by Beth O'Leary
“You’re very…” He waves a hand.
“Loud? Brash? Larger than life?”
He winces. “No,” he says. “No, not that.”
I wait.
“Look,” he says, “have you ever looked forward to reading a book so much you can’t actually start it?”
“Oh, totally. All the time—if I had a grain of self-restraint I never would’ve been able to read the last Harry Potter book. The anticipation was painful. You know, like, what if it doesn’t live up to the last ones? What if it’s not what I hope it’ll be?”
“Right, well.” He waves a hand at me. “I think it might have been … like that.”
“But with me?”
“Yeah. With you.”
I look down at my hands in my lap, trying very hard not to smile.
“As for Mr. Prior…” Leon’s talking out of the window now. “I’m sorry. Can’t really talk about a patient.”
“Oh, of course. Well, I hope we find his Johnny White. Mr. Prior is lovely. He deserves a happy ending.”
As we rumble on, slipping in and out of comfortable conversation, I sneak more discreet little looks at Leon across the table. At one point our eyes meet in the window’s glass, and we both look away fast, like we’ve seen something we shouldn’t have.
I’m just about feeling that all awkwardness has departed when we arrive at Brighton, but then he gets up to grab his rucksack from the overhead space and he’s suddenly standing, with his T-shirt riding up to show the dark band of his Calvin Klein boxers above his jeans, and I’m back to not knowing what to do with myself. I attempt to find the table very interesting.
When we reach Brighton there’s a weak September sun shining; it’s not quite autumn yet. From outside the station I can see streets of white town houses stretching out ahead of us, dotted with the sorts of pubs and cafes that everyone in London would overpay to have on their street corner.
Leon has arranged to meet Mr. White on the pier. When we reach the seafront I let out an involuntary squeal of excitement. The pier stretches out into the gray-blue sea like this is a painting of one of those old seaside resorts where Victorians used to hang out in ridiculous knee-length swimwear. It’s perfect. I reach into my bag and get out my big, floppy, 1950s sunhat, yanking it onto my head.
Leon looks at me with amusement.
“What a hat,” he says.
“What a day,” I counter, spreading my arms out wide. “No other headwear would do it justice.”
He grins. “To the pier?”
My hat bobs as I nod. “To the pier!”
38
LEON
We spot Johnny White without any difficulty. Very old man sat on end of pier. Literally, right on the end, sat on the railings with feet dangling over—I’m surprised nobody has had him moved. It looks pretty dangerous.
Tiffy, on the other hand, is not worried. She bounces, sunhat flapping.
Tiffy: Look! A Johnny White of my very own! I bet he’s the real deal. I can just tell.
Me: Impossible. You can’t win on first go.
But have to admit, Brighton-dweller is a better bet than weed-smoking midlander was.
Tiffy is over there before I’ve had time to collect my thoughts or consider the safest means of approaching; she climbs onto the railings to join him.
Tiffy, to JW the Sixth: Hello, are you Mr. White?
The old man turns. He’s beaming.
JW the Sixth: I am indeed. Are you Leon?
Me: I’m Leon. Pleased to meet you, sir.
JW the Sixth’s beam widens.
JW the Sixth: The pleasure’s all mine! Will you join me? It’s my favorite spot.
Me: Is it … safe?
Tiffy has already swung her feet over.
Me: Don’t people worry? About you jumping, or falling in?
JW the Sixth: Oh, everyone here knows me.
He gives a cheerful wave in the direction of the man running the candyfloss stall, who equally cheerfully flips him the bird. JW the Sixth chuckles.
JW the Sixth: So what’s this family project, then? Are you my long-lost grandson, young man?
Me: Unlikely. Though not impossible.
Tiffy gives me a curious look. Doesn’t feel like the time to fill her in on the many gaps in my family history. I shift, uncomfortably warm; the heat is stronger here with the sun on the water, and I can feel sweat prickling on my hairline.
Tiffy: We’re here for a friend. A … a Mr. Prior?
A seagull caws behind us, and Johnny White the Sixth gives a little start.
JW the Sixth: You’re going to need to give me more than that, I’m afraid.
Me: Robert Prior. Think he served in the same regiment as you during the—
JW the Sixth’s smile drops. He holds up a hand to stop me.
JW the Sixth: If you don’t mind, I would prefer you stopped there. That’s not … my favorite topic of conversation.
Tiffy, smoothly: Hey, Mr. White, how about we go somewhere to cool off? I’ve not got the complexion for this sort of sunshine.
She holds out her arms to show him. His smile returns slowly.
JW the Sixth: An English rose! And what a beautiful one.
He turns to me.
JW the Sixth: You’re a lucky man, finding a woman like that. They don’t make ’em that way anymore.
Me: Oh, she’s not—
Tiffy: I’m not—
Me: We’re actually just …
Tiffy: Flatmates.
JW the Sixth: Oh!
Looks between the two of us. Does not seem convinced.
JW the Sixth: Anyhow. The best way to cool off around here is to go for a dip.
He gestures toward the beach.
Me: I didn’t bring trunks.
But, at the same time:
Tiffy: I will if you will, Mr. White!
I stare at her. Tiffy is full of surprises. It’s rather disorientating. Not sure I like this idea.
JW the Sixth, on the other hand, seems delighted at Tiffy’s proposal. She is already helping him back over the railings. I rush to help her, what with this being a very elderly man, very near a sudden drop.
Walking down pier past rides and packed arcades gives me plenty of time to bottle it.
Me: One of us had better look after our stuff.
JW the Sixth: Don’t you worry about that. We’ll leave them with Radley.
Radley turns out to be man with multicolored turban running old-school Punch and Judy stand. Tiffy shoots me a delighted look as we introduce ourselves and dump our bags. Isn’t this brilliant? she mouths at me. Can’t help smiling. This Johnny White is fast becoming my favorite, I have to admit.
I follow Tiffy and Johnny as they weave their way between sunbathers and deck chairs on their way to the shoreline. Stop for a moment to kick off my shoes, the pebbles cool beneath my feet. Sun blazes low across the water and wet shingle shines silver. Tiffy’s hair burns red. Johnny White is wrestling off his shirt as he goes.
And now … ahhh. Tiffy is, too.
39
TIFFY
I haven’t felt like this in way too long. In fact, if you’d asked me a few months ago, I’d have told you I could only feel this way with Justin. This rush of doing something ridiculously spontaneous—the total aliveness of whirling yourself off-plan and shutting up all the bits of your brain that tell you why this isn’t a sensible idea … God, I’ve missed this. Laughing, tripping, my hair in my face, I wriggle out of my jeans and duck as Mr. White chucks his shorts in the direction of our impromptu clothing pile.
Leon is behind us; I glance back and he’s grinning, too, so that’s good enough for me. Mr. White is down to his briefs.
“Ready?” I yell at him. It’s breezy out here; my hair whips my cheeks and the wind tickles the bare skin of my stomach.
Mr. White doesn’t need telling twice. He’s wading into the sea already—he can move very quickly for a man who must be at least ninety. I look back at Leon, who is still dressed,
and looking at me in an unreadably muddled sort of way.
“Come on!” I shout at him, running backward into the water. I feel giddy, almost drunk.
“This is ridiculous!” he calls.
I hold my arms out wide. “What’s stopping you?”
It might be my imagination, and he’s pretty far away to tell, but his eyes don’t seem to be spending all their time on my face. I suppress a smile.
“Come on!” Johnny White shouts from the sea, where he’s already doing breaststroke. “It’s lovely!”
“I don’t have swimming trunks!” Leon says, hovering in the shallows.
“What’s the difference?” I yell, gesturing to my underwear, which—plain black, no lace this time—is pretty indistinguishable from the bikinis other people out here are wearing. I’m in up to my hips now, and I bite my lip against the cold of the water.
“Maybe nothing if you’re a woman, but it’s a little different if—”
Presumably Leon finishes his sentence, but I don’t hear the rest of it. Suddenly I’m underwater, and all I can think about is a searing pain in my ankle.
I shriek and swallow a gulp of sea water so salty it burns the back of my throat; my hands flail, and for a moment my good foot connects with the ground, but then my other foot tries to find purchase, too, and the pain sends me falling again. I’m twisted, spinning; everything is flashes of water and sky. I must have twisted my ankle, some distant corner of my brain registers. Don’t panic, it tries to tell me, but it’s too late, I’m coughing up water and my eyes and throat are burning, I can’t turn, I can’t find my footing, my ankle roars with pain every time I move it as I try to swim—
Someone’s trying to grab me. I can feel strong hands scrabbling to get a grip on my body; something knocks my bad ankle and I try to cry out but it’s like my throat’s closed up. It’s Leon, and he’s hauling me up out of the water, pulling me close; I reach for him and he stumbles, almost tumbling in with me, but he kicks out until he’s swimming, arms tight around my waist, and drags me closer to shore until he can find his footing.
I’m so dizzy everything is sliding back and forth. I can’t breathe. I grip his sodden T-shirt, retching and coughing as he lays me down on the pebbles of the beach. I’m so tired—the kind of tired you get when you’ve been up all night because you’re sick, where your eyes just can’t bear to stay open.
“Tiffy,” Leon is saying.
I can’t stop coughing. There’s so much water lodged in my throat—I vomit great spurts of it onto the wet shingle, my vision still spinning, my head so heavy I can hardly keep it lifted. Distant, almost forgotten, my ankle throbs.
I’m gasping. There can’t possibly be any more water inside me. Leon has smoothed my hair away from my face and is pressing his fingers gently into the skin of my neck as though checking for something, and now he’s wrapping me in my jacket, rubbing my arms with the fabric; it hurts my skin and I try to roll away from him, but he holds me tight.
“You’re OK,” he says. Above me, his face slides back and forth. “Think you’ve sprained your ankle, Tiffy, and you swallowed a lot of water, but you’re going to be OK. Try to breathe more slowly if you can.”
I do my best. Behind him appears the worried face of Johnny White the Sixth. He is struggling back into his jumper, trousers already back on.
“Is there somewhere warm nearby where we can take her?” Leon asks him.
“The Bunny Hop Inn, just up there,” Mr. White says. I vomit again and rest my forehead on the pebbles. “I know the manager. She’ll give us a room, no problem.”
“Grand.” Leon sounds perfectly calm. “I’m going to lift you, Tiffy. Is that OK?”
Slowly, my head pounding, I nod. Leon picks me up and carries me in both arms. My breathing slowing, I let my head fall against his chest. The beach passes in a blur around me; faces are turned our way, shocked pink and brown splodges against the multicolored backdrop of towels and sunshades. I close my eyes—keeping them open makes me feel sicker.
Leon swears under his breath. “Where are the steps?”
“This way,” Johnny White says, somewhere off to my left.
I hear the screech of brakes and the rush of traffic as we cross the road. Leon is breathing hard, his chest rising and falling against my cheek. In contrast, my breathing is getting easier—that tightness in my throat and the weird heaviness in my lungs has lifted a little.
“Babs! Babs!” Johnny White the Sixth is shouting. We’re inside, and the sudden warmth makes me realize how much I’m shivering.
“Thank you,” Leon says. There’s commotion all around me. For a moment I’m embarrassed, and try to shift out of Leon’s arms to walk, but then my head lurches and I cling back onto his T-shirt again as he stumbles. “Easy there,” he says.
I cry out. He’s knocked my ankle into the bannister. He swears, pulling me closer so my head lolls back against his chest.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, backing up the stairs. I can see pale pink walls covered with paintings in ostentatious frames, all gilt and swirly bits, then a door, then Leon’s laying me down on a gloriously soft bed. Unfamiliar faces shift in and out of view. There’s someone dressed in a lifeguard’s kit; I blearily wonder if she’s been here this whole time.
Leon is pulling the pillows up behind me, supporting my weight with one forearm.
“Can you sit up?” he asks quietly.
“I…” I try to talk and start coughing, rolling onto my side.
“Careful.” He shifts my sodden hair back behind my shoulders. “Are there any extra blankets in here?”
Someone is spreading thick, scratchy blankets over me. Leon is still tugging me up, trying to get me into a sitting position.
“I’ll feel better if you’re upright,” he says. His face is close to mine; I can see the start of stubble on his cheeks. He looks me right in the eyes. His are a soft dark brown that makes me think of Lindt chocolate. “Can you do that for me?”
I shift myself higher against the pillows and grab ineffectually at the blankets with freezing fingers.
“How about a tea to warm you up?” he says, already looking round for someone to fetch one. One of the strangers slips out of the door. There’s no sign of Johnny White anymore—I hope he’s gone to get himself some warm clothes—but there are still about a million people here. I cough again and turn my face away from all the staring faces.
“Let’s give her some space. Can we have everyone out, please? Yes, don’t worry,” Leon says, getting up to usher people from the room. “Just let me do an examination with a bit of peace and quiet.”
A lot of people say things about what to do if we need anything. They file out one by one.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, as the door closes behind everyone. I cough; it’s still hard to talk.
“None of that,” Leon says. “How are you feeling now?”
“Cold and a bit achy.”
“I didn’t see you go down. Do you remember if you banged your head on a rock or anything?”
He kicks off his shoes and pulls his feet up to sit cross-legged on the end of the bed. I notice, finally, that he’s soaking wet and shivering, too.
“Shit, you’re drenched!”
“Just reassure me you’ve not got brain fluid seeping out from anywhere. Then I’ll go get changed, OK?”
I smile a little. “Sorry. No, I don’t think I banged my head. Just twisted my ankle.”
“That’s good. And can you tell me where we are?”
“Brighton.” I look around. “Hey, and the only place I’ve ever been with nearly as much floral wallpaper as my mother’s house.” The full sentence makes me cough, but it’s worth it to see Leon’s frown loosen a little, and his lopsided grin return.
“I’ll take that as a correct answer. Can you tell me your full name?”
“Tiffany Rose Moore.”
“Didn’t know the middle name. Rose—it suits you.”
“Shouldn’t you be asking me questions you
know the answers to?”
“I think I liked you better when you were all drowned and dopey.” Leon leans forward, one hand raised, and lifts his palm to my cheek. It’s very intense and a little out of nowhere. I blink as he stares into my eyes, checking for something, I guess. “Are you feeling at all sleepy?” he asks.
“Um. Not really. I’m tired, but not in a sleepy way.”
He nods and then, a little belatedly, drops his hand from my cheek. “I’m going to give my colleague a ring. She’s a doctor, and she’s just come off her rotation in Accident and Emergency, so she’ll know the drill with an ankle exam. Is that OK? Pretty sure it’s just a sprain from your history and what I’ve seen of how you’re moving, but we’d better check.”
“Um. Sure.”
It’s strange being in the room for a conversation between Leon and one of the doctors he works with. He’s no different—just as quiet and measured as when he speaks to me, with just the same lilting touch of an Irish accent—but he seems more … grown up.
“OK, it’s a pretty simple exam,” Leon says, turning back to me once he’s hung up. His forehead is furrowed in a frown, and he perches on the bed again, shifting the blankets so he can reach my ankle. “Are you happy for me to give it a go? See if you need to go to A&E?”
I swallow, suddenly a little nervous. “OK.”
He pauses, looking at me for a moment like he’s wondering whether I’ll change my mind, and my cheeks get hot. Then he slowly presses his fingers to the skin of my ankle, gently feeling for different points until I wince with pain.
“Sorry,” he says, laying a cool hand on my leg. My skin goes goosepimply almost instantaneously, and I pull the blanket up, a little embarrassed. Leon twists my foot very gently from side to side, eyes moving from my ankle to my face as he tries to gauge my reaction.
“How painful is that, out of ten?” he asks.
“I don’t know, like, six?” I’m really thinking eight eight eight but I don’t want to seem pathetic.
The corner of Leon’s mouth lifts a little and I get the impression he knows exactly what I’m doing. As he continues examining me, I watch his hands move over my skin, and I wonder why I’ve never realized how peculiarly intimate medical stuff like this is, how much of it’s about touch. I guess generally you’re in a doctor’s office, not scantily clad and in a big double bed.
