Meet Me at Pebble Beach: Part One – Out of the Blue

by Bella Osborne

  Charlie chuckled. ‘I’m sure you’ve done plenty.’

  ‘Nope. I’ve been bumming around, basically, doing as little as I can get away with.’ She marvelled at her own honesty. She took a swig of her wine, wincing at both the clash of wine with chocolate cake and how little she had achieved. Friends from school were married and had kids in tow but that had never been an ambition of hers. If she thought about it she’d never really had any ambition. Even the school careers advisor had suggested a job as a fishmonger might suit her, and whilst that was a perfectly good job, it wasn’t exactly setting her sights high. She feared invoices clerk at BHB Healthcare had been the peak of her career. She chuckled to herself and Charlie scrutinised her.

  ‘So, what now?’ he asked.

  Regan drank more wine and sighed slowly. ‘I fired off some job applications from the library. Thank you for that tip,’ she said. ‘I’ve uploaded my CV to a few job sites, too, so hopefully in a couple of days they’ll be beating my door down.’ She tried to sound optimistic but she didn’t believe it herself.

  ‘There are other options.’

  ‘Like?’

  Charlie looked like he was going to lean back on the stool and then thought better of it. He put down his wine and went over to the corner to the box Regan had brought from the office – not as well tidied as she’d thought. He returned with Regan’s lottery wish list.

  ‘I keep thinking about this,’ he said, waving it near her but just out of reach.

  ‘Don’t remind me.’ She drained and refilled her Cookie Monster mug.

  ‘I think this is an excellent thing to have done.’ If Regan had worn glasses she would have been looking at him from over the top of them right now. ‘Bear with me. You wrote this because, like all of us, when we think about winning the lottery we think it is the key that unlocks all our dreams. So this list,’ he tapped the paper, ‘is a true list of the things you really want to do with your life.’

  ‘If I won the lottery,’ she added.

  He shook his head. ‘Regardless of winning. You still want to do them; you just need to find a way of achieving them without the money.’

  Regan laughed and then saw his expression was serious. She needed more wine. Charlie topped up both their drinks and picked up his Hong Kong Phooey mug, eyeing her speculatively.

  Regan snatched up the list. He was being ridiculous. She scanned them. ‘Which of these is even vaguely possible without tons of cash?’

  ‘Well, the bottom one is, but we’ll come back to that.’ She scanned it quickly; the last item was ‘Get new hot boyfriend who doesn’t nag or wear button-up pyjamas’. She looked back up again slowly; this was a promising development. Charlie was looking thoughtful now. He tapped a bullet point towards the top of the list. ‘How could you help your dad out?’

  ‘Suggest he dumps Tarty Tara.’

  Charlie was grinning broadly. ‘Tell me more about Tarty Tara. I think I love her already.’

  Regan shook her head. ‘Where to start … She’s ten years younger than my dad. She works part time so she’s round his all the time. I’m sure she’s bleeding him dry moneywise.’

  ‘Any redeeming features?’ Charlie was looking amused.

  Regan screwed her face up in thought. ‘Hmm, she puts the hoover round. That’s about it, though.’

  ‘So what does he need help with?’

  ‘He’s only got a one-bedroom flat. I was thinking I would buy him somewhere nicer. I definitely need lottery money for that.’

  Charlie was nodding. ‘Could you make his flat nicer in any other ways?’

  Regan was feeling put on the spot. ‘Dunno.’ Charlie was watching her expectantly. ‘It needs redecorating and his kitchen is really dated but I don’t think there’s much I could do there without ripping it all out.’

  Charlie leaned forward. ‘But the redecorating wouldn’t cost much – only your time and a bit of paint.’

  Regan waved her mug at him and the contents sloshed about, making her realise she was probably a bit more drunk than she’d thought. ‘You forget that paint costs money and I have none.’

  ‘I’ve got friends in the trade. They have half tins left over all the time. I’ll speak to one of them if you like?’

  Regan studied him. He was ruggedly handsome with very good teeth. He’d got her out of trouble when she could have quite happily brained Alex. He’d bought her a takeaway and wine, and here he was offering suggestions of how she could help her dad. She found herself ticking off a list of everything she wanted in a partner and Charlie was it. This guy was sent from heaven. ‘You’re brilliant,’ she said, feeling it was a pretty good summary.

  Charlie went coy. ‘Just being a friend. I’m a big believer in karma. You know, that the good you do will come back to you eventually.’

  He used the ‘f’ word. Friend. That was unfortunate, because right at that moment she wanted to snog his face off. ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘I have to.’

  Her booze-addled brain was trying to process what he’d said when he got unsteadily to his feet. ‘I should go.’ He picked up his jacket and pointed to the door.

  ‘It’s been a great evening. Thanks for dinner and everything.’ She stood up and held on to the wall to steady herself. How much had she drunk?

  She followed him to the door and when he spun around to say something they both froze as their faces were so close to each other. Regan didn’t stop to think. She kissed him. She didn’t have to wait for his reaction. He kissed her back, hard. They were soon up against the brick wall exploring each other in a frenzy of booze-fuelled lust.

  ‘Ow,’ said Regan, grazing her back on the rough brickwork.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Charlie through a gasped breath. ‘Chair?’ he suggested after scanning the bare room.

  ‘Okay.’ They made it to the chair, their lips still attached. Regan paused. How was this going to work? She sat in the chair and Charlie awkwardly kneeled next to her and they resumed their feverish kissing. The chair rocked precariously. Regan clutched the sides whilst still mid-kiss. Charlie’s weight shifted and so did the chair, tipping them both unceremoniously to the floor.

  ‘Ow,’ said Charlie. ‘Dodgy joint,’ he explained, getting to his feet and rubbing his knee. ‘Old injury.’

  ‘Actually that was killing my back,’ said Regan, and they paused to look at each other rubbing their separate sore patches. They both dissolved into hysterics. ‘That killed the mood.’

  ‘Maybe it’s for the best. We’ve both drunk quite a bit,’ said Charlie, planting a kiss on her forehead. ‘I’ll see you soon. Okay?’ He gave her a look that made her go weak at the knickers.

  It was more than okay with Regan; the sooner the better.

  Regan was settling down to sleep when she saw she had new emails. Maybe it was a job interview. She yawned and flicked through them. Nothing about any jobs, but there was one from Cleo. She opened it expecting to see photos of fabulous places, but instead it was late-night ramblings.

  Hey You!

  Hope you’re okay and not missing me too much lol. My brain’s a bit foggy because we had a long flight and an even longer car journey … Followed by a meal where I was expected to engage with people. I tried my best but Oscar informed me that it was a woefully inept performance and I need to improve before we meet the next round of prospective buyers. But that’s the least of my worries. A top art critic saw an early preview of my new collection in Japan and to say they slated it would be too much praise. There wasn’t a thing they liked about it. They said: The colours held as much vibrancy as mud. The style felt like a poor copy of Cleo’s earlier work. Even the size of the canvas in their opinion was wrong. Or as they put it, ‘obese’. They concluded that I’ve had my day and my moment in the sun is over.

  Oscar is furious. I’m a bit torn. Part of me is happy to retreat back into the shadows and paint. Leave behind the madness of the celebrity lifestyle and be normal. But now it’s happened, it’s a far bigger blow than I’d
ever thought it would be. Financially, it’s not great, and all the anxiety I’ve carried about being an imposter, a fraud, just a lucky chance that I once painted something that was okay … now that’s come crashing down on me too.

  Coupled with that, there’s also Oscar’s temper to deal with. He swore at me last night. Wanted to know if I’d said something out of line about the reviewer that may have got back to them. Oscar believes this particular person is vain enough to take out their revenge via a review. I know I haven’t said anything out of place but I’ve still been awake all night going over every conversation I can remember that could have in any way been misconstrued. And I’ve drawn a blank.

  Everything’s a mess and I’m virtually on the other side of the planet from you. And I know, unlike Oscar, you actually care about me. I miss you. Tell me everything’s going to be okay?

  Love

  C

  x

  Regan typed a hasty reply:

  Everything is going to be okay.

  Love

  R

  X

  P.S. Oscar is a twat.

  P.P.S. Will write properly later.

  Chapter Ten

  While Regan tried to drown her hangover in coffee, she studied her lottery wish list with fresh eyes. Charlie had a point about how genuine this list was. It was all the key things she really wanted to change in her life. Could some of them really be possible without winning the lottery? She’d certainly enjoyed herself last night without spending a penny. Although obviously Charlie had and she wasn’t expecting him to pay for everything going forward. It made her think of Charlie and a warm glow lit her up inside – and this time it wasn’t being caused by the wine. He was quite simply perfect. He was the whole deal physically, and also everything she didn’t even know she wanted in a companion and a relationship. At least something good had come out of this disaster. Whether he was entirely worth it … only time would tell.

  She’d had another uncomfortable night in the chair and her neck ached. If she wasn’t careful she’d have a permanent disfigurement from sleeping curled up like a cat. What she needed was a bed. She was almost fantasising about having a bed again. And not just because of the fun she and Charlie could have in it … right now a decent night’s sleep was even more appealing than sex, which was saying something.

  A good night’s sleep: that was her goal. It was an odd place to get motivation from, but motivation it was.

  Regan pulled her attention back to the list. She decided the island with bare-chested waiters would have to wait, as would the pedigree puppy, but the idea of running her own company was sparking something inside her brain. She had always wanted to be her own boss. At school, her Olympic-level laziness had been much maligned by teachers but practically worshipped by her peers, and so it had been something she was extremely proud of. Now she could see it hadn’t done her any favours over the years. It would be a hard habit to break, but if she was working for herself, all the time and effort she put in would directly benefit her – something that had an even greater appeal than doing nothing.

  If she were to set up a company, what sort of thing would she do? She put down the list, hugged her coffee mug and thought. It would have to be something that made money; otherwise what was the point? Her mind was blank. She looked around the studio. Cleo had a gift for painting. Some of the things she’d painted over the years had been stunning, but it was the nipple work that had brought her fame and, most importantly, fortune. She could tell by the tone of Cleo’s email that she was worried about the bad review, but nothing bad ever happened in Cleo’s life so Regan doubted it would be anything more than a bump in the road. Regan’s road was one giant bump, and she had to work out how to overcome it. If she was to work for herself she needed a breakthrough idea. She needed her own nipple, so to speak. But for now, it eluded her.

  Regan’s phone sprang into life. A FaceTime from Cleo. Regan panicked and scanned the room quickly. She couldn’t cancel it knowing how worried Cleo had sounded in her email. The toilet door was pretty nondescript. She dashed over to it, pointed the phone at a suitable angle and answered the call.

  ‘Hiya.’ She beamed at the camera and then realised how manic she looked and tried to calm it down. ‘I’m at my dad’s,’ she volunteered, trying hard to appear normal.

  ‘Oh, right. Is he all right?’ asked Cleo, her expression one of concern.

  ‘Yeah, he’s fine.’

  Cleo was frowning. Her perfect skin puckered. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work? I thought it was about eleven in the morning at home.’ She seemed quite confused.

  Shit, thought Regan. ‘Yes. Yes, it is eleven o’clock on Monday. So that makes it what time where you are?’

  ‘It’s seven in the evening. But is your da—’

  ‘And where are you exactly?’ asked Regan, brightly talking over Cleo in an attempt to distract her, because she had absolutely no idea why she would be at her dad’s in the middle of the day barring medical emergency or catastrophic disaster.

  ‘Japan,’ said Cleo, bluntly. She was still frowning. ‘Why are you at your dad’s?’

  She clearly wasn’t going to let it go and the odd camera angle Regan was having to maintain to avoid the bare brick studio wall was making her already achy neck spasm. A thought struck her. ‘Tara! Tarty Tara has …’ Come on, brain, what the hell has Tarty Tara done? pleaded Regan. She scanned the studio for inspiration. ‘… got her tits out.’ Really? Is that the best you could do? she admonished her brain.

  ‘She’s done what?’ asked Cleo, looking suitably horrified.

  ‘She … um … boob-flashed someone. Yes, that’s right,’ said Regan, so far out of her comfort zone it was like rolling naked on a cheese grater. ‘Tara was out with a friend. She’d drunk too much. Mixed red and white wine,’ she said, taking inspiration from last night’s empty bottles. ‘And she flashed her boobs at some guy in the street. Only it wasn’t some guy, it was an off-duty police officer and she got herself arrested.’ Regan gasped for breath. She’d told the whole made-up story on one lungful of air and was now quite exhausted.

  Cleo was shaking her head but a smile was creeping across her features. ‘That’s hilarious.’

  ‘It’s not,’ said Regan.

  ‘So what happened exactly?’

  Regan was getting grumpy. ‘I’ve told you what happened.’

  ‘Yes, but did she get a caution or a fine?’ Cleo was grinning broadly. At least she looked happier than she had when Regan had answered the call.

  ‘I don’t know the details, but Dad was devastated so I came straight round.’

  ‘Is he there now?’

  ‘Er. No … he’s popped out for … some milk.’ She was talking like she was doing a hostage video under duress. ‘Anyway, how are you?’

  ‘Not great. I’ve been panned by a critic and Oscar is having a meltdown about it.’

  ‘I know, I read your email. I’m sorry.’ Regan could tell this was more serious than she’d realised. ‘What can you do?’

  Cleo pursed her delicate pink lips. ‘Nothing. I can’t magic a new collection. We’ve got to ride it out and hope the buyers aren’t too heavily influenced by the piece.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Cleo. That’s rubbish. If there’s anything I can do, you just have to say.’

  ‘Thanks. I might need you to pop round to the studio.’

  ‘Er, okay. Any time. Just let me know. Sorry, but I’d better go. Keep me posted on everything. And I’m here if you need me. And I can be at the studio any time.’

  ‘Thanks, that makes me feel better.’

  Regan ended the call and put down her aching arm. That was a close call.

  Regan had a rubbish week. Charlie was working – or at least she really hoped he was, because he said he was on six-until-nine night shifts so she couldn’t see him, but they’d had some great text exchanges, which had reassured her that she hadn’t imagined the spark between them. Being on her own was making her more than a little paranoid. She’d had t
wo job rejections without even an interview, and both were jobs she had loads of experience for. There’d been no approaches from the jobs websites she’d signed up to, apart from an office cleaning job which, despite not being the most exciting, she had decided she would apply for; until she’d found out it was at BHB Healthcare and her pride wouldn’t let her.

  She’d been round to her dad’s twice. Both times, Tara had turned up almost as soon as Regan had sat down with a cuppa. The second time, she’d come in carrying a massive dress carrier and taken it through to the bedroom; Regan had spotted a shifty look on her face as she did so. Knowing her dad was instantly on edge when Regan and Tara were forced to share the same air, she’d downed her drink and left. All in all, her plans to get herself off rock bottom were not going well.

  Saturday trundled around again and she found herself looking forward to Mantra. It made her feel that she was a bit of a lost cause if that was the highlight of her week. She’d thought about the people on the course off and on all week, especially the ones who had suffered with illnesses. They had been helpful for her mental pep talks and to get some perspective. She was fit and healthy, apart from all the ready noodles and ice cream she’d consumed, and her health was a lot to be thankful for.

  Charlie had assured her he’d be there on time and had suggested they go for a walk along the beach afterwards, which sounded like a couply thing to do and a stride in the right direction. She’d done an early session at the gym so she was clean and preened and, in her enthusiasm to see Charlie, she got to the community centre early and joined a couple of others in the kitchen. Embarrassingly, she couldn’t remember their names, but they happily reminded her that they were Wendy and Joel. Regan’s brain immediately filled in the details of their medical conditions – Wendy had had a stroke and Joel suffered with depression. Wendy was wearing another wonderfully bright kaftan and they struck up a conversation about it.