A Wedding at the Beach Hut: The escapist and feel-good read of 2020 from the bestselling author of THE BEACH HUT

by Veronica Henry

  Robyn lay on the examining bed. ‘I’ve just realised this wasn’t the most sensible choice of outfit,’ she said, rolling down her dungarees and pulling up her top so her tummy was exposed. The sonographer tucked a paper towel into her knickers, then squirted a clear, cold gel onto her stomach.

  Robyn made a face at Jake, who was sitting on a nearby chair, feeling slightly superfluous.

  ‘I won’t show you anything until I’ve found the heartbeat,’ said the sonographer, the screen tilted away from them. She ran the probe over Robyn’s tummy, rolling and re-rolling while looking at the screen intently. Robyn concentrated on breathing and tried not to panic. Jake held his breath completely, hating the feeling of being out of control of the situation.

  It felt like hours, but it was probably only half a minute until the sonographer smiled.

  ‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Take a look. Here’s your baby.’

  There was a grey blur on the screen, indecipherable at first, but gradually an image became clearer. A little head on top of a body, lying at the bottom of the screen as if it was lolling in an invisible hammock.

  ‘Oh,’ said Robyn softly.

  Jake said nothing. He just stared, his eyes like saucers.

  ‘Here’s the head and the spine.’ The sonographer pointed them out with a little white arrow. ‘This is quite a good view. Sometimes they try and hide everything but look – there’s a hand.’

  ‘Look at those little fingers!’ breathed Robyn.

  Jake couldn’t speak.

  ‘I thought it would just be a blob,’ he managed eventually.

  ‘It’s got everything,’ said the sonographer. ‘It’s all there. I just need to get some measurements done and then we can confirm your due date.’

  ‘I reckon it should be about the fifth of November,’ said Robyn.

  ‘So we’ll have to call it Guy,’ said Jake. ‘Or Catherine.’

  ‘Or Roman.’

  Nerves were making them banter while the sonographer clicked away on her keyboard.

  ‘Yes, I reckon you’ll be setting off fireworks about then,’ she laughed. ‘Fifth of November it is.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Jake. ‘Who’s going to light the village bonfire? That’s my job.’

  ‘It’ll probably be late,’ said Robyn. ‘First babies usually are.’

  ‘Everything looks absolutely just as it should,’ the sonographer smiled. ‘We’ll see you again at twenty weeks.’

  Afterwards, Robyn shot to the loo before they made their way back along the corridors to the exit.

  ‘Fifth of November,’ Jake kept saying, and wiped a tear away with his sleeve.

  ‘You softy,’ Robyn teased.

  ‘That was our baby we just saw,’ he said. ‘A real baby.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  Just as he was about to pull himself together he burst into proper tears, putting his arms around her neck. She patted him on the back, still laughing.

  ‘I didn’t know I’d be like this,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know I cared this much.’

  ‘Well,’ said Robyn. ‘I’m glad you do.’

  ‘We’ll tell everyone tonight, right?’

  ‘Yes. I think we should tell them all together. It seems fairest. You can ring your mum afterwards.’

  ‘I’ll probably cry again.’

  ‘We could just show them this.’ Robyn held up the photograph the sonographer had given them to take away as a memento.

  Jake took it off her and stared again at the little figure. ‘You beauty,’ he said.

  Robyn traced her fingers over the limbs. ‘Hello, little one.’ Her voice quavered. ‘Oh, dear. It’s my turn now. Hormones. Sorry.’

  She laughed through her tears.

  ‘Well,’ said Jake. ‘At least we’ve got the perfect name. Whether it’s a boy or a girl.’

  ‘What?’ She looked at him, puzzled.

  ‘Sandy,’ he laughed, and she gave him a nudge on the arm, blushing at the memory of a crisp cold night on the beach staring at the stars under a fleecy blanket, one too many shots of Baileys in their flask of hot chocolate. And sand everywhere. The two of them were still laughing when they reached the truck, earning smiles from passers-by, for who couldn’t smile at two young people in love?

  3

  The recreation area at the Mariscombe Hotel was a scene of organised chaos, workmen running hither and thither in a choreographed dance of wheelbarrows, a radio blaring as they dug and tiled and laid bricks. Getting the contract to do the renovation had been a massive achievement for Jake and Robyn. All the painstaking hard work they’d put into smaller projects had paid off, and their reputation was going before them. The hotel was in the next bay along from Everdene and was the biggest in the area: once a rundown family hotel, it was now a glamorous seaside playground that provided a lot of local employment.

  The brief from the owner, Bruno Thorne, had been to create an Ibiza vibe around the hotel’s outdoor swimming pool. White concrete and turquoise tiles, teak sunbeds and parasols, built-in cocktail bars and a row of thatched cabanas for changing; everything interspersed with sculptural palms and tropical plants. It was a challenging project but hugely exciting. They’d won the bid despite stiff competition from other much bigger companies, and it was a real step forward.

  Robyn and Jake had joined forces after bumping into each other on several jobs a few years ago. They were both freelance landscape gardeners, but Jake was the ‘hard’ side – digging, slabbing, fencing, decking – while Robyn was the ‘soft’ side, the plantswoman, and gradually people started recommending them as a pair.

  ‘You two should go into business together,’ a client told them after inviting them round for a drink to admire their joint effort. ‘You’d be unstoppable.’

  As they’d looked out over the tiered terrace, planted up with drifts of lavender that scented the evening air, they had to admit it made sense. They could coordinate projects more cost-effectively and share expenses. Jake was always behind on admin and didn’t get around to chasing-up enquiries; Robyn often needed to hire in an extra pair of hands for the heavier jobs. They went on for a drink at the Ship Aground afterwards and sealed the deal over a plate of loaded chips – thick and triple-cooked then smothered in melted cheddar, sour cream, spring onions, jalapeños and salty lardons. It was the pub’s signature dish and no one could eat a portion on their own.

  At first, they were just business partners, and they made the perfect team, gradually learning from each other: Robyn taking on board the practical implications of what was possible and how to make it cost-effective, and Jake beginning to be more understanding of plants and flowers and how they could be integrated at the planning stage rather than plonked in afterwards.

  Now they were hugely in demand. More and more people in the area were taking on renovation projects, and hotels and restaurants were having to keep up with the Instagram age. Raised beds stuffed with alliums and agapanthus; fairy-lit pergolas; zen-like water features; playful topiary; outdoor kitchens with fire-pits ablaze – whatever your garden dream, they could bring it to life.

  Jake was brilliant at translating what people had in their heads – or had seen on Pinterest – into something achievable, and had the practical skills to copy anything clients showed him; and Robyn was a genius at creating drama and atmosphere with plants. They were good at pricing, too – they brought the jobs in on budget but with plenty of profit for themselves by doing most of the work between them and taking on a couple of youngsters they were training up. They worked hard, kept the lines of communication open between themselves and their clients, and were quick to make suggestions that would expedite the project.

  At first, they had both been seeing other people, but as the weeks turned into months, they found they were spending more and more time together outside work: a quick six o’clock drink, a couple of
working lunches to brainstorm. Robyn invited Jake and his girlfriend to dinner at her flat in Tawcombe, and her own date had been sulky at the end of the evening.

  ‘You two did nothing but talk shop,’ he complained, and after that he dialled it down before telling her it wasn’t working. She didn’t protest. Then Jake told her his girlfriend was moving up country and he didn’t think they were going to carry on seeing each other.

  Once they were both unencumbered, they felt slightly awkward. Robyn suspected that had they not been business partners, it would have been easy for them to express their attraction, but instead they were rather coy, both scuttling away at the end of the day, scared of making the first move in case it ruined their working relationship.

  To hell with it, she thought the day she had found herself gazing at the strip of brown skin between the top of his cargo pants and the bottom of his polo shirt as he bent over. I’m going to have to take things up a gear.

  And she’d asked him over for dinner. On his own.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to kiss you,’ said Jake later that evening, ‘since you strode onto my site in your shorts and wellies and told me I was laying the path all wrong.’

  ‘You were,’ she said. ‘It was supposed to be herringbone.’

  He lifted his hands and buried his fingers in her hair either side of her neck, his strong fingers caressing the back of her scalp. Robyn tipped back her head and shut her eyes. She’d been longing to be touched by him for so long.

  That had been nearly four years ago. We’ve come a long way since then, thought Robyn, as their pick-up swept in through the hotel gates and rumbled through the grounds to the pool. She looked at their sign perched at the site entrance – The Moss Partnership. Jake hadn’t minded them using just her surname. It was perfect, and he had no ego.

  Robyn picked up the bag containing her work gear – boots and gloves and a hard hat.

  ‘I’ll see you in about an hour,’ said Jake. ‘I’m going to the builder’s merchant to pick up some gabions.’

  Robyn frowned. ‘Won’t they deliver?’

  ‘I need them today. I want to get started putting them in. If I can get them in place by the middle of next week, we’re nearly done.’

  ‘Except for the planting and the painting and the snagging and getting all the furniture in.’

  He grinned. ‘Like I said, nearly done.’

  ‘Two weeks, do you reckon?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Robyn clenched her fists in triumph. Then they could take pictures for their website and hopefully more contracts would come in off the back of it. And they’d get paid, which meant they could move the Linhay on. The baby had given them something of a deadline, after all.

  She scrambled out of the truck and slammed the door, banging her goodbye on the window.

  Jake watched her go for a moment, a lump in his throat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, but he’d done it three times today. He turned the truck round and drove out of the grounds. He wasn’t going to collect gabions at all. Not yet, anyway. He needed to clear his head. He felt overwhelmed. Until today he’d only had Robyn’s word for it that they were having a baby. Not that he disbelieved her but it had been a bit theoretical. A blue line on a white stick meant nothing to him, but a collection of limbs on a screen were living proof. It crystallised so many things for him. How much he loved Robyn. How excited he was about the house they were building together. How happy he was about everything they had in Everdene, not least their two families. They were going to tell them all tonight.

  Every Friday once the weather got finer they all gathered at the Shedquarters in the late afternoon. Jake’s dad Rocky got the barbecue going early on and everyone brought along contributions. It was a great way to start the weekend, everyone talking over what they’d got up to during the week, getting a chance to unwind, have something to eat and drink together. And if anyone wanted to carry on and go out afterwards they were usually all done by eight o’clock. Robyn’s younger sister Clover and his brother Ethan would go off to the Ship Aground, where there was usually a band on.

  There was only one slight problem. Tina. His mum. She was miles away, up in Enfield. She’d gone back there after she and their dad had split when he and his brother were teenagers. Should he tell her before or after his dad that she was going to be a grandmother? She was his mum, after all, even if she had abandoned them, though strictly speaking it had been him and Ethan who had chosen not to go back with her. It was still hard, even now, being the child of divorced parents, trying to keep everyone happy and do the right thing. Sometimes it seemed impossible.

  He wasn’t going to let anxiety about his mother ruin the day.

  He had something else to do first. Something had hit him inside that darkened room, and he was going to do something about it straight away. And he knew just the person who could help him.

  He headed off into Tawcombe, the small town just a few miles from Everdene. It was a town of many sides. Its harbour was small and buzzy and had undergone a renaissance in the past few years, lined with bijoux restaurants and boutiques and gift shops that had once lain empty. Further into the town were the tacky tourist shops selling keyrings and postcards and paninis and ice cream, interspersed with arcades and pottery-painting cafés for rainy days. And right in the heart of the town were the greengrocers and the key-cutters and the sprawling old pubs that served the residents: the people who were still here out of season and struggled to make a living when the tourists vanished.

  He wound his way through the back streets just off the harbour to Artist’s Row, where there was a wiggly line of picture galleries and workshops. He pulled up outside a small shop painted dusky blue with gold writing. Inside he could see just the person he wanted. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  ‘Marley!’ He greeted his old friend. ‘I need your help.’

  She turned to him. She looked as beautiful as ever, with her trailing white-gold hair and pale-green eyes. She smelled of tangerines and salt. She’d smelled the same as long as he’d known her, the first person who had spoken to him when he’d arrived at the sixth-form college in Tawcombe, an uncertain boy with a London accent, though he had soon realised he was never going to be of interest to her.

  ‘It’s about time.’ She looked at him archly, her eyebrows raised. ‘It’s taken you long enough. I was starting to think you might have gone to someone else.’

  4

  Plump local mackerel slashed and coated in rose harissa. Chunks of Exmoor lamb skewered with red onion and peppers and button mushrooms. Slices of aubergine and courgette cut lengthways, marinating in sesame oil and garlic and ginger. And some halloumi and baby new potatoes in their skins.

  It was all laid out neatly in tins, ready to be put over the flames.

  Rocky Young took his barbecuing very seriously. He tried not to be a control freak, because he knew that was unattractive. But he loved the preparations and the careful timing, the science of it all. And because he was always the first one there on a Friday night, and the Shedquarters belonged to him, and therefore so did the barbecue, he thought he got away with it.

  Today, he had gone for easy options because his concentration was slightly off, even though he was trying to play it cool. Nevertheless, every now and then he had a moment of panic. There was still time to cancel. People must get cold feet all the time. He could easily make up an excuse. But that was the coward’s way out. How would he know, if he didn’t try?

  He hadn’t told anyone yet about his date later that evening. If there was one thing he hated, it was gossip. People had stopped asking, but not wondering, why Rocky Young was still single after his divorce fifteen years ago. It was one of Everdene’s greatest mysteries. There were rumours of older married mistresses and girls too young for him, and even men.

  None of the rumours was true. He’d had the odd fling, usually when he w
as off his home turf, but Rocky simply hadn’t had the heart for another relationship after the breakdown of his marriage. He blamed himself, and it had shaken him. When you married your childhood sweetheart, and did everything you could to keep her and your resulting family happy, it was a kick in the teeth when it all went wrong.

  Being single had just seemed easier. You couldn’t let anyone down then.

  He didn’t know what had made him feel now was the right time. Perhaps he was feeling his empty nest more keenly than he realised? After being pretty much a single dad to the two boys for so long, his younger son Ethan had moved out a couple of months ago to a houseshare. It was about time, as Ethan was twenty-six, and nothing would have made Rocky stop him, but it was odd to have the house entirely to himself. Jake had moved out five years before, and Rocky had felt a leap of hope when he’d left his rented flat recently, but Jake had opted to camp out at the Shedquarters.

  ‘It just feels wrong, moving back in with your dad at thirty,’ he explained, and Rocky had to stop himself from begging.

  Small and snug though his coastguard’s cottage was, it now felt cavernous. He could feel its emptiness when he woke up in the morning. No sound of someone else in the shower. No one else’s shoes to trip over, or their music pounding up through the floorboards – what had once been an annoyance was now an echoing silence. Even though he had a job that brought him into contact with people all day long, even though he was a fixture at the Ship Aground and had endless mates to go surfing and fishing with, he felt lost.

  He needed a partner in crime. Someone to discuss the weather with when he got up – as a builder, it was key to his day. Someone to debate what to do with the leftovers in the fridge: chuck them, or liven them up with a bit of chilli and some garlic? Someone to confess his dread of an upcoming dentist appointment. Someone to bring him a beer when he’d mowed the lawn. Someone he could ask to pick up a spare loo roll on their way home.