“Yes, but I wanted others. Of the pier and the water. Quaint English seaside photos. You know? Romantic and cozy. I was trying to build a perfect, quaint British seaside aesthetic, and now I’m just a pile of bird shit.”
“We can still do that,” he says, looking genuinely sorry for me. He pats his pockets and then tuts. “Shit, I must have dropped my phone. I’ll just run back down the pier and get it. Wait here.”
But while I am watching him dash back to get his phone, I feel an overwhelming shame at the ridiculousness of it all. At the ridiculousness of me. I feel embarrassed. And like a fool. And suddenly it is all too humiliating, and I want to be home in my room.
I seize the moment to escape back to the house. I will wee out the bedroom window if I have to, just to avoid him. Typical. I put myself out there, even just a little, and the world literally shits on me. This is why I don’t want to go back for my mother’s sixtieth. I open the browser on my phone, hastily checking three different sites for my star sign. Desperate for some reassurance—for a virtual, spiritual, soothing arm around my shoulders telling me I’m doing the right thing. And after a few different sites, I find the reading I need:
Some days it feels like you can’t move forward. Your ability to adapt and get things done is what will get you over the line, Sagittarius. You have time. Just steer the course and the rewards will be worth it.
An hour later I hear the front door open, and after fifteen minutes of creaking floorboards, as he moves around the house, I get a message from Ash.
Don’t be embarrassed. Happens to tourists all summer long. I got you some snaps. You look great.
Twenty-four snaps, to be exact. Of the pier, an ice cream cone, the sand, a dog running along the waterfront. The candy-cane beach huts, all in a row. A guilty-looking seagull atop the pier railings with a chip in its mouth. And then me.
Me looking shyly at the camera, the golden sunlight catching the honey color of my eyes. It isn’t quite the wistful off-duty artist look I’d hoped for, but it is very nice. Pretty, even. I upload it to Instagram, apply a light filter, and inspect it. I look good. I make it my profile picture, too, and my latest post. It feels like a first, tentative step toward the new me, and I like it.
A moment later there is aping. A notification. My heart picks up. Someone has liked it already.
And it’s Ash.
9
The canteen areahas been transformed for a meeting between the council and the lido members. Gerry and a couple of stiff suits are ready to talk to a group of about twenty locals, who are seated sparingly across the clearly ambitious fifty-odd seats I’d helped lay out.
While I wait for the latecomers to sit, I look down at my phone.
Joe has posted a photo of a violin in a velvet case, and when I swipe left, the other is a photo of his back as he looks out over a huge garden. The caption is in German and is brief, as is his style. Sometimes he only writes a single word, likeHallo.
“Hello to you, my handsome future husband,” I whisper. “Oh, I know Charlie doesn’t believe it, but just wait until we’re double-dating at some fancy restaurant, and Joe is charming and secretly gets the bill.” I grin at the thought. Last night at home, Ashasked me about Joe, somewhat out of the blue as he was making tea.
“When do you think we’ll meet him, then?” he asked, squeezing the bag out with a teaspoon and dropping it into the compost.
“He’s touring,” I replied, a bit ashamed, as I pretended to be distracted by Netflix film listings. “So, um, late summer.”
“Well. Nothing like a bit of delayed gratification,” he replied.
I disliked the duplicitousness of it, but Ash didn’t flinch, handing me a cup of tea, exactly as I liked it, and heading back to his room to do whatever it was he did in there all night. Joe had to come. He would come.
I scroll back over the dozens of photos I already know by heart. There are only twelve that are of him in his entire feed; all of them are gorgeous.
Could I comment on his post? Would it be weird? If he saw a like from someone called Mara, would it reinforce the fortune-telling? Help gently push this whole thing along? Or would that be a step too far in tinkering with fate? While I’m musing the pros and cons of interacting with him, my phone buzzes with a message from Charlie.
When can we catch up again? I’ve been feeling bad about your last visit. I was so tired and feeling unwell.?
She must be alluding to her yet-to-be-disclosed pregnancy. I’m sure of it. It’s the only explanation for the not drinking at her house that day, and I’ve been wondering if it’s the real reason she pulled out of our trip to Budapest. I wish she would just tell me so we didn’t have to do this dance.
It’s fine! I’m all drama! I really shouldn’t leave the house! Which is why you should come and visit?
I wait for her to read the message and then see she’s typing a reply. But the reply never comes.
“What a warm welcome,” says Gerry to very minimal scattered applause, two throaty coughs, and an ancient Nokia ringtone from an old dear in a floral swimming cap.
“I think that’s you, Mildred,” Gerry says, as she fumbles with the phone. “Hot date?” To this Gerry snort-laughs and then looks sideways to make sure everyone else is in on his joke. They are not. There is another cough. Good God, this is painful.
“As you may or may not know, the lido has the attention of developers,” he begins.
I look straightaway to Lynn, whose eyes have dropped to the floor. She looks pained as she fiddles with the lapel of her navy blazer, her finger stroking theDon’t Worry Be Happybadge.Developers already?No, I did not know that. Gerry was supposed to be applying for grants for improvements. I shuffle closer to her and whisper, “Did he just say this place is being sold to developers?”
