‘So - are you off to Bristol?’
‘Yeah. Another month yet.’
‘Should be cool.’
‘Definitely. Probably. I don’t know ...’
She took another drag of her cigarette. She looked awkward.
‘Listen . . . Harry . . . I’m sorry I was such a bitch earlier in the summer.’
He shrugged.
‘Hey, it’s fine. No worries.’
‘Seriously. I was out of order. And he was such a jerk.’
Harry grinned.
‘Yeah, well-I could have told you that.’
She thumped him on the shoulder.
‘Shut - up.’
He pretended to rub the spot where she’d hit him. ‘That was a bit harsh.’
Then he looked at her and realised she was crying. Real tears, in those eyes he had once found mesmerising.
‘You OK?’
She nodded, then shook her head. ‘Yes. No. No! I’ve screwed up everything. Why am I such a . . . waste of space?’
Because you’re selfish? And you think you’re something you’re not? And you don’t give a toss how anyone else feels? All of these things ran through Harry’s head, but he didn’t say any of them, because he was basically a kind boy. He patted her on the shoulder. This was the cue she needed, and she threw herself against him. He recoiled slightly, amazed. Wasn’t this secretly what he had been dreaming of all summer? Only now he didn’t want her anywhere near him. He felt a slight revulsion.
‘Listen, I’ve got to go and change the music. We don’t want a Beatles medley all night.’
He extricated himself from her embrace as politely as he could. She looked at him dully. Her make-up had streaked down her face. Some women could carry that off, Harry knew, but on Florence, it wasn’t a good look.
‘Catch you later,’ he said, and strode off towards the sound system.
Jane stood on the steps of The Shack and looked at the scene around her.
It was magical. The moon threw its light over the sea and the sand, immersing the guests in a silvery glow. Everyone was dancing - men in dinner jackets, women in sparkling, shimmering dresses. Lanterns flickered all around them. As the song that was playing came to an end, everyone stopped for a moment, laughing, chattering, reaching for a much-needed drink. Then the chords of the next song struck up.
It was The Kinks, ‘You Really Got Me’. Everyone leapt back into action, galvanised by the tune that was familiar to all generations.
Jane was immediately transported back in time. Everything was almost the same. There were more people now, and the music was louder, the bass pounding out, but it could have been that same night. She looked over to the house at the top of the dunes and remembered how she had been feeling-a young girl whose life had just been turned upside down, and who had no idea where to go next. And for all of her life she never quite managed to get rid of that feeling, until today. All that had been laid to rest. She felt at one with herself.
She turned, and saw Roy was standing next to her, smiling, holding out his hand.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s show them how it’s done.’
She walked down the steps with a smile. She took Roy’s hand, and put the other on his shoulder.
Tomorrow she would start to clear out a lifetime of belongings from The Shack, in readiness for its new owner. But tonight . . . tonight she would dance on the sands by the light of the moon.
14
THE LOVE SHACK
Kirsty could hear Dan tooting the car horn impatiently in the drive outside. She zipped up her weekend case and picked up her handbag. She really didn’t need this. She would have given anything for a lie-in this morning; she felt so tired. But Dan had insisted. The forecast was great for the weekend, and they always spent her birthday at Everdene. It was a tradition. Liam was coming down the next day with his new girlfriend. Helena-a cardiothoracic consultant, apparently, and quite a bit older than him. They were madly in love, which was great, thought Kirsty, because that’s what Liam needed. Someone constant in his life. It was definitely time he settled down too. They were all growing up at last, she realised.
She ran down the stairs and got into the car.
‘You OK?’ asked Dan, concerned. ‘You look a bit pale.’
‘Haven’t had time to put any make-up on.’ Kirsty settled into the seat and fastened her belt.
Dan switched on the engine.
‘You can have a sleep,’ he said. ‘We’ll be there by lunchtime.’
‘Great,’ said Kirsty, shutting her eyes. She didn’t need any encouragement. By the time they reached the motorway, she was asleep.
She woke up as they pulled into the car park at Everdene just after midday. As was often the case in October, the weather was dazzling: a bright sun, low in the sky, that gave off a gentle warmth. A delicious breeze that was perfect for kite-flying - the skyline was filled with fluttering colours. Seagulls swooped, cawing triumphantly. The occasional cloud skipped across the periwinkle blue.
‘Let’s take a walk on the beach,’ said Dan. ‘Then go to the Ship Aground for some lunch.’
Kirsty nodded. A bit of exercise wouldn’t do her any harm. She hadn’t done as much as usual this week. She pulled her wellies out of the boot and tugged them on.
‘I thought you’d want to get straight in the surf. The waves are great.’
Dan shook his head. ‘I’ll wait till Liam gets here. You and Helena can get to know each other then. Sit and drink hot chocolate.’
‘Sounds perfect.’ Kirsty’s mouth was watering at the prospect already. The café on the front did amazing hot chocolate, with whipped cream and marshmallows and a Flake stuck in it . . .
Dan took her hand and they walked down the slipway, turning left to follow the beach past the huts.
‘Oh my God,’ said Kirsty. ‘Look, they’ve painted the first one pink. It’s been blue for as long as I can remember.’
‘They sold it, didn’t they?’ said Dan. ‘The new owners must have had it painted.’
‘It looks amazing.’
They walked towards it. It was a perfect pink. Not brash, but soft. Slightly dusty.
‘Lucky things,’ sighed Kirsty.
‘Let’s go and say hello to them,’ said Dan. ‘Welcome them to Everdene.’
‘We can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, I don’t know. It just seems a bit ...’
They were at the bottom of the steps. Kirsty looked at the sign.
‘Look! It used to be called The Shack. They’ve changed it to The Love Shack.’
Dan grinned. It was one of their favourite songs. A summer anthem.
‘B52s fans. They’ve obviously got good taste.’
He started up the stairs.
‘Dan - don’t. It’s embarrassing.’
‘Why not? They’re obviously like-minded people.’
He had his hand on the doorknob. Kirsty sighed and followed him.
‘They’re not even in.’
She looked down, puzzled. He had a key. He was opening the lock.
‘What are you doing?’
He opened the door. He ushered her inside.
‘Happy birthday.’
Kirsty stared at him.
‘What?’
‘Happy birthday!’
She hesitated.
‘We’re staying here for the weekend? I thought we’d booked into a B and B?’
She stepped inside, and her breath was taken away.
The whole hut had been completely redone. It was mostly white, with Nantucket-style kitchen units, a huge ponyskin rug on the floor, leather bean bags, a modular sofa covered in crushed white velvet. A vase of white freesias sat on a low coffee table, filling the air with their scent.
‘It’s totally stunning,’ breathed Kirsty.
‘Thank you,’ said Dan, modestly.
She frowned. He smiled.
‘You still don’t get it, do you?’
‘What?’<
br />
‘Happy birthday. This is your present. This is your hut.’ He rolled his eyes in exasperation. ‘I bought it for you.’
Kirsty’s hands flew to her mouth.
‘Oh my God ... Dan ...’
‘I figured we spend so much time down here, wasting money on hotels and B and Bs, we might as well make the investment.’
‘It’s so beautiful.’
She wandered through the hut, touching everything in wonder. He’d thought of every detail, from the Bose iPod dock to the outsize French coffee cups. Not that she would be drinking much coffee over the next few months.
‘Dan. I need to tell you something.’
He frowned.
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘Of course I like it. I absolutely love it. I wasn’t going to tell you till later, until I’d done another test, just to make sure ...’
She trailed off, looking a bit bashful.
He could barely get the words out.
‘You’re having a baby,’ he croaked.
She nodded, big fat tears of joy flooding her eyes. And the next moment she found his arms around her, and he was swinging her round, giving great shouts of joy.
‘Careful. Careful!’ she pleaded, laughing.
‘I’m so happy,’ he told her. ‘I’m so, so happy.’
Later, they sat on the top step outside The Love Shack wrapped up in their warmest jumpers and scarves, Dan with a beer, and Kirsty with elderflower cordial. They watched the waves inching up the beach in the afternoon sun, and imagined the future: small hands in theirs, chubby little legs toddling down to the water’s edge. Tiny fingers patting sandcastles into shape; pudgy feet dabbling in rock pools. Kirsty’s eyes closed and she leant against Dan. He put his arm around her as she fell asleep again.
A lifetime of sunshine and laughter lay in front of them.
Prologue
Even now, after seven years, the smell of him after a night’s sleep, the faint, sharp scent of his sweat mingled with Issey Miyake, makes her shimmer inside.
He has a full mouth and a broken nose – the story of how it was broken changes depending on how much he has drunk and who he is with – and his dark-brown curls are still pinned down by the bandanna he wears to tame them while he works. His lids flutter slightly in his sleep, hiding greeny-yellow eyes that sometimes burn orange. He turns, and the aftermath of half a bottle of grappa hits her, so raw it makes her eyes water. He needs to wind down, he tells her, after a night in the kitchen.
She doesn’t buy that for a minute. He can do it with his eyes shut, cooking for a dining room full of people. It’s like breathing to him. Second nature.
Excess, too, is in his nature. Which is partly what she loves about him. But partly the problem. He will sleep now till gone eleven. Whereas she’ll get up in ten minutes’ time. She always wakes before the alarm for fear that it might never go off. One of them has to be up. A hotel, after all, does not run itself, and the staff are only as good as the person pulling their strings.
And Claire Marlowe is great at string-pulling. She is the mistress of delegation, of discretion, of diplomacy, of multitasking.
Luca is good at cooking. And talking. And partying. And drinking. Which is why people want to eat in his restaurant and stay in his hotel.
Luca is a legend.
Living with a legend is exhausting, and Claire is tired. The very marrow of her bones yearns for rest. But this is going to be the busiest weekend of the year so far. The forecast is wonderful: guaranteed sunshine and warmth. It’s a chance for the population to kick back and relax. Unless they work in a pub or a bar or a garden centre.
Or a five-star townhouse hotel by the sea.
She flicks the alarm to ‘off’ before it squawks. She doesn’t need it to tell her it’s time to get up. She throws back the duvet. Beside her, Luca stirs. He reaches out an arm and curls it round her before she can roll out of bed. She feels his hand slide up and down her flank. Immediately her weary bones turn to liquid; she shuts her eyes for a moment.
You can’t base a relationship on sex, she thinks. You can’t live with someone and excuse the fact that they take you totally for granted, just because their very touch makes you want to die.
Can you?
Outside she can hear the sound of the dustcarts collecting the recycling. Crash after crash as a week’s worth of empty bottles consumed by the residents of Fore Street disappears into the gaping yellow cavern. Bottles of milk, Merlot and mineral water shatter into shards with a satisfying smash. She feels sure the men make as much noise as they possibly can, although it is barely six. Wouldn’t you, if it was your job to collect other people’s rubbish?
She rolls out of Luca’s grasp. She’s not going to give him what he wants: her unconditional yielding warmth. She’s not here for his convenience. If he wants sex, he can at least do her the honour of gaining full consciousness first. Not that she’s not tempted. She can’t think of a nicer way to begin the day, to kick-start her body into action.
It’s sad, she thinks, that sex has become a bargaining tool, that she is punishing him by withholding it, even though he is probably unaware of his punishment because he is out for the count. She longs to go back to when they first met, when she gave herself freely and willingly without thinking twice.
But things have changed since then. Now they have responsibilities. Or rather, she has. Luca floats through on talent and charm alone, leaving Claire to balance the books.
That was the deal right from the start, of course. They were organic and synthetic. Yin and yang. His skill in the kitchen and her business brain combined to make the perfect team. But somewhere along the line the balance has been lost and has tipped in his favour. Claire is feeling resentful.
And there is nothing like resentment for destroying a relationship.
She goes over to the skylight in the corner of the room and stands on a chair to look out at the rooftops. They are there, the trio of seagull chicks, ugly and expectant. She has monitored their progress since the day they hatched. She feels a tug deep inside her whenever she looks at them, and she knows damn well what that is. But there’s nothing she can do about it. She couldn’t possibly fit a baby into her life right now.
Satisfied that the chicks are alive and well and haven’t fallen off the roof in their attempt to fly the nest, which they should be doing any day now, she breathes in the salty early-morning air. She can almost smell the sun, although she can’t see it yet from her vantage point. She imagines it bobbing up over the estuary with coy enthusiasm, ready to greet the visitors who will be flocking to Pennfleet in their hundreds over the weekend. They will fill the narrow winding streets and spill out on to the quay, as perpetually greedy for sustenance as the gull chicks. They will feast on fish and chips and ice cream and proper Cornish pasties and white paper bags full of crumbly fudge, and the townspeople will be grateful for the merry ringing of tills, if not the litter they will leave behind.
Claire pads over to the shower. Their room is right up in the eaves, because the ceiling here is too low to be suitable for paying guests – even though Luca is six foot one and continually bashes his head on the beams. The plan was for them to buy a little place somewhere else in the town to escape to, but it has never materialised. They don’t have time to look. They don’t have any spare cash either. When they first moved to Pennfleet, Claire used to leaf longingly through the property pages during her coffee break, looking for a dear little whitewashed fisherman’s cottage to call their own, but all their money has been ploughed back into the hotel. So here they are, up in the roof. It’s a nice enough room, with wooden walls painted white and one of the big sleigh beds they have in the rest of the hotel, but there’s not much room for ‘stuff’ and barely any wardrobe space. She can only just squeeze in the selection of navy blue and black and grey wrap dresses she wears for work. She can’t remember the last time she wore any of her ‘Claire’ clothes, which are stored away in a vacuum-pack bag. She can’t remember her l
ast day off. Even if she’s not front of house, she is squirrelled away in her office doing marketing plans, budgets, press releases …
Her shower takes five minutes. Getting dressed takes another five. By quarter past six she is at the front desk, double-checking the staff rota, praying that no one will be tempted by the sun to throw a sickie.
They are almost fully booked this weekend. Seven rooms and the restaurant. She will, if she is lucky, get twelve hours’ sleep over the next three days. She knows this is because she is a perfectionist, but that’s why they have been so successful. Because she doesn’t let anything slip.
That, and Luca’s formidable reputation as a chef, which has been the subject of endless articles in the weekend supplements and magazines and foodie blogs. People are happy to make the three-hour train journey from London to Pennfleet for the weekend, just to taste the clever things he does with baby squid and borlotti beans and courgette flowers; his gelati are close to orgasmic – or so says an infamous food critic, who ordered five gallons of his honey, coffee and ricotta ice cream to keep in his own freezer. He’s quite the cover boy, Luca, which makes him a minor celebrity on this stretch of coast, infamous and instantly recognisable, but no one ever recognises Claire. Sometimes she feels totally invisible.
Everyone comes to The Townhouse by the Sea for the Luca experience. But nobody realises that without Claire, he would be nothing. Nothing at all.
Just before eleven, Claire heard the front door open and prayed it wasn’t an arrival. She hated it when guests checked in early. The corridors were still busy with Henry the Hoover and lined with canvas bags of dirty linen, and there was nothing worse than the sight of a hotel room door agape and a stripped bed. There was nothing you could do about it – rooms had to be turned round – but she wished people would wait till after midday at least to turn up.
She looked up nevertheless, with her most welcoming smile. If their room wasn’t ready, complimentary coffee and shortbread on the terrace usually mollified.
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