The Beach Hut Next Door

by Veronica Henry

  The driver wound down his window.

  ‘Browns, Mayfair,’ she told him, and ignored the way he looked at her askance. It was the only hotel name she could think of: the one her father used when he was in London on business, and where he had taken them for tea before the pantomime once. It was far grander than she really needed, but why not? After all, she thought, it was her honeymoon night. As the taxi drew up to the white stucco front in Albemarle Street, she felt comforted by its familiarity. She tried not to think that the last time she had been here, she had been with her parents.

  To her relief, the hotel had a room free. She knew there were probably a million other hotels in London, most of them cheaper, but here she felt safe, cocooned in the quiet luxury. She ran herself a bath, then ordered some plain roast chicken and the most recent copies of the Evening Standard and The Lady to be sent up to her room.

  She lay for half an hour in the water, light-headed and woozy, still batting away any thoughts of what she had left behind, though it was impossible not to wonder what everyone was doing, and how they were reacting to the aftermath. Had Lillie and Jolyon confessed? Or was it blindingly obvious? How had Jeanie and Roger reacted? What would happen to all the guests? And the presents? And the food? If Elodie felt guilty about anything, it was all the hard work Mrs Marsh had put in. But then, it had hardly been her fault. She pictured arguments, threats, tantrums, tears, hysteria – who would take control of the situation? Her father, probably – he would have recovered his equilibrium by now. Lillie would be defiant. Jolyon …

  She couldn’t think about him. The only way to survive this was to pretend he had never existed. To forget the warm glow she had always felt in his arms, the glow that had sparked into something even more special when they made love.

  Love? That must have been an illusion. A dream state she had talked herself into, lulled by Jolyon’s attentions and apparent fondness; duped by the intensity of their frequent but furtive couplings in the beach hut. He had been so very good at keeping up the facade. Elodie didn’t consider herself a fool, because no girl in her right mind would ever suspect such foul play. It was unthinkable.

  As the bath water cooled, and the bubbles settled to scum on the water’s surface, she reflected that she could be torn apart by what had happened. She could let it destroy her confidence and her belief in people. She could howl into her cocoa every night. Or she could see it as a new beginning. An adventure. Leaving the rest of them behind to flail about in the impact. Because the more she thought about it, the more guilty they were of allowing it to happen, all of them. She wanted nothing more to do with any of it.

  She clambered out of the bath and wrapped herself in a towel, just as the bellboy brought her food to the door. Dressed in her wedding nightdress, she sat in the middle of the bed, enjoying the chicken and the new potatoes and the careful spoonful of bright green peas with a sprig of mint. She was surprised she could face eating, but she knew she would feel worse if she didn’t: hunger always gave her a headache.

  When she’d finished, she spread out the copy of The Lady on the bedspread. She took the tiny pencil that was by the telephone on her bedside table, and began to ring adverts. After half an hour, she had a list of six people to ring. It was too late to call now, on a Saturday night, and really she wasn’t too sure if she would make much sense: the adrenaline and the travelling and last night’s lack of sleep were finally catching up on her.

  She would make the calls first thing in the morning. For now, she needed to sleep. As she crawled in underneath the sheets and blankets, she mused that she was making the decisions now, and her future would stand or fall dependent on them, and not what her mother or father or fiancé dictated.

  Her last thought before she fell to sleep was that she would not be the victim in all of this.

  VINCE

  The launch party of The Lobster Shack was the hottest ticket in town so far that summer.

  By early evening it was crammed with sun-kissed and beautiful people happy to be partaking of the free jugs of margaritas that were circulating. Waiters and waitresses in white jeans and T-shirts and red aprons passed around huge plates of seafood.

  The place was barely recognizable as Marianne’s restaurant, which had been dark and heavy. It had been transformed into a light, bright space, all driftwood and white paint and zinc-topped counters with flashes of turquoise. A DJ was playing seventies funk: the bass-heavy riffs could be heard all the way up the street, but the music was infectious. Even if people weren’t dancing, they were smiling and tapping their feet as Rock Lobster by the B52s pounded out of the speakers.

  Vince thought only Murphy could have pulled it off. Only Murphy could have had the vision and the energy to turn what had been a dreary, tired space into a vibrant hotspot in so little time. Not that Vince hadn’t done his bit – he’d put in hours of graft and plenty of money – but to turn something like this round took grit and determination, locking horns with the council to get a late licence, cracking the whip on the workmen and hiring the right staff.

  Murphy had even commissioned Kiki, the girl who was Everdene’s artist-in-residence, to design them a logo and provide them with some artwork. Six large canvasses with lobsters emblazoned in the middle, in acid-bright colours – yellow, turquoise, pink, green … They looked perfect – they had a modern, Britpop feel to them, but also a hint of retro. The restaurant was going to sell prints, splitting the profits with Kiki.

  The Lobster Shack had already been open for a fortnight, a soft opening which had gone unheralded, yet still they had been fully booked almost every night. It seemed to be just what people wanted on holiday by the sea: somewhere easy and fun and relaxed but where they knew they could eat well. His mate, Vince decided, was a genius. He felt a bit of a fraud, as if he was just along for the ride, but Murphy insisted he couldn’t have done it without him.

  And it had had a knock-on effect on the business. The Maskells had never sold as many lobsters. They couldn’t pull them out of the water quickly enough. And Vince was incredibly proud of his brother, who had stepped up to the plate. Chris had turned up for work every morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He’d totally turned himself around. Vince was relieved – he didn’t know what he would have done otherwise. You couldn’t carry a drunk in a job like theirs. Even when everyone was on the ball it was treacherous, as they could all testify …

  Everyone who owned a beach hut on Everdene had been invited, and Vince saw most of his neighbours. They were going to offer a takeaway service too: lobster and crab platters loaded up with potato salad and coleslaw, so the beach hut residents were their best potential customers.

  And then the door opened and he saw her. Anna. Murphy had said she was coming down for the launch, as long as the girls were happy to go to her mother’s. Vince hadn’t allowed himself to believe she would actually make it, but suddenly there she was, in the middle of the crowds, smiling and greeting people. She was wearing a cream T-shirt dress and gold sneakers, her pale hair in a side-plait. She came and kissed him. He breathed her in. The want never ceased. If anything, it got worse.

  She played with two slim gold bracelets on her arm. A present from Murphy, no doubt.

  ‘So this is what’s been keeping him so busy for the past few months,’ she said. ‘I was starting to think he had another woman.’

  ‘What do you think?’ said Vince.

  ‘Wonderful,’ she told him. ‘You should open one in Chiswick.’

  The thought made his stomach turn over. The thought of being near her every day.

  ‘How are the girls?’ It was the only thing he could think of to say. Children were always safe subject territory. All he wanted to say was that she looked breathtaking; the most beautiful woman in the room by a mile.

  She made a face. ‘Not great. Lyra was complaining of tummyache when I left. I told Mum to ring me if it got any worse.’

  ‘I’
m sure she’ll be fine,’ said Vince.

  Anna gave a vague smile. Murphy came up and squeezed her round the waist. ‘You made it, babe. What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s awesome.’

  ‘Have you had a margarita?’

  ‘I better not.’

  Murphy frowned.

  ‘Lyra wasn’t well when I left. I might have to drive back.’

  Murphy said nothing. Vince was surprised he showed no concern. On the contrary, he just walked off and grabbed a waitress, pulling another drink off her tray and making his way over to a small gaggle of guests.

  Vince looked at Anna, who shrugged. ‘It’s always business first.’

  Her voice sounded strained and Vince felt awkward. He’d never seen any real tension between them before. He wanted to console her, to slide an arm around her slender shoulders and squeeze her to him, but she gave him a brilliant smile that totally eclipsed her momentary drop in defences.

  ‘You guys are going to make a fortune.’

  ‘I don’t know. The launch alone is costing a bomb. That’s a lot of lobsters.’

  ‘I have every faith. If Murphy can do anything, it’s a business plan.’

  There was an underlying implication that he couldn’t do much else.

  Vince supposed every marriage had its rough patch.

  If he were married to Anna, he wouldn’t neglect her. He wouldn’t give her any opportunity to make the comments she was making.

  Although he supposed it was easy to think that. What did he know about being married to someone? What did he know about anything, except catching lobsters?

  At nine o’clock, the DJ turned the music down and the jingle of ‘Greensleeves’ was heard from outside. The guests all turned to see a vintage ice-cream van pull up onto the pavement outside.

  Vince grinned. Another Murphy masterstroke. They had argued long and hard about whether to serve dessert. It just seemed to complicate things when they had worked so hard to keep the main menu simple. Then Murphy had hit upon the idea of using Jenna. The van could park up outside – the customers could either go out and choose their own or send the waitress for their order.

  Within minutes of Jenna’s arrival, there was a queue of party-goers on the pavement, eager for ice cream. Murphy met Vince’s eye and winked. The DJ turned the music back up. Seafood, music, dancing, laughter, ice cream. They’d got the magic formula.

  Chris was trying as hard as he could to hide his discomfort. This was the toughest test of the past few weeks so far. He’d managed to keep temptation at bay by staying as far away from the pub as he could. Work had taken care of the daytime, and he was running, doing his weights, focusing on fitness to keep the longing for a drink at bay. Once the alcohol was out of his system it was easier, but sometimes the need just jumped up and hit you. The longing for that comfort; the oblivion. And you couldn’t control when it happened.

  And it was hardest of all when everyone around you was indulging. The booze was flowing both freely and free tonight. How easy it would be to reach out a hand and grab a glass or a bottle from a passing waiter.

  His brother had asked him if he was going to be all right earlier.

  ‘I know it’s tough,’ said Vince.

  Chris just shrugged. ‘I have to learn to deal with it,’ he replied.

  Seeing Jenna turn up in her ice-cream van had given him strength. Doing it up had given him a focus in the first few weeks, and the sight of her in the window, scooping as fast as was humanly possible, was a just reward.

  Yep, he could grab a margarita and revert to being the useless, drunken bum he’d once been, shambling about the place and being the laughing stock of Tawcombe. But that would be a retrograde step. And he’d be letting Vince down. If he went back under, the business would suffer, they wouldn’t be able to supply the restaurant; the whole lot would come crashing down. It was his responsibility to stay sober.

  But it was hard. It was a constant struggle. And there was only so much Diet Coke a man could drink.

  He was going to have to go. He was going to have to leave the party, go back home. Get under the covers and go to sleep in order to escape the urge. He put his glass down on the bar and headed for the door. He wouldn’t say goodbye to anyone.

  He had just reached the door when he bumped into Jenna’s boyfriend, Craig, coming in.

  ‘Hey, buddy,’ said Craig. ‘How’s it going?’

  Craig knew his story. Of course he did. Jenna would have told him everything.

  ‘I’m good,’ lied Chris.

  Craig looked at him. He was a copper. He could sense a lie a mile off.

  ‘You must be really proud of Jenna,’ Chris went on, hoping to distract him.

  Craig nodded. ‘I was getting worried about her,’ he confided. ‘She was starting to get depressed, you know. But this has turned her round. And I really appreciate what you did for her.’

  ‘It’s cool,’ said Chris. ‘It did me a favour. It got me through a tough few weeks.’

  The two men shared a smile. They didn’t need to articulate anything. Just an unspoken acknowledgement.

  Craig touched his arm.

  ‘Listen,’ said Craig. ‘I’m going surfing tomorrow if you fancy it. Jenna’s going to be busy all day and I want to make the most of my time off. If you’re free.’

  Chris didn’t say anything for a moment. He was touched. He could tell Craig knew he was struggling. And asking him to go surfing was his way of saying he knew it was tough.

  He smiled. ‘I’d love that.’

  ‘Cool.’ Craig nodded in approval.

  They didn’t need to say any more. But the exchange had given Chris the strength he needed to stay at the party. He could do this. With friends like Craig, who cared and looked out for him, he could stay on track.

  At half past nine, when the place was at its fullest, Anna came in from outside, where she’d been on the phone. She went up to Vince and Murphy.

  ‘Lyra’s still complaining of tummyache. My mum’s panicking. I’ll have to drive home,’ she sighed. ‘Typical. My first weekend away without the kids for ages.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ll be back home by one, I guess.’

  ‘You sure you haven’t had too much to drink?’ asked Vince.

  ‘I’ve only had one glass.’ Anna was one of those people who didn’t really need to drink. She picked up her handbag. She went to kiss Murphy. ‘Baby, you’re amazing. This place is amazing. I’m so proud of you.’

  Murphy nodded. ‘Drive safely. Hug Lyra for me.’

  Anna nodded as she fished about in her bag for her keys. ‘Of course. I’ll text you and tell you how she is.’

  She kissed Vince goodbye. ‘See you soon. Look after Murphy for me.’

  Vince had a mad urge to offer to drive her back to London. But of course he couldn’t. He was host here and he’d had at least four beers. So he just smiled. ‘Will do.’

  Murphy watched his wife go. Vince couldn’t read the expression in his eyes.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘The bloody kids always come first.’

  ‘Of course they do.’

  ‘Lyra’s fine. Anna’s mum can manage.’

  ‘I guess the maternal instinct is stronger than the paternal one.’

  Murphy just looked at him. ‘Yeah.’

  He walked off. Vince felt unsettled. He didn’t like Murphy’s attitude to Anna’s conscientiousness. But again, what did he know about marriage and parenthood?

  He turned back to circulate. The artist girl who’d done the paintings came up to him. She was in a bright pink dress, her millions of braids down for once. He’d made conversation with her a few times over the windbreak that separated them: she was staying in the beach hut next door to his. What was her name? Kiki, he was pretty sure, but he didn’t dare say it in case he was wrong.

 
‘Hey,’ she said to Vince. ‘This is the best party ever. You must be really made up. Congratulations.’

  Vince looked at her. She was very pretty indeed. She was talented. She was fun. She was single. He was pretty sure she was hitting on him. Why couldn’t he respond to her? Why couldn’t he smile at her and start flirting and then get her a drink, like any normal man would in this situation?

  Because she wasn’t Anna.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, knowing he was being curt. ‘Excuse me. I need to circulate.’

  Her face fell. ‘Course,’ she said, nodding, and turned away. He could feel her disappointment, and he hated himself. He went to clear away some of the empty seafood plates to give himself something to do.

  Chris cuffed him round the back of the head with brotherly affection. ‘Hey, you’ve got staff to do that. Don’t keep a dog and bark yourself.’

  Vince smiled. ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘It’s a winner.’

  Vince looked at his brother. A night like this must be hard for him. Everyone else was well on the way. ‘You doing OK?’

  ‘Never leaves you, you know. I could down six beers right now without thinking about it.’

  ‘You’re doing really well. I’m proud of you, mate.’

  Chris just shrugged. ‘Don’t be. I’ve got a lot of lost time to catch up on. I was a twat for years.’

  Vince slung an arm around his brother’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze. This was what mattered. Sorting his life and his family out. Making the most of what their dad had left them. So he would be proud. And he thought he probably would be. The Lobster Shack wouldn’t have been his dad’s thing – he was strictly a pie and a pint man – but he would have been proud of what they were trying to do, nevertheless. It was a pretty good tribute.

  By the end of the evening, when the last of the guests were lurching out of the door and the staff were clearing the last of the glasses, Murphy was cosied up on a banquette at the front of the restaurant with a girl. Vince didn’t recognize her – which was unusual, as he knew pretty much everyone – but he recognized her type. The kind that homed in on a successful married man with a single-minded precision. She was an expert. Pretty, sexual, amoral. She was stroking the back of Murphy’s hand with her finger. His eyes had glazed over and Vince knew exactly what he was thinking.