‘People have baggage, Dad,’ said Ethan. ‘Even at my age. So imagine how much they’ve got at yours.’
‘Thanks,’ Rocky said wryly. But Ethan was right. You didn’t get to middle age unscathed, unless you’d been in a nunnery, and Melissa definitely didn’t look as if she’d taken her vows.
Although maybe that was it? Maybe she was a lapsed nun and this had been her first outing and she’d lost her nerve?
Rocky laughed to himself, because you had to. He contemplated Sister Melissa’s message. Should he just delete it? He didn’t think he was up to reading whatever she had to say after what she had done. Maybe it would be a list of complaints? Was he too old? Too fat? Too rough round the edges?
He frowned. What was the matter with him? Why was he being so paranoid? He was none of those things. His boys were right: if she didn’t like him, that was her problem.
It was all so pressurised, this internet dating. If you were single, you felt a duty to be online and looking, offering yourself up to complete strangers whose idea of how to behave could be so different from yours. He longed for the old days, when meeting people was something you did naturally, catching someone’s eye, chatting them up if they took your fancy. It had all seemed much simpler then. And it had worked. People had been getting together for centuries without the intervention of an app.
He had decided he was going to take himself out of the game. If something happened naturally, it happened. In the meantime, he wasn’t going to put himself under pressure checking for matches, waiting for responses. Wondering whether to meet.
He couldn’t quite bring himself to delete Melissa’s message, though. He was curious. And he’d quite liked her – for all of the five minutes he’d had to speak to her.
So he opened it.
Hey Rocky. I just want to apologise for my behaviour on Friday. It was my first date and I was so nervous. And you being so gorgeous made me even more nervous. I guess I’m not as tough as I think. Anyway, if you want to meet up for a second attempt, I promise not to do a runner. Though I totally understand if you don’t want to. Melissa x
Rocky sat on the beach hut steps and read her words again. He found himself smiling. There wasn’t anything wrong with him. She thought he was gorgeous. And she must have been tied up in knots to be so worried.
He went to reply and reassure her. But then he imagined Ethan’s voice.
‘Let her stew a bit, Dad. Give her a taste of her own medicine. She gave you a bit of a knock. Don’t go running. Play it cool.’
They were hardened to it, Ethan and his mates. It was easy come, easy go. It was a process, not an ordeal. One strike and you’re out.
But Rocky was a gentleman. It must have taken a lot of courage for Melissa to apologise. She was opening herself up to possible rejection yet again. He didn’t want to make her suffer. He wasn’t that kind of guy.
He wouldn’t look too keen, though. He’d play it cool. Kind but distant. That was the tactic he’d take. A compromise.
Hey Melissa. It’s all good. I was nervous too. I’m tied up at the moment getting ready for my son’s wedding, but maybe we could go for a walk along the coast sometime. Rocky
He thought that was politely reassuring without being too eager. He didn’t have to wait too long for a reply.
Thank you. That would be lovely. M
He hoped his message had stopped her feeling bad about herself.
He never wanted anyone to feel bad. Even when they did terrible, terrible things, Rocky never wanted anyone to feel bad.
Maybe it was time for him to stop worrying about everyone else and put himself first?
22
Two years ago, Gwen had, after many years of Luddite resistance, finally succumbed to an iPad.
‘A diary and a notebook is all I need,’ she had protested, but Robyn had taken her to buy one (together with a pistachio-green leather case, which Gwen was far more interested in) and had set everything up. She got her an email address, and then showed her all the different apps that might be useful. And now it was Gwen’s right arm. She couldn’t believe how much easier life was. She could pay all her bills, order whatever she wanted to come straight to the door. And as for eBay! She was an addict. She could have her eye on several things at once and nip off to put on a bid. And she’d sold a lot of her clutter for good money.
It was going to be her saving grace over the next few weeks, she realised, as she sat down and began to plan Robyn and Jake’s wedding, starting a spreadsheet and a Pinterest board.
If there was one thing a wedding should be, it was true to the bride and groom. So many couples booked places that had no real connection to them and were just an attempt to impress: swanky hotels and stately homes that were a façade. But the beach hut was Jake and Robyn through and through. It was nestled at the bottom of the dunes, backed by swathes of marram grass, with the curve of the bay in front of it, sparkling pink sand and, of course, the drama of the waves. As a wedding location, it was a gift. Gwen’s fingers twitched with excitement as she began to put down her ideas.
Although the setting would have its own logistical problems. There would be no proper kitchen and not much power, and it was a long way to lug things, along the coast path, down the dunes and over the sand.
So the challenge was to organise something breathtakingly beautiful but simple, with easy food that didn’t need tending to. Gwen wanted it to be in keeping with Robyn and Jake’s ethos, too – the way they worked with landscape and nature. But it had to be fun. A few witty little touches to make people smile, without being twee.
And all without costing a fortune.
She began a list of ideas to kick-start her inspiration.
Picnic baskets
Stripy rugs/deckchairs
Sea holly/thistles
Upturned boat?!!
Driftwood
Storm lanterns
Hessian
It was all about texture and colour and layering and scent and taste all working together. She would need a couple of gazebos, for extra shade and shelter, and some trestle tables, but she was pretty sure she could get them from a local village hall or scout troop. Gwen wasn’t shy about asking for what she wanted. She was adept at begging and borrowing.
She soon found herself down a rabbit hole of seahorses and starfish; anchors and lifebuoys. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to get carried away. She smiled to herself, imagining a pirate ship swooping along the bay to take the happy couple off at the end of the evening. She had never lacked imagination, only restraint.
She stopped for a moment, leaned back in her chair, took a sip of wine. She was conscious, though, that the wine might lower her guard. Already the memories were swooping in. It was, she supposed, ironic that she had appointed herself wedding planner, having tried so very hard to avoid weddings most of her adult life. She was a modern-day Miss Havisham.
She could remember it as if it was yesterday. Standing on the stone steps of the Chelsea registry office, scanning the King’s Road for his car and shivering in her lace minidress. She was the absolute height of fashion, right down to her floppy hat, gamine crop and false eyelashes. People even stopped to take photographs of the young bride, wondering if it was a magazine shoot. She had to laugh at that.
That was how they’d met. She was modelling for an ice-cream advert, and Terry was the photographer’s assistant. He had to bring her ice cream after ice cream from the freezer, as they were melting so quickly under the lights. By the end of the shoot she felt quite sick from licking endless lollies in her bikini, trying to look as if she was having a heavenly day out on the beach.
She remembered Terry wiping a drop of melted ice cream from her collarbone with his finger, his eyes not leaving hers.
‘Oi,’ shouted the photographer. ‘Stop handling the merchandise.’
He had loitered after the shoot until she’d got
dressed, then asked her to the pub. Two weeks later they were in love; two months and they were engaged. She booked the wedding, bought the dress and borrowed a Mini Clubman off a friend so they could drive to Brighton for a quick honeymoon: he could only get a few days off work.
After an hour and a quarter, it had been obvious he wasn’t going to turn up. It couldn’t just be a hangover or a flat tyre. Beautiful, bad, quixotic Terry must have decided that getting married was not such a good idea.
No one had made her feel like he did since. He had been drunk when he proposed, but then he always was, even when he worked, and it never seemed to stop him doing or getting what he wanted. She had believed the sincerity in his eyes. His declaration of undying love. His insistence that they belonged together, forever.
No doubt some other girl had caught his eye the night before the wedding and reminded him that marriage was a trap. That the pick-and-mix of Chelsea girls would no longer be available for him to choose from. As the clock struck twelve, she went inside to tell the registrar that it wasn’t going ahead, and threw her bouquet of white lilies in the bin.
She had been marriage-averse ever since. The dress was still hanging in her wardrobe, reminding her not to be drawn in by bedroom eyes and silver tongues. Not that she had been a nun, but she knew to press the eject button early on in a relationship. She was never going to let someone else take control of her emotions the way Terry had.
And actually, her philosophy had served her well. Her life had been rich and full. Her romantic relationships might have never come to anything, but it was always her choice and by contrast her friendships were deep and enduring and meaningful. And many. In fact, she felt that being unencumbered meant she had more time to devote to her friends. There was no one making demands on her time or questioning her whereabouts. She felt sure she was a nicer person for it. She was free to roam the world, and roam she had.
And Tawcombe was the perfect place to exercise that freedom. There weren’t many places she would be able to afford a Georgian flat with floor-to-ceiling windows and a harbour view. And now, with the greatest of ease, thanks to the Airbnb app on her iPad, she could rent it out when she went away, thereby paying for her adventures without having to lift a finger.
She wasn’t going to let her aversion to the institution of marriage cast a cloud over Robyn and Jake’s wedding, though. It might not be for her, but she knew in her heart and her gut that they were right for each other. They each had strength of character and self-esteem in spades, and the grace to give each other the space to be themselves. Their relationship was balanced. They had strong family behind them. They would have a happy life together, she felt sure.
And she was determined that even though they wanted a low-key wedding, it would be a memorable one.
Her eyes wandered back to the search bar. It was always there, the blank space, the siren call of the search engine, waiting to be filled in. How could his memory still affect her, after more than fifty years? Why hadn’t it faded, along with her penchant for pale pink lipstick and white kinky boots?
Thankfully nowadays, it was only ever a fleeting feeling. She could squash it down and make it go away by thinking about other things, other people. She had learned not to use alcohol to suppress it, because that ended in damp pillows and nausea. Drink was much better used for happiness and celebration, or simple relaxation, like today, but you had to be careful not to let the memories winkle their way in.
She stood up and walked over to the window. Looking out at the view always calmed her. It was why she had moved here, for there was always something to look at that gave her hope. After a long winter the harbour was slowly coming to life. The boats were being put back in the water. The gulls were circling, keenly eyeing up the chip shop and the ice-cream parlour.
Beyond the harbour was the ocean, the waves rising and falling in a hypnotic dance, a symphony of blue and grey and green that could change colour and tempo in an instant, on the whim of the weather. It was never the same, not for one moment, and that was what Gwen loved about it. It was as changeable and capricious as her own moods. It was funny, she thought, she loved the sea so much, but she rarely went on it or in it. Was it fear, or respect? Or for the simple, practical reason that she didn’t care for getting wet?
She felt the nostalgic needling of earlier fade away as she breathed in the salt coming in gusts off the sea. As she turned to go back inside, she heard music further up the promenade. A battered old Porsche was making its away along the front, Van Morrison blaring. In the driving seat was a man with a head of thick silver hair and Ray-Ban aviators, singing along.
Midlife-crisis car, she thought. Midlife-crisis sunglasses. She watched as he mounted the pavement right underneath her window, completely ignoring the double yellows.
‘Hey,’ she called down, pointing at the painted lines as he jumped out of his car. ‘They’ll whack you with a fine.’
She’d seen endless people come back to find a ticket under the windscreen wiper.
He looked up at her, squinting. ‘I’m unloading,’ he said, just as a transit van rolled up and parked behind him.
‘I wouldn’t risk it,’ murmured Gwen, but she wasn’t going to interfere.
The new arrival was in jeans, a crumpled linen jacket and suede brogues. Gwen squinted for a closer look while pretending not to. He had an air of confidence underwritten with the kind of charm that would win over a traffic warden. She leaned further over her balcony and realised, as he approached her own front door with a key, that he was moving into the flat below. A new neighbour. She smiled. The flat had been empty for ages. The bloke in Robyn’s old flat above was hardly ever around. A new tenant might liven things up.
She watched for a few minutes as he and the van driver started unloading furniture. There wasn’t a great deal. An impressively battered and cracked leather sofa, a dozen cardboard boxes, several large paintings wrapped in brown paper, a desk that looked as if it could be vintage Bauhaus – Gwen had a very appraising eye and she was optimistic that this was a man of style and taste.
And of course, she was intrigued. How had he washed up here? And was there anyone with him? A wife, or indeed a husband? It was hard to tell.
After just half an hour everything had been unloaded and she watched as he paid the van driver and waved his thanks, then put the hood up on his car and moved it to the car park at the end of the promenade. He wandered back along the harbour wall, hands in his pockets, and stopped to look back out to sea. Perhaps he was wondering if he had made the right decision? Gwen could remember doing the same when she moved here. You got a lot for your money in Tawcombe, and the harbour was the best address in town, but it was a long way from anywhere.
He turned and hurried back over the road to his new front door. Now he had taken his sunglasses off she could see he wasn’t midlife at all. Much nearer to her age, probably. Late sixties? He disappeared beneath her. She went back to the iPad and carried on researching ideas.
At six o’clock, she ruffled up her hair, put on some mascara and lipstick and a squirt of Mitsuoko, then headed down the communal stairs leaving her door on the latch. She rapped on the ground-floor flat door.
She smiled as it was flung open.
‘Yep?’ he said, brusque and unwelcoming. He’d taken off his jacket and the T-shirt underneath showed patches of sweat under the arms. He had a rugged handsomeness: it was clear he had lived. His haircut was good – there were expert layers in that shock of silver. He was stocky, but not overweight – probably not as lean as he had been as a young man, but there was no beer belly overhanging the waistband of his jeans.
All in all, she thought, he had potential, especially as she could hear John Coltrane echoing around the empty walls. Good clothes, good furniture, good music.
She pointed upstairs.
‘I’m your upstairs neighbour. Gwen.’ She smiled. ‘If the sun was out I’m sure it would
be over the yard-arm so I wondered if you’d like a drink? To say welcome.’
He frowned. ‘Uhhh, thanks, but no,’ he said, curt. ‘I’ve got rather a lot of unpacking to do.’ He went to shut the door, then seemed to realise how rude he was being. ‘I’m Boyd. Thank you for the invitation. Another time, maybe.’
He flashed a smile then shut the door.
‘Oh,’ said Gwen, nonplussed. She’d known some rude people in her time, but that was spectacular. Quite the brush off.
She shrugged and went back up the stairs. She’d have a gin and tonic on the balcony to make up for the disappointment. For if Gwen was good at anything, it was consoling herself when things didn’t go as expected.
23
It was Friday evening and Emily Silver was looking forward to the end of a long week. Back-to-back appointments and a long day at a couple of the schools she taught at and preparation for a weekend workshop she was giving. She was looking forward to the weekend. A takeaway curry tonight, perhaps. She was pretty sure all there was in the fridge was a couple of old parsnips and some Greek yoghurt. They could go to the market tomorrow and stock up. Maybe she’d spend Sunday cooking some things to put in the freezer.
Emily smiled at herself. She always planned to do that but never had. Once, she’d made a double batch of Bolognese and put a portion in the freezer, but that was about two years ago. She wasn’t destined to be that organised on the domestic front. There were more interesting things to do with their time at the weekend. Like kite-flying. Or going to see the new Marvel movie. Or riding their bikes along the canal and stopping at the pub for cider.
The hill seemed endless but that was the price of living in Bath. It was worth it for the view from the top of the house. A tiny house, but property was expensive here. Her goal was for them to move to somewhere big enough for her to have a consulting room. What she saved on renting her premises could be put towards the mortgage.
Emily’s practice was really taking off now. It had been hard when they first moved to Bath, building up from scratch, but as her reputation spread her appointment book was filling up, and more and more schools were turning to her for help with their performance pupils: actors and musicians. And she’d just agreed to start at a nearby theatre school in the autumn. Her kind calmness was infectious and helped people understand the Alexander technique. She had amazing results and had turned people’s lives around. People with chronic pain and stress symptoms. Nothing was more rewarding than making a difference. Every day she thanked Olivia Bembridge for inspiring her to train.
A Wedding at the Beach Hut: The escapist and feel-good read of 2020 from the bestselling author of THE BEACH HUT Page 14
