TRIVIAL PURSUIT
Brush up on your general knowledge for this competitive classic as you collect pieces of the iconic pie.
YOU’VE GOT CRABS
Use secret signals to gain points – subterfuge, deception and hilarity ensue.
SCRABBLE
Wordsmiths unite – but it’s not always the one with the biggest vocabulary who wins if you can hit that triple word score.
CARDS AGAINST HUMANITY
Somewhat X-rated, ask a question from a black card and opponents choose the most (least) appropriate answer from their white card. Ruuuuude. For older members of the family only.
EXPLODING KITTENS
Highly strategic feline Russian roulette game of defusing kittens – but if they explode, you’re out!
PASS THE PIGS
Throw the little piggies and win or lose points depending on how the pigs land. This is such a simple game but so endearing. And very portable – you can carry it in your pocket.
ARTICULATE
Bring everyone out of their shell with this fast-talking game of description – the few rules are fiendishly hard to obey.
At the end of the day, you can’t beat a good old-fashioned jigsaw. It’s surprising how the least likely person can become obsessed with completing a metre-square 1000 piece picture of baked beans. Silence reigns as everyone bows their head over the puzzle in search of the perfect fit. It’s the ideal way to pass the time as the rain drums on the roof of your beach hut. Cocoa and shortbread compulsory.
A romantic dinner for two
As the Sun Goes Down
Lewis left Sofia curled up on the couch having a late afternoon nap while he unpacked all the goodies from the cooler.
Behind her, the balloons he’d ordered to be waiting in the hut drifted lazily in the breeze from the open door. They formed an arch of pale metallic pink, rose gold, silver and grey. He’d worried that it was a bit over the top, but actually they looked very pretty against the white wooden walls. In the middle was a dark pink heart: he thought of it as his heart, the heart he had given to her the first time he’d seen her ordering a drink at the bar in the Red Lion. He thought she looked like an angel, with her peroxide white ringlets dip-dyed pink at the bottom, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. And then he saw her grab the walking stick that had been leaning up against the bar, and make her way back to her mates, and that was it. He was smitten.
It was weird, because it was usually girls who chased him. He wasn’t classically handsome – he was never going to be lean, and he’d shaved all his hair off the moment he’d caught a glimpse of scalp, and he was very freckly – but he had a Robbie Williams cheekiness that was very alluring. He never kept his girlfriends for long, though. He hated being tied down. Hated it when they started trying to move things around in his flat, or dictate where they went on holiday. His mates were all settling down, and he didn’t envy them one bit. He loved his freedom.
But the moment he saw Sofia, he felt something he’d never felt before. She’d turned and looked at him. She looked startled, as if she felt it too. Then she’d scowled.
She was about to sit down but instead she walked over to him. He could see she was unsteady, though not in pain. It wasn’t an injury. It was something she’d learned to live with. She stood in front of him. She had a heart-shaped face and bewitching hazel eyes with ridiculously long eyelashes. He knew enough about women to know they weren’t real, but they didn’t look trashy. She was wearing a Guns N’ Roses sweatshirt, ripped jeans and emerald-green cowboy boots. An angelic tomboy. He liked her style, although he couldn’t define it. Definitely unconventional. An arty edge.
‘What?’ she said. ‘You’re staring at me. What is it?’
She was half belligerent, half teasing. And a little bit drunk. He couldn’t speak. He was never at a loss for words when it came to women. But she made him tongue-tied. He could feel her spirit and her attitude. It was bouncing off him, like being brushed by nettles or touching an electric fence.
‘I feel like I know you,’ he managed at last.
‘Well, you don’t,’ she scoffed, and swept her gaze up and down him, taking in his rough collarless linen shirt, his jeans and waxed boots. He too had a definite style – urban country, he called it. You had to be image-conscious in his line of business.
‘No. I know I don’t. But I feel like I do. Does that make sense?’ What an awful chat-up line. What a pillock.
She raised an eyebrow. She had great eyebrows. Strong. ‘Not really.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Sofia.’ She didn’t ask his. She wasn’t interested. But why had she come over, in that case? There was definitely something. She was playing hard to get. He could play that game too.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to hassle you.’ He turned to walk away.
‘Hey.’ He felt a prod on the back of his leg. She’d poked him with her walking stick. He turned back. She looked annoyed. ‘Don’t walk away from me. Tell me your name.’
‘Lewis.’ Her eyebrow went up again. ‘My mum’s a big Inspector Morse fan.’
That made her laugh. ‘What do you do?’
‘What is this?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘An interview? Try and guess.’
She put her head on one side, surveying him, her eyes sparkling. ‘I’d say … you own a barber shop. One of those trendy ones. All bare brick and beaten-up leather chairs.’
How did she know? She must have inside information. She was bang-on. Except he actually had two, and was about to open a third, a concession in the city’s biggest department store. Someone in the pub must have told her. He was a fixture in here. He grinned.
‘Who told you that, then?’
‘I work at Moodys. They’re very excited. I saw you at the planning meeting.’
He shook his head. ‘I’d have remembered you.’
‘I was in my work kit. Leggings and a hoodie. My hair was in a beanie.’
‘So what do you do?’
‘I’m their visual merchandiser. I’ll be doing your fit.’
He felt prickly. He was very possessive about what he had created. He was proud to have one of his salons in Moodys – they were very fussy about who they took on. He wasn’t sure if she was winding him up.
‘I get final approval, don’t forget. I had that written into the contract. I’ve got to protect my brand.’
She touched him on the arm. The warmth shot through him.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘You’re in safe hands. I totally respect what you’re doing. I think it’s great.’
They locked eyes. He swallowed. This was weird. Girls never made him feel like this. She leaned in.
‘I did feel something, when I saw you,’ she told him. Her voice was low and husky and he imagined it whispering secrets. ‘I never usually feel anything. I’ve trained myself not to.’
This felt like a confession. He frowned. Her words made him feel uncomfortable. ‘Why?’
‘I’ve got MS,’ she told him. ‘It’s not anyone’s idea of fun. Sometimes I can’t walk. Sometimes I can’t even talk. Sometimes I can’t stay awake. I might end up in a wheelchair. So I don’t really do relationships.’
She put a bitter emphasis on the last word. Her eyes darkened; hardened. He knew his reaction would be key to what happened next. Whether he’d have this girl in his life or not.
He shrugged. ‘Why not? It’s not catching, is it?’
She flinched. For a moment, he thought he’d been too flippant. He always used humour when he didn’t really know what to say. But then she laughed. So hard she nearly bent double. And he joined in. They were laughing together and it was a wonderful, conspiratorial, gleeful laugh of the kind that bonds you immediately.
‘So, will you have a drink with me?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, nodding, still laughing, looking at him in disbelief.
And here they were, two years later. She was the most difficult, fragile, tough, funny, creative, impossible woman
he’d ever met. And the sexiest. He still felt a rush of desire when he looked at her. He was looking at her now, stretched out, her hair tumbling everywhere, those ridiculous eyelashes resting on her cheeks.
They were so good together. They spent most of their time taking the mickey out of each other. They had the same irreverent sense of humour. But underneath the mickey-taking was a deep passion. They both understood each other’s drive for success and independence. They both pushed the boundaries of their creativity. She loved her job as a visual merchandiser – ‘just a posh term for a window dresser, really’ – and she wanted to live and work in Paris. ‘But I don’t speak French, so I’m learning. L’autobus part à midi. Où est la piscine?’
And he learned, very quickly, how to deal with her illness, and the toll it took on her. He could measure it better than she could now. He could read her physically. He could see the strain in her face; the energy drain from her. He was always there to catch her.
Today was her birthday. Her thirtieth birthday. And she didn’t want a party. The relapses were too unpredictable lately. They were getting more frequent, which meant she might not have the energy to go if they did organise one. Worse, she might have one of the bouts of depression that enveloped her, left her pinned under the duvet unable to get up. So he’d planned a week by the sea as a surprise. If she wasn’t up to it, when the time came, he would just cancel. But when her birthday came around, she was in a good place, physically and mentally. He told her what to pack, and they set off, and she had no idea where they were going.
He would never forget the look on her face when she saw the row of huts lining the beach.
‘You’re kidding. We’ve got one of these? Oh my God!’ She had tumbled out of the car, suddenly full of an energy she’d managed to summon from somewhere. ‘You bloody legend. This is a dream come true. I’ve always wanted to stay in a beach hut.’
Her joy made his heart burst. She was like a child, overwhelmed with excitement. She couldn’t wait to get in the sea. In the water, her body seemed to do whatever she wanted it to.
‘It’s like being cradled,’ she said. ‘The water just holds me. It’s just so relaxing. I can’t tell you.’
She lay, staring up at the sky, and he felt so proud to have found her some respite from her pain. She was like a different person. Her face looked even more beautiful, if that was possible. The water had washed the strain away.
And then it was evening. Time for him to prepare her birthday dinner. He was no cook, so he’d called on one of his mates who was a chef for advice.
‘Bear in mind I can’t really cook, remember. I mean, I can do the basics, but nothing fancy. And the beach hut’s only got a little stove.’
‘What are her favourite things?’ Gary asked, and Lewis had told him. Goat’s cheese. Raspberries. White chocolate. And she was a pescatarian.
He’d thought Gary had forgotten, and he didn’t want to pester him because he knew he worked unsociable hours and probably didn’t want to think about food when he got off. But just before they left, Gary had turned up with a cool box full to the brim with all the ingredients he needed for Sofia’s birthday dinner, together with instructions.
Lewis was overwhelmed. Life could be cruel. Incredibly cruel. But people could be kind.
‘Bloody hell, mate. Thanks. I don’t know how to repay you.’
‘Just give her a good time.’ Gary nodded at him. Everyone loved Sofia. They knew how tough life was for her. They knew she could be a total bitch, and that when she felt bad she pushed people away. But they were always there for her when she came back around.
Lewis put the table outside on the sand and covered it with a white tablecloth that reached the ground. He’d found a candelabra in a charity shop. It looked suitably theatrical and over the top. He set two places, and put two Lloyd Loom chairs from the hut on either side, piling them up with cushions. Then an ice bucket, for the champagne that would accompany …
He panicked and patted his pocket to make sure the packet was still there, then smiled in relief. Everything was perfect. Behind him, the sea was gently nudging its way up to high tide. Most of the day-trippers had gone, leaving just the hardcore further along the beach. The table reminded him of the opening scene of Jurassic Park. One of their favourite movies. They watched a lot of films: his flat was done out like a home cinema, with a huge screen and plush seating and a cocktail bar, a bachelor luxury that had actually turned out to be perfect for snuggling up when Sofia felt less than her best.
He headed back inside to prepare the food, yet again grateful for Gary’s generosity. Everything was packaged up in courses, neatly labelled and with written instructions so he couldn’t go wrong. Gary had even written out the menu: roasted figs with goat’s cheese, drizzled with honey. Salmon on a bed of samphire (he wasn’t sure quite what that was but Gary had provided it). A white chocolate cake with raspberries. A sexy, romantic dinner for two, perfect for …
She was waking. ‘Hey, sleepyhead,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you go and take a shower? Get dressed for dinner. It’s going to be something special.’
‘With you cooking?’ She looked doubtful, but he wasn’t hurt. His lack of skill in the kitchen was no secret.
He pointed at her. ‘You’re going to be blown away. Go on. Go and get ready. Dinner will be served at eight.’
For the next hour, he wrestled with the tiny kitchen and got everything prepped and ready. And bang on eight o’clock she appeared. She was wearing a pale-green chiffon halterneck dress that fell to the floor, her hair loose over her shoulders. He couldn’t speak. She smiled at him as she walked to the doorway, and he held his breath as she made it without stumbling or faltering. He walked over and took her arm nevertheless.
‘Let me escort you to your table, madam.’
He led her down the steps and watched her face as she saw what he had done outside. Her eyes shone like the sparkling sea in the evening sun. ‘Jurassic Park,’ she laughed. ‘It’s just like the opening of Jurassic Park.’
‘Damn, you’re good,’ he said, pulling out her chair for her to sit down. ‘Let me get your cocktail.’
He came back with a tray bearing two Strawberry Mules. ‘Happy birthday,’ he said to her, and she laughed, obviously delighted although she pretended not to like slushy, romantic gestures.
Dinner was perfect. He managed to roast the figs so the cheese was golden and bubbling, and the salmon was tender, the samphire crunchy – he’d followed Gary’s instructions to the letter – and he couldn’t mess up the cake, because it was all done for him.
‘How did you pull this off?’ Sofia asked. ‘You can’t cook to save your life.’
He tapped his nose as he opened a bottle of champagne. His stomach was churning. He couldn’t back out of what he was planning to do next. When would he ever get a chance like this again? A perfect day; a romantic meal; the sun setting over the sea? He felt in his pocket. He’d spent days wandering in and out of every antiques and jewellery shop in town, before settling on an opal cocktail ring. It was iridescent, a pale milky green, like the full moon, shimmering with flecks of hidden gold. Mysterious. Not flashy, because Sofia wasn’t a flashy type. She valued style over carats. But it was a statement. He was sure she’d like it.
‘Sofia,’ he said as he handed her a glass of champagne, and she frowned, because he looked serious, and he was never serious. ‘I’ve lured you here under false pretences. This isn’t just a birthday dinner. This is … me wanting to ask you a question. You are the most amazing person I’ve ever met. Every day you surprise me. Every day I fall in love with you a little bit more. Every day your strength and bravery and your balls make me wish I was a better man. But I hope I’m good enough. Good enough to be …’ She narrowed her eyes as he fumbled for the words. ‘Good enough to be your husband.’ He snapped open the ring box he’d pulled out of his pocket and the opal gleamed in the last light of the sun. He took it out with shaking hands. ‘Will you marry me?’
Time stoo
d still as she stared at him. The colour had drained from her face. Her eyes were hard. There was no delight. No joy. She smashed both her hands down on the table and Lewis jumped.
‘No,’ she shouted. ‘I don’t want to bloody marry you. I don’t want to look at your face when you realise what a mistake you’ve made. I don’t want to drag you down. I don’t want you having to … push my bloody wheelchair.’
‘Sofia!’ Lewis was shocked by the force of her reaction. He could see she was trying to stand up, but she couldn’t. They’d done too much. The journey. The swimming. They should have had an early night.
Shit. She’d fallen over. She was lying in a heap and he could feel her despair. He rushed over to pick her up and she threw a handful of sand at him.
‘You’ve bloody ruined it,’ she said, and she crumpled, exhausted, sobbing.
‘You’re going to bed,’ he said, bending down and wrapping his arms around her. There was no point in arguing now. She was rigid with tension and rage. She was too weak to fight him, although he could feel her wanting to. He held her until she finally gave in and relaxed.
He carried her inside, thinking how much he loved this bundle of attitude and energy; the very smell of her, salt and vanilla. He loved her strength and her vulnerability. Her fury and her softness. He didn’t want a normal relationship that went in a straight line. He lived for the challenge of the ups and downs. He’d learned to read her and her disease. He’d learned how, between the three of them, they could give her the best life possible. It was always a challenge. It was never boring. It was intense and passionate and … the most meaningful thing that had ever happened to him.
‘I can’t do this any more,’ she said as he took her to the tiny bedroom at the back of the hut. ‘I can’t pretend this is a normal relationship. I’m done. We’re done. I’m going home tomorrow. You can find someone else to marry. There’ll be hundreds of them to choose from. You could have whoever you want. You deserve a normal life.’
A Day at the Beach Hut Page 13
