospital car park ticket machine, she was close to tears.

  Patrick met her at the door to the ward. Without a word, he immediately wrapped her in his strong arms.

  “Am I glad to see you,” he said.

  He looked anxious and exhausted, unshaven—obviously he’d been up all night with Sophie.

  “How is she?”

  “She seems to be coping. She’s been asleep most of time since they pumped her out. The psych woman can’t come and assess her till tomorrow, but they say she’ll have to stay in tonight, anyway. Something about potential liver damage not showing up for the first twenty-four hours. I didn’t get it all, you’ll have to ask the doctor.”

  “Poor Sophie . . . this is my fault, I should never have left her on her own. I knew she was depressed. It would never have happened if I’d stayed at home instead of swanning off to the beach again.” The self-blame poured out of her in a desperate torrent.

  “Darling, stop beating yourself up. No one ever knows, that’s the point.” He gently took her arm and drew her along the shiny corridor. “Come on, I’ll get you a coffee and you can tidy yourself up before you see her. We don’t want her to feel guilty for upsetting you on top of all the rest.”

  For ten minutes they sat by the coffee machine at the end of the corridor. The coffee was strong and hot and surprisingly palatable. Karen cradled the paper cup, glad of the warmth between her hands. She was cold as ice, although the hospital air was hot and stuffy with the abiding smell of disinfectant.

  “How did you find her?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for Largo. I was on my own in the cottage—Volkan didn’t come down this weekend, he was working—and I heard the dog barking. It was gone ten, and I thought it was just Sophie putting him out for his last wee before bed and he’d seen a fox or something. But then I realized he was inside, not outside, and he was barking his head off, really frantic . . .”

  Patrick took a breath. “So I went round and banged on the door, called out to Sophie, but of course she didn’t answer. When the dog heard me he came racing to the front door and was scrambling at it, still barking. I didn’t know what to do, both doors were locked, but I found a window at the back—into the den—which wasn’t fastened properly, and I crawled in.” He shook his head, smiling. “You can imagine, with this bulk that wasn’t easy. And as soon as I was inside, Largo jumped up at me, then raced off upstairs. She was in her bedroom, just lying there unconscious, white as a sheet. I honestly thought she was dead.”

  “God . . .”

  “To be frank, I nearly had a heart attack myself. But you learn bits and bobs hanging around film sets all your life. After I’d called 999 I put her in the recovery position, made sure her airway was clear—she’d been sick at some stage—kept her warm and waited. It was agony, darling, I’m telling you. The ambulance only took about fifteen minutes, but it seemed like five years.”

  “You literally saved her life, Patrick. Suppose you hadn’t been down, or hadn’t noticed the barking . . .”

  He shrugged modestly. “It’s Largo who gets the medal,” he said.

  “Do you know what she took?”

  “A possible combination of blood pressure pills, paracetamol and Night Nurse, apparently.”

  “Blood pressure pills?”

  “Yes, beta blockers. Harry’s, judging by the label. There were some missing from the blister pack, but that could have been Harry. We don’t know if she took any, or whether she just had them there.”

  “If she did, you’d think a cocktail like that would have killed her instantly.”

  “Sophie hasn’t told anyone how many she swallowed of everything—she probably doesn’t know herself—but it must have been a fair old number of something, she seemed pretty ill . . .” He paused. “The doc said that if we hadn’t found her when we did, she might well have died.”

  “She must have really meant it.”

  Patrick’s look was full of sympathy. “So you think she was depressed?”

  Karen nodded. “I’m sure she was. I should have done something. I knew she wasn’t right. But she’d been the same for months. And Sophie’s never the most communicative girl . . . not with me, anyway.”

  “Harry’s death must have hit her very hard. She always was his princess.”

  They sat in silence, Karen barely able to contemplate the horrifying implications if Sophie had succeeded. She would never have forgiven herself.

  “I just don’t know how to thank you, Patrick. You’re amazing, knowing what to do, coping with it all. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.”

  “Shush, darling. Come on, drink up, let’s go and check on Sophie. You’ll feel better when you see she’s alright.”

  *

  Her stepdaughter, however, looked quite dreadful. White as a sheet, eyes sunken in their sockets, hair scraped back into a low ponytail that revealed the painful thinness of her face. She had her eyes shut as Karen and Patrick tiptoed up to the curtained bed, but they flew open as soon as she heard them.

  Karen bent and laid her cheek against Sophie’s, gave her a kiss as she squeezed her shoulders. “Oh, Sophie, I’m so sorry.”

  The girl did not resist Karen’s embrace. She seemed drugged still, her movements slow as she tried to hoist herself up on her pillows.

  Patrick took the chair on the opposite side. Karen sat on the bed itself, took Sophie’s hand.

  “What happened?” she asked gently.

  Sophie gave a huge sigh. “I don’t know . . .”

  “I wish you’d told me how you were feeling.”

  The girl didn’t answer.

  “Maybe I could have helped.”

  “I . . . I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “And I was so pathetically caught up in my own life.”

  “It’s not your fault. I just . . . I just . . . it all seemed so pointless. I’m useless. I don’t have a job or a relationship, I can’t get my life together . . . and
. . . I don’t know . . . seems I can’t even kill myself properly . . .” She trailed off.

  No one spoke. Karen felt her heart break for the fragile girl. She looked across the bed at Patrick, his kind face also pained by Sophie’s distress.

  “I know something about what you’re going through. I’ve felt like that myself at various times in my life,” Patrick said quietly.

  This surprised Karen, and clearly Sophie too, because she frowned, bewildered.

  “You? You’ve felt like there was nothing to live for?”

  The actor nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes. It’s quite awful at the time. Everything’s gray, there’s nothing to look forward to, nothing gives you an ounce of pleasure. And not being able to cope creates so much guilt, but you still can’t make yourself cope. All I wanted to do was hide under the duvet all day and cry.”

  Sophie’s face lightened a little. “You felt like that?”

  “Absolutely, darling. As I say, on more than one occasion. I’m not always this jolly soul you see before you now. I never actually got around to trying to kill myself, but I certainly thought about it and lined up the pills. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “That’s how I feel,” Sophie murmured, tears forming in her dark eyes.

  Patrick patted the hand that Karen wasn’t holding. “Well, I’m extremely glad you didn’t succeed. Now you need to get some proper help. Meds and a spot of therapy should do the trick. I know a great person I’ll put you in touch with if Tom doesn’t have one up his sleeve. You won’t believe me now, darling, but this will pass. It may take a bit of time, but I promise you, in a few months you’ll feel like a new woman.”

  Sophie gave a faint smile. “New would be good.”

  A nurse put her head round the curtain. “Do you want anything to eat, Sophie?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “You couldn’t eat that muck, anyway,” Patrick whispered. “I saw the trolley on my way in. Smelt like old socks. I’ll bring you in something tasty later on.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

  Patrick looked horrified. “You’ve got to eat if you want to get well, dear girl. I don’t want to hear any of this silly starving nonsense. Anyway, my chicken broth is to die for. And,” he put his head on one side, considering, “maybe a little cheese straw on the side, some panna cotta for pudding—nothing too heavy.”

  “Sounds delicious,” Karen said as Patrick got up, clearly on a mission.

  He bent to kiss Sophie on the forehead. “Listen, sweet pea. All the best people feel this way sometimes. It’s part of being human. But you won’t be like it forever, do remember that.”

  After he’d gone the atmosphere within the shady, womb-like curtains felt very flat. Karen didn’t know what to say.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Very tired. And stupid.” Sophie met her eye. “I don’t think I really wanted to die.” She looked away briefly. “I don’t know, maybe part of me did . . . Daddy would be so horrified if he knew.” Tears fell silently down her cheeks.

  Karen handed her a tissue from the box on the bedside cabinet. “I’ve really let you down. I knew you were depressed, but I didn’t do a thing to help.”

  “What could you have done if I didn’t tell you how I felt?”

  “I could have made it easier for you to tell me, instead of winding you up even more by dumping my confessions on you like that. I’m so sorry.” Suddenly she had a thought. “Have you told your mum?”

  The girl’s eyes flew wide open. “No. No, I can’t tell her, she can’t ever know. Please, Karen, don’t tell her.”

  “Of course I won’t tell her, you’re over eighteen, it’s your call. But this was very serious, Soph, you were this close to dying.” Karen held her thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart. “Don’t you think she should know? She is your mother.”

  “She’ll freak if she finds out. She’ll want to rush back from Greece, but she won’t be able to because Nanu’s dying. Telling her would just wind her up.” The girl was looking beseechingly at Karen. “And I’m fine now. There’s no point in upsetting her now I’m OK, is there?”

  “Up to you, but I would want to know if my daughter tried to commit suicide.” Karen saw Sophie wince at the word “suicide.”

  “I’ll tell her sometime, just not now.”

  “Well, if you want me to talk to her, I will.”

  “Thanks . . .”

  They both fell silent. Karen watched her stepdaughter, her head turned away on the pillow, pale-blue hospital gown up to her neck, drip in her left forearm. She felt very sad for her. There was no easy answer to the problems of her life, and she seemed ill-equipped to galvanize herself. As she watched, Sophie’s eyes began to close and the pressure of her hand in Karen’s slackened. Karen eased herself off the bed, tucked the girl’s arm beneath the sheet and smoothed a hand gently across her forehead.

  “I’ll be here,” she said.

  But Sophie was already asleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Karen sought out the doctor, but he wasn’t around. She finally got to speak to the ward sister.

  “It seems she was found not too long after she took the pills,” she said. “So the doctors think it’s unlikely she has sustained any liver damage. Obviously we’ve carried out full blood tests, and we’ll monitor her over the next twenty-four hours for liver function, but it’s likely she’s going to be fine.”

  “Do you know how many she took?”

  “She’s vague about it, they often are. The bottle of Night Nurse was three-quarters empty—there’s paracetamol in it—and the paramedics found an empty sixteen pack of Panadol and another sixteen pack with five missing. But we don’t know how many of either pack had been consumed at a different time. Luckily she didn’t add alcohol to the mix.”

  “What about the beta blockers?”

  The nurse shook her head. “She says she didn’t take any, and there’s no evidence that she did, thank goodness.” She gave Karen a resigned look. “She’s a lucky girl, but she’s going to need a lot of monitoring for a while. We don’t want her trying it again.”

  Karen went to the cafeteria to get some tea with a heavy heart. She had no idea what she should do with Sophie. Getting her a therapist would be a start, and antidepressants, but how was she going to inject meaning into the girl’s life? She wanted desperately to talk to William because she was sure he would know what to say in this situation, comforting words for Sophie as much as for herself. She toyed with the idea of phoning him. Should Sophie be denied his wisdom just because she, Karen, had vowed to avoid him? Was that fair? But then she realized the vicar was probably the last person her stepdaughter wanted to see right now. She was sure Sophie blamed William as much as she blamed Karen herself for cuckolding her father—beyond the grave—in the eyes of the village.

  After a cup of tea and a dried-up fruit scone, Karen made her way back to Sophie’s ward. She was awake, plugged into her iPhone, which Patrick had picked up for her along with some toiletries and magazines.

  She pulled out the earphones when she saw Karen. “Hi.”

  “Did you sleep?”

  “A bit.”

  Karen sat in the chair Patrick had vacated earlier.

  “You don’t need to stay, you know,” Sophie said. “I’m fine.”

  “I thought I might go home, pick up some pajamas for you. Those gowns are grim.”

  “I haven’t got any pajamas. I always wear tracky-bums and a T-shirt.” She gave Karen a half-smile. “The room’s a tip, you’ll never find anything.”

  “I’m sure I’ll manage.”

  “But there’s no point if I can go home tomorrow. I will be able to, won’t I? No one will give me a straight answer here.”

  “Probably because they don’t know for certain. But if your liver’s OK . . . and you’ve seen the shrink.”

  Sophie pulled a face. “What’s the point? She’ll just ask me why I did it, and I don’t really know. I’m not mad or any
thing . . .”

  “She has to check you out. Make sure you’re not going to do it again.” Karen’s tone was light. She didn’t want to get into anything serious with Sophie while she was still in such a fragile state, but she couldn’t decide whether the girl wanted to talk about it or not. She was always so hard to read.

  “If I was serious about doing it again I would hardly tell her, would I? I’d say everything was fine and it was just a stupid mistake, then go home and get on with it.”

  “Right . . . but you wouldn’t do it again, would you? You’re glad you were rescued?”

  Sophie sighed. “Yeah, I suppose I am . . . although my life’s still shit. Nothing’s changed.”

  “Nothing’s changed, I agree, but the pills and therapy might help you look at life differently. Less gloomily.”

  “It won’t get me a boyfriend or a job, though, will it?”

  “No, but when you perk up you’ll probably be able to do that for yourself.”

  Sophie just raised her eyebrows at Karen, as if what she said was derisory, and Karen knew it was pointless to try and persuade her otherwise. It was the depression talking. Sophie used to be feisty and engaged with life before her father died—an apparently sociable girl with lots of friends. Yes, she was spoiled and indulged and had never needed to fend for herself, but Karen was sure she was fundamentally capable, given the chance.

  The curtain tweaked and Patrick’s round face peered in.

  “Permission to come aboard,” he said, before delivering a small wicker picnic basket to the end of the bed with a triumphant grin. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

  They both shook their heads vigorously, because the truth was they were both very pleased to see him and end their awkward exchange.

  The picnic was a small miracle in that drab, functional environment. There were pristine linen napkins, silver cutlery, blue pottery bowls and a single, pale-pink rose in a glass vase, placed on Sophie’s bedside locker. Patrick poured clear chicken broth—delicate and aromatic—from a wide-necked Thermos. Flaky, crisp, cheesy twists, tied decoratively together with a red ribbon as if it were Christmas, accompanied the soup. For pudding there were brown earthenware ramekins filled with smooth, cool panna cotta, which he served with a bowl of blueberries. Then mint tea, brewed with hot water from another Thermos and fresh leaves in a Japanese teapot, accompanied by tiny, square chocolate thins.