The Beach Hut

by Veronica Henry

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘Tell me about yourself. No - hang on a minute. Let me guess.’

  He put his head to one side and studied her. Then put out his hand.

  ‘Messy hair.’ He touched one of the strands of dark copper that framed her face. ‘Interesting jewellery.’ He set one of her long beaded earrings swinging with the tip of his finger. ‘Not too much make-up. Just enough . . .’

  The back of his knuckle hovered by her bare cheek.

  Sarah realised she was standing stock-still, holding her breath.

  ‘I’d say something arty.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’m an illustrator.’

  He spread his hands and gave a modest nod as if acknowledging to himself how clever he was. ‘So - what do you illustrate?’

  ‘Well, anything. Brochures, packaging. And I’ve done a couple of children’s books.’

  ‘Wow. I’m impressed.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s not exactly The Very Hungry Caterpillar .’

  He looked bemused.

  ‘Best-selling children’s book of all time?’ She looked at him archly. ‘I take it you don’t have kids?’

  ‘I do,’ he replied. ‘But I’m not usually at home for story-time. I’m away a lot.’

  For some reason this made her blush.

  ‘Well, that’s a shame. It’s one of life’s greatest pleasures, reading to your kids.’ She sounded so prim. She wasn’t prim. Why was she coming over like a school-teacher all of a sudden?

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’ He was looking at her, nodding earnestly, but with a smile. He was teasing her. She felt warm again. Inside her heart was lolloping along at a slightly faster rate than usual.

  ‘And what about me?’ he asked. ‘What do you think I do?’

  Sarah rolled her eyes. He was making this into a game, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to play. But she went along with it. She scrutinised him. His hair was messy too, but the sort of messy that comes from an expensive haircut, not just unkempt, like hers. His jeans were faded, he had on black baseball boots, his shirt was untucked, white but with square mother-of-pearl buttons that meant it was expensive. Nice watch - square copper face, roman numerals, dark brown crocodile-skin strap. Definitely Watches of Switzerland, not Ratners.

  Wealthy. Maverick. Slightly rebellious. Not a corporate man.

  ‘Something to do with the web?’ she guessed. ‘Or PR?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Not even warm.’

  ‘Dentist? Car salesman? Chef?’ Her guesses were random now.

  He frowned.

  ‘You’re not even trying.’

  ‘But I’ve got no idea. You could be anything!’

  ‘I’m a barrister.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’ Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘You don’t look like one.’

  ‘You mean I’m not a corpulent, red-faced buffoon?’ He laughed, showing perfect white teeth. Naturally perfect, not cosmetically enhanced. ‘So is your husband here?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Sarah’s heart sank. For some reason, she didn’t want to point Ian out.

  ‘Is he an artist too?’

  ‘No. He’s a chartered accountant.’ She made a face. ‘What about your wife?’

  She saw a flicker of something before he answered.

  ‘Divorce lawyer.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Buyer beware.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘You probably saw her in there. She’s the life and soul of the party. Big networker, my wife. Always on the lookout for potential clients.’

  Sarah wrinkled her nose.

  ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘That’s business.’

  They smoked in companionable silence for a moment. Sarah felt a little unnerved. In that short exchange she felt a sense of camaraderie with this stranger. She realised she didn’t even know his name.

  ‘I’m Sarah, by the way,’ she said.

  ‘Oliver. Oliver Bishop. But you can call me Ollie.’

  They shook hands. When she went to take her hand away, he held onto it. He looked at her thoughtfully.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You look as if you need waking up.’

  ‘Waking up?’

  ‘You look as if you’re on autopilot. As if you’re not . . . really being you.’

  She frowned. How could he know that? That’s exactly how she felt, as if she was going through the motions. As if all her feelings had been neatly packed away because she had no use for them at the moment. Not all her feelings, perhaps. She loved her children, passionately.

  And she still loved Ian. But not with that deep-rooted passion that made you want to sing out loud. She loved him . . . like a brother, she supposed. Maybe that was the same for everyone after a certain amount of time. Her friends certainly complained about having sex with their husbands. Groaned wearily about having to spend any time with them. Positively rejoiced if they went away on business, as they could have the house to themselves and watch Desperate Housewives without—

  ‘We should have lunch.’

  She jumped out of her reverie.

  ‘Lunch?’

  ‘Don’t look like that. People do it all the time.’

  ‘But why? Why would we have lunch? Or do you mean all four of us?’

  He laughed heartily at this and Sarah felt indignant.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not the sort of person who thinks it’s normal to have lunch with another woman’s husband.’ She knew she sounded frosty and uptight. When really she wanted to get her diary out and make a date straight away.

  ‘It’s perfectly normal, if he’s discussing artwork with her.’

  ‘Artwork? You’re a barrister. Why would you need artwork?’

  ‘I have other interests. I’ve got shares in a vineyard in France. I’d like you to design a label.’ He was utterly convincing. Tying her up in knots. Presumably using the tactics he employed in court. ‘What’s your mobile number?’

  Looking back on it now, this was the moment at which her life had changed. She should have refused to give it to him.

  Instead, she told him, and he gravely punched it into his phone, then dialled.

  She felt her phone go in the pocket of her jeans. The vibration drilled right down into the core of her. But she just smiled and put her cigarette out on the garden wall, hoping he wouldn’t notice her hand shaking.

  ‘I better go back inside. Circulate.’

  He grimaced and mimed putting a gun to his head.

  ‘Good luck.’

  Inside, she scanned the guests until she picked out the woman who must be his wife. She was stunning. Amazonian, wearing a paisley silk halter-neck dress that left nothing to the imagination but wasn’t remotely tarty.

  ‘We’re going to St Moritz,’ she was declaring. ‘Ollie’s been there ever since he was tiny. He won’t go anywhere else. We stay at the Badrutt.’

  Sarah could just imagine him, gliding carelessly down the most treacherous of black runs, sauntering into the hotel afterwards, pushing back his hair, greeting the doorman, confident but casual.

  What on earth had he taken her number for? She wasn’t in his league. He was bored, probably. He’d look at his phone tomorrow and wonder whose number it was, then delete it. She went over to the table, where several half-empty bottles of champagne were going flat, and poured herself a glass.

  Ian came over to her. He looked a bit drunk, but happy. He thrived at social occasions like this.

  ‘Hey, babe.’ Babe? Babe?! ‘The Johnsons have asked if we want to go to Cheltenham with them.’

  Sarah looked puzzled.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Racing,’ he hissed, looking round to make sure no one else had heard her ignorant question. ‘They’ve got a box. You’ll have to dress up.’

  ‘Dog-racing? Ferret-racing?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake . . .’

  Sarah shrugged.

  ‘Sure.’ There was no point in protesting. They were obviously going, and that was that.

  ‘There’s no
need to be churlish. It costs a fortune to hire a box. You should be flattered.’

  ‘I’m flattered. I’m . . . very flattered.’ He looked at her doubtfully. ‘Really.’

  She drank two more glasses of champagne to get her through the rest of the evening. Twice she caught Oliver’s eye but avoided talking to him. She couldn’t cope in public with the way he made her feel. In the short space of time since they had met, he had made her ask herself too many questions.

  He caught up with her just as they were leaving. She was coming out of the master bedroom where her coat had been on the bed. There was just the two of them in the corridor.

  ‘We’re going now,’ she said, flustered.

  ‘Oh,’ he replied. ‘Well, that’s a shame. It was nice meeting you.’

  He leaned in towards her. She turned her cheek, ready for the usual air-kiss, but he put a finger on her jaw and brought her mouth round until it was nearly touching his and brushed his lips, fleetingly, along the length of hers. Nothing invasive. Then he shut his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. She breathed in the smell of him, the clean shampoo, the musky cologne, the cigarettes. He gave a tiny sigh of longing. Then pulled away reluctantly.

  He was playing her. Of course he was. If he’d pounced on her and shoved his tongue down her throat, she would have pulled away in revulsion. It was so subtle, so very nearly almost nothing, that she was screaming inside for more.

  He walked backwards, holding her gaze for a couple of moments before wiggling his fingers in a gesture of farewell.

  ‘See you. Sarah.’

  Oh my God.

  Don’t fall for it. Don’t fall for it, Sarah. He’s a bloody barrister. He’s used to putting on an act. Convincing people. Taking them in. He’s a walking cliché - rehearsed, practised, word perfect. And don’t kid yourself you’re the first. If you were watching the movie, you’d scream at the television: ‘Don’t do it!’

  It was no good. She switched off the voice in her head and touched the phone in her pocket with a smile.

  He made her feel feminine.

  Interesting.

  Mysterious.

  And as horny as hell . . .

  When she got home, she pulled out her phone. His number was there under ‘missed call’. She sat fully dressed on the loo seat in the bathroom, staring at it, agonising for ages. Should she add him to her directory? Or leave him out, so if he did send a suggestive text and Ian happened to find it she could deny all knowledge? Should she put him unashamedly under Oliver Bishop? Or file him under Plumber or Garage Man, or even Olivia? So that if he rang at an inopportune moment she could ignore it?

  In the end she put him under Bishop. He wouldn’t phone. After all, she realised, as the champagne she had drunk evaporated, she had just been a mild distraction for him at a boring party. Nothing more.

  He phoned nine days later. Perfectly, cleverly timed. Just when she had given up hope of ever hearing from him, but before the memory of the effect he’d had on her faded. So that when she saw his name come up, her heart leapt in unison with something further down in her loins and her pulse tripled. A thousand questions crowded her mind - what did he want, what should she do, where did they go from here? Questions that could only be answered if she answered.

  She grabbed the phone. Should she answer it knowingly, thereby admitting she had programmed his number into her phone? Or with curt efficiency?

  ‘Sarah Palmer?’ She spoke her name with a slight query, as if she was no longer quite sure that was indeed who she was.

  ‘Sarah Palmer.’ He spoke her name with a teasing wonder and reverence.

  Something delicious slithered its way down her spine.

  ‘Yes?’ She tried to sound officious, but she couldn’t keep the smile out of her voice.

  ‘I was wondering about that lunch.’

  There was no point in carrying on the pretence that she didn’t know who this was.

  ‘Lunch,’ she mused. ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to see if I can . . . fit you in.’

  ‘Well, I’m free tomorrow. I’ll be at the Stag’s Head at one. If you fancy it.’

  ‘I’ll . . . um, see if I can move my schedule around.’ She paused. ‘It was . . . wine labels you wanted to discuss, right?’

  He laughed a dieselly, treacly laugh.

  ‘Wine labels. Whatever.’

  The Stag’s Head was an uber-upmarket gastro pub that brought a hint of Tuscany to leafy Warwickshire, all creamy walls and rustic tables and expensive cars in the car park. The sort of place where a year-old Golf with a private plate went totally unnoticed. Sarah wore faded jeans, boots and a sloppy grey sweater. As if she had been working all morning and had just slapped on some lipstick to nip out for a working lunch.

  But sexy. Damn sexy, she knew that, because the sweater slid seductively at will off her shoulder, and she had a grey silk bra underneath. And her hair was tousled, as if she had just rolled out of bed. And her dangly silver earrings, like corkscrews, brushed against her neck as she moved. And the sweep of grey eye-liner on her top lids made her eyes smokily seductive. Sarah knew all this, because she was an artist, and an artist was trained to observe, and judge what effect a stimulus had on its audience.

  He was already in there. He’d ordered wine - Gavi de Gavi, potently rich and creamy - and a platter of antipasti which was waiting on the table: olives, Parma ham, figs, buffalo mozzarella, chargrilled artichokes, as well as hunks of artisanal bread and a bowl of peppery green oil with a slick of balsamic vinegar. She slid into the chair opposite him and put her bag down.

  ‘Hi.’

  He poured two inches of wine into an enormous glass by way of reply, and pushed it over to her.

  ‘I’m surprised you came.’

  ‘I need work as much as the next girl.’ She widened her eyes, slightly sickened by her kittenish behaviour.

  He picked up his glass with a smirk.

  She sipped at her wine, unable to stop herself smiling.

  To her surprise, he didn’t embark on suggestive banter. They talked. Properly. Like adults. About any number of things. Her work, his work. A celebrity’s misguided remarks in that morning’s paper. The food - delicious, they both agreed. Whether the Stag’s Head was as good as its sister pub in a nearby village. The stress of children’s homework - he never got involved, Sarah did. Anyone eavesdropping would not have suspected a thing.

  Until the zabaglione arrived. Just one portion, for her, in a tall glass, with a single long-handled spoon.

  His eyes never left her face as she ate. And she tried desperately not to make it suggestive. No licking the drops of sweet cream from her lips, no symbolic insertion of the spoon into her half-open mouth. No offering him a taste. Yet her eyes never left his face either, and underneath the table their legs were entwined.

  ‘Well,’ he said as she put down her spoon. ‘What now?’

  ‘I’ve never . . .’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because you’re so deliciously artless. And so obviously terrified. But so completely unable to stop yourself.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything yet. And I might not.’

  ‘That’s what they all say,’ he replied, and she threw the mint crisp that had come with her espresso at him.

  He was infuriatingly arrogant, and so sure of himself. Every tiny scrap of common sense that Sarah possessed told her to walk away, to thank him for a nice lunch and walk away.

  ‘I’m not going to a hotel,’ she told him.

  ‘Of course not. It’s tacky. Premeditated. And it leaves a paper trail.’

  ‘So speaks the expert.’

  ‘Married to a divorce lawyer.’

  Her stomach did a loop-the-loop. This was dangerous territory. Which was, presumably, what made it so enticing. She’d read about the adrenalin, the dopamine, the serotonin - the crack-cocaine high of an affair. And if this feeling was anything to go by, she wanted more.

  ‘I’ve got a beach hu
t,’ she murmured. ‘In Everdene.’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘How very Swallows and Amazons.’

  There was nothing Swallows and Amazons about what she had in mind.

  ‘We rent it out. I’ll be going down there soon, to get it ready for the season.’

  ‘What a coincidence. I’m away then too.’

  She frowned.

  ‘I haven’t told you when.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I know.’

  And now, here she was, surrounded by IKEA bags, feeling simultaneously sick and elated.

  For the millionth time, she asked herself what she was doing. It wasn’t as if she and Ian were desperately unhappy. He wasn’t a wife-beating bully, or a heavy drinker, or a gambler. It wasn’t as if their sex life had dwindled to nothing - if statistics were anything to go by, they were doing pretty well.

  It was more that she was so tired of feeling that she wasn’t the person her husband wanted her to be. And that there was someone out there who seemed perfectly enchanted by who she was. And to feel enchanting was incredibly seductive. Added to that was the sense that she knew Oliver so well - they’d talked on the phone countless times since their lunch, and although there was continual flirting and innuendo there was also a genuine connection. He was bright and funny and interested in what she was doing - she couldn’t remember the last time Ian had so much as asked what she was working on. He viewed her work as little more than a hobby, something to keep her in baubles, which she thoroughly resented as actually she hauled in quite a bit when you added it up.

  None of that entitled her to have an affair, of course. And she knew that Oliver was a womanising love rat. He’d told her as much. He was entirely unashamed of his conquests.

  ‘It’s just how I am,’ he told her, and she should have walked away there and then. But the fizzing and the elation and the frisson when his name came up on her phone were just too powerful.

  As seven o’clock approached, she sat on the step of the beach hut. It had been a glorious May afternoon, and as the sun began its downward journey, she watched the sky turn a luminous pink, a sight that on any other day would have had her pulling out her watercolours and trying to recreate it on paper. Instead, she was wrestling with her conscience, thinking of all the times she and Ian had sat here with a bottle of beer or a glass of wine once the girls were tucked up and thought how lucky they were.