The Beach Hut

by Veronica Henry

  Added to that was the huge difficulty of trying to resist phoning Oliver. He had said to call any time. But she knew absolutely that was not the answer to any of her problems. She relived over and over again in her mind the incredible night they had shared together. It made her feel both guilty and thrilled. What wouldn’t she give to experience that again? She could set it up in a trice, she knew she could, but how could she contemplate cheating on her husband again when he was so depressed?

  Gradually, however, she was running out of sympathy. Ian had become so negative, so unpleasant, that life was pretty unbearable. It had got to the point where he had stopped shaving, stopped showering, often didn’t bother getting dressed until gone midday. When she remonstrated, he snarled at her. What was the point? She began to spend as much time out of the house as she could with the girls, which of course meant she couldn’t work, which in turn meant they didn’t even have her money coming in. They couldn’t go on like this for ever, but she didn’t know where to find a solution. When she had suggested he go back to college to retrain, she thought he was going to hit her.

  And he wouldn’t go out. They had any number of invitations to parties and barbecues, but he quite simply refused to socialise, because he didn’t want to face the questions. Everyone knew he had been made redundant, because news like that travelled fast.

  ‘I’m a fucking failure,’ he shouted at her, when she had tried to persuade him to join some friends at a dinner party. ‘I don’t want everyone asking me what I’m up to because I’m up to fuck all.’

  She had slunk away, unable to argue, because he didn’t want to hear anyone else’s side of the story.

  The beach hut had been the only thing to bring in a reliable sum that summer. He had wanted to rent it out for the bank holiday week too - six hundred quid would go a long way towards paying the mortgage - but she had put her foot down. The bank holiday week was always their week. They needed a holiday. The girls needed a holiday. He had backed down, but he had refused to come. He didn’t want to have to admit his situation over and over again to the rest of the beach-hut owners.

  It had been a huge relief to spend the week away from him. The girls, who had become increasingly subdued in the light of Ian’s behaviour, had come out of their shells again. And they were all excited about the party. They had been every year since they’d bought the hut, and it was the highlight of the summer for all of them. Despite the lack of funds, Sarah had been into Bamford and bought them a new dress each. In the sales, so she didn’t feel too guilty. And while she was there, she had seen the most beautiful white beaded chiffon dress for herself, at a quarter of its original price. It was low cut, and almost backless, but if she wore it with flip-flops, it wouldn’t look tarty . . . She wrestled with her conscience, decided against it, took the girls into a café for cake, then just as they were on their way back to the car, she turned around and ran back to the shop, getting there just as it closed.

  Once they’d finished the biscuits, she laid them in the cool of the cupboard to dry. It was time to get ready. She kept checking her phone to see if Ian had called to say he’d had a change of heart and was on his way. She knew she should hope that he would, but in her heart of hearts she was relieved when the phone remained determinedly silent.

  She looked at her dress on the hanger. It was going to look amazing. She’d got some plain silver hoop earrings to wear with it. Then her heart sank. What was the point of putting on a gorgeous dress when your husband refused to have anything to do with you, and the man you really wanted to wear it for was firmly out of bounds?

  Fiona hid in the tiny bathroom of the beach hut, trembling.

  This was it. This was her first real test. She could do it. She really could. At least she hoped so. She had to. For herself, for the children, but most of all, for Tim.

  He had been absolutely brilliant. After she’d finally plucked up the courage to tell him the truth, he had driven straight down to Everdene to collect her. He had swept her up in her arms while she cried, and for the first time in her married life, she had felt safe. He had been mortified that she had kept her terrible secret for so long, and hadn’t judged her. He had promised to stick by her, whatever she decided to do. He’d found her a wonderful counsellor, who had unravelled everything and put it all into perspective and worked out a plan to help her face life without the crutch she had relied on for so, so long. And once it was out in the open - in her marriage, at least - she found the courage to face her demons.

  It was tough. Hideously tough. Every day was a challenge, and a battle, but she was absolutely determined. She had come so close to destroying everything she had. It made her feel hot and shivery when she thought back over it. The years of drunken oblivion, the accident. The one-night stand . . .

  She had seen him once. In the Spar. He had smiled at her, tentatively, across the shop. She remembered feeling an overwhelming sense of relief that he looked so normal, so nice. When she had tried to remember him the next day, she couldn’t visualise him properly, and she had been terrified that she had picked up some complete thug, but he looked perfectly respectable - especially now he was wearing normal clothes and not a fairy outfit. She didn’t speak to him, though. She couldn’t face that. And he’d been sensitive enough to respect that. What would she have done if he’d barrelled up to her and said, ‘Hello, darlin’? She had confessed her night of shame to her counsellor, who hadn’t been judgemental, hadn’t said anything really, but she had felt better for getting it off her chest.

  Four weeks. She had managed four weeks without a drink. The days were long, the nights even longer, and there were days when her body screamed for the relief. There was nothing to replace it with. Even sleep didn’t bring respite, because she found herself troubled by images of the things she had done over the years, waking up in a sweat as she pictured herself lurching through yet another party, tottering on her heels, making a fool of herself even though at the time she had told herself she was fine, absolutely fine. But she’d done it. Tim had been kind - he had got rid of every drop of alcohol in the house, and didn’t drink either. She didn’t think she could have coped if he had pulled the cork on a bottle of cool Sauvignon each night and expected her to go without. And they had avoided social functions, which hadn’t been too difficult as a lot of people had been away on holiday, and you could always decline an invitation by saying you were away too, or had visitors coming.

  But the Everdene beach party couldn’t be avoided. They went every year, without fail. Tim had asked her kindly if she wanted them to duck out, but Fiona didn’t want to. She had to face reality sometime. She had to learn to operate without alcohol in the real world, not in a cushioned, protected pseudo-reality. And at least she felt comfortable here. People in Everdene didn’t seem to judge you, not like at home where you had to watch your every step.

  She looked in the mirror. She had to admit, she looked better. She had filled out slightly and looked less gaunt, because when she had been drinking, food had never been a priority. Her eyes looked brighter. She held out both hands flat in front of her. Steady. Usually she would have got ready for a party while drinking two or three glasses of champagne. But not tonight.

  She touched up her lipgloss one more time and left the bathroom. Tim was sprawled in a chair reading the paper - he looked handsome in his dinner jacket. He glanced up at her and smiled.

  ‘The kids have gone already. They couldn’t wait - they wanted to get on the bouncy castle.’

  He stood up.

  ‘You look gorgeous.’ He came over to her and kissed her.

  ‘Mmmm.’ To her surprise, she found herself kissing him back. And a little flicker of something sparked deep down in her belly. She had felt dead inside for so long. She couldn’t remember the last time they had made love, not really. She was always comatose by bedtime - why would Tim want to have sex with a corpse?

  But now, suddenly, the feeling was flooding back. He was trailing his fingers down her back, and it made her shi
ver with desire. She pushed herself against him, and she could tell he was aroused too.

  ‘Do you think,’ she murmured between kisses, ‘it would matter awfully if we were just a tiny bit late?’

  It was half past eight. The party was in full swing. The pig roast had been devoured, totally stripped. There was nothing left but bone. As the sun set, the smaller children were ushered into the scout tent to settle down, and bottles of champagne were cracked open. Jane had wondered about giving a little farewell speech, proposing a toast, but decided that it was a bit hammy, and she didn’t want to break the carefree mood of the party. It was, she decided, the best one yet. In which case, it was definitely time to move on. Chrissie had talked to her about the possibility of funding a rescue package for The Shack, but they had agreed in the end that so much had changed, it was best to let it go. Chrissie was talking about getting a place somewhere hot instead, so her three would be all right.

  Jane felt a tiny bit guilty about the rest of the grandchildren. They’d had such fun here over the years. But if she was honest, they were all growing up themselves. Harry was off to university - he’d have his own plans for the summer from now on. Amelia had hundreds of friends she was always making plans with. And Spike - well, things were going to be different for him In a good way, she thought. She had always thought Serena an excellent mother - far better than Spike’s own mother. She hoped Donna wouldn’t give them any trouble, but she thought not. At the end of the day, all Donna was really after was an easy life, and Serena being around would definitely mean that.

  Adrian was panicking. He couldn’t find Serena. She had been rather quiet this afternoon. She didn’t seem to be looking forward to the party, although she had denied it when he questioned her.

  He searched through the crowds, in the drinks tent. Went back into the hut to see if she had gone to lie down or something. But she was nowhere to be seen. His heart lurched. Had she decided on some mercy dash back home to see Philip? Had she changed her mind?

  He saw Chrissie, and grabbed her.

  ‘Have you seen Serena?’

  Chrissie had been very disapproving, when they had told her. But Adrian had drawn her aside and had a heart-to-heart, explaining how unhappy Serena had been for a long time, how they had started out as friends, and it had grown into something else. Chrissie hadn’t looked convinced, but then she’d always been a bit chippy, thought Adrian.

  ‘I think she went into the children’s tent with Spike,’ she told him.

  He turned to go, but Chrissie stopped him.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘I just want to say . . . good luck. I thought you were both selfish idiots looking for a cheap thrill at first. And I was a bit pissed off that you tried to con me into buying The Shack. But . . . I can see it’s something deeper than that.’ She paused. ‘I hope you’ll be happy.’

  Stunned, Adrian managed a smile. ‘Thank you. It means a lot.’

  Chrissie touched him on the arm and walked away. Adrian watched her go and felt filled with emotion. Shit, he wasn’t going to cry, was he? It had been a rollercoaster of a few days. A new life ahead of him, the old one coming to an end with the last beach party. He needed to pull himself together.

  He walked over to the scout tent and pulled back the flap. He felt relief as he saw Serena, sitting next to Spike who was curled up in his sleeping bag with Bart under his arm. She was stroking his hair, sending him off to sleep.

  This time, Adrian didn’t try and stop the little tear that rolled down his cheek.

  Sarah had sneaked off back to her hut to sit on the step and have a cigarette. She had just finished rolling it and put it in her mouth when the flare from a lighter appeared in front of her.

  A Zippo lighter.

  ‘Shit!’ She dropped the cigarette in alarm. ‘Oliver. What the fuck are you doing here?’

  ‘Well, that’s a nice greeting,’ he replied, leaning down to pick up her roll-up. He put it back between her lips and she felt heat zip through her from head to foot. She pulled the cigarette out angrily.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she repeated.

  ‘I couldn’t live without you a minute longer.’ He looked straight into her eyes.

  She swallowed. There was none of his usual teasing tone. He seemed deadly serious.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We hardly know each other.’

  ‘I know enough.’ He leaned into her. She could smell his cologne. Him. ‘I think about you every second of every minute of every hour of every day.’

  ‘Right ...’ She didn’t know how to respond. This was quite a confession. And ironic, though she wasn’t going to admit that.

  ‘This doesn’t happen to me, Sarah. I don’t do obsession. I do casual, meaningless shags and move on. But this is different.’

  ‘It’s probably only because I told you no. I don’t imagine you’re a man who likes rejection.’ She tried to keep her voice light, but it was shaking. ‘I’ve told you. I’m married. I can’t deal with it.’

  ‘Sarah - your husband’s a twat.’ She looked at him, startled. ‘I saw him last night at the Johnsons’.’

  ‘What?’ This made her sit up. What the hell was Ian doing at the Johnsons’? This was the man who couldn’t face going out in public, who had point-blank refused to come to the beach party.

  ‘Oh yes. He was letting his hair right down. Drunk as a skunk and twice as obnoxious. They had to kick him out in the end, before he started throwing punches.’

  ‘He’s very unhappy. He’s going through a tough time.’

  ‘Why do you defend him when he’s a total knob?’

  Sarah felt indignant.

  ‘Because he’s my husband and I love him and he isn’t always a knob and don’t you remember those words “for better or for worse”? The whole point of marriage is you’re supposed to stick by the one you love—’

  He kissed her. And she let him. Oh God.

  He drew back.

  ‘That’s why I love you,’ he said softly.

  ‘Don’t,’ she pleaded.

  ‘I want you in my life. I just want to be able to see you. Even if it doesn’t involve sex ...’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Honestly. I think you could make me a better person.’

  ‘You’re full of shit.’ She stared him out. ‘You just want a shag.’

  He shook his head. ‘I think you deserve someone who cares about you. He’s taking the piss, Sarah. I know exactly what’s going on. He’s bullying you and undermining you because he’s unhappy, and you’re running round like a headless chicken trying to keep everything afloat, but no one thinks about you.’ He paused. ‘Do they?’

  She looked down. ‘No.’

  He put his hands on her shoulders, ran his thumbs up her neck. Oh God . . .

  ‘I’m not playing your game, Oliver,’ she insisted, though her body was betraying her. Liquid gold was oozing into her stomach.

  ‘Let me just be with you tonight. You can introduce me as a family friend.’

  She hesitated.

  ‘You can’t stay. I’ve got the girls.’

  ‘Of course not. I’ve booked a room.’

  She looked at him. Was he fibbing?

  He was running the back of his fingers along her jaw.

  She would have to be superhuman to resist.

  ‘What about your wife?’ she gasped, remembering the intimidating woman at the Johnsons’ party. The divorce lawyer, for heaven’s sake.

  ‘I don’t care,’ Oliver told her. ‘I’ve had long enough to think about it to know that. I want to be with you, Sarah.’

  ‘OK. But no funny stuff. Not here,’ she managed to reply, finding it difficult to breathe.

  ‘No funny stuff.’

  ‘Just tonight? Then you’ll leave me alone. I can’t handle it, Oliver ...’

  ‘Just tonight. I promise.’

  She was here. She’d turned up late, but Florence was finally here. Harry sensed her before he even saw her. The hairs on
the back of his neck had tingled, then he had spotted her in the crowd, making her way towards him with a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other.

  She was coming over to talk to him. Harry felt his heart hammering. What should he say? Was she still going out with Marky Burns? He wanted to walk off, but he was drawn to her magnetically.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. Genius.

  ‘Hey,’ she replied, and lit another cigarette with the end of the one she had just finished. She chucked the stub on the ground carelessly. Harry felt the urge to cover it with sand, but he didn’t want her to think he was making some kind of point.

  ‘Have you . . . had a good summer?’ God, he was doing a perfect impersonation of Harry Enfield’s Tory Boy. He cringed inside.

  ‘I’ve been doing the festivals. Totally amazing. But I’m knackered. I can’t remember the last time I had a proper night’s sleep.’

  Actually, now he looked closer, it showed. In just four weeks she had changed dramatically. Her face was puffy, and her skin had broken out in spots. Her hair seemed matt and dull, scraped back into a high ponytail. Her nails were chewed. Her clothes were rumpled and grubby. She looked . . . skanky, he decided. He took a step back. The cigarette she was smoking was cheap, harsh, and it mixed in with some rank perfume she had doused herself in. Probably to cover up the fact she hadn’t had a shower.

  He couldn’t think of a thing to say to her. Then he fell back on the tried-and-tested boring question of the late summer.

  ‘How were your results?’

  There was a flicker in her eyes, as if she was deciding what to tell him.

  ‘I . . . um . . . didn’t get in. I didn’t get the grades. Just one grade off, but that’s all it needs to be.’ She looked a bit shamefaced. ‘Going to have to reapply next year.’

  ‘Shit. Sorry about that.’ Harry didn’t say he’d got straight As. He was never one to gloat.