I growl. Lying in bed isn’t getting me any closer to sleep. I may as well not bother.
A few minutes later, I’m in a black sundress and some flip flops, grabbing my keys to head out for a late night stroll to clear my head. At times like this, being alone next to something as vast and powerful as the ocean is the only thing that recalibrates me by reminding me how small I am in the grand scheme of things. How insignificant.
Certainly not the centre of anyone’s world, and their heart’s biggest wish.
Foxton-on-Sea is a tourist trap for a reason. Vast, clean beaches, gorgeous and colourful architecture, one of the largest conservation aquariums in the country, and an unrivalled pier with arcades and rollercoasters aplenty. But it’s easy to forgetthat, under the glitz and the tourism friendly holiday lets and shops, it’s home to so many. My family moved here when I was seven, and I can’t remember living anywhere else because nowhere else compares. As I walk across the front, listening to the roar of the waves and smelling the still, salty air, I know in my bones that I will never live anywhere else. I will spend all my days here, and when I die my remains will be scattered off the pier like so many others. And I’m happy with that.
This nighttime stroll in my comfortable home town is my only chance to be able to think clearly again so I can make a sensible and smart decision instead of one guided entirely by the contents of my knickers. My vag seems perfectly content to throw all our years of friendship into the sea so she can get on…what did I call it that time when I was drunk as a skunk? ‘The Leo Mills Wonderdick’, or something stupid like that. But he means too much to me to let her just do that without thinking it through.
My brain has a one track mind, because I’m walking to Angus and Lucinda’s bench before I’m aware I’m heading there. It’s an uphill journey, and that, with the stone steps, has me winded and sweating in the balmy night air.
But when I get there, someone’s already sitting in our seat.
Rats.
It’s a man, lean and angular, with hawk-like features and messy auburn hair. He has what would be called ‘resting bitch face’ on a woman as he stares out at the sea like it slapped his mother. I take a step backwards, wondering where to go instead, when he turns and looks at me. His expression lightens, and he stands. “Sorry. Didn’t expect anyone to come here at this time of night.” He has a wonderful Scottish burr.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, “it’s…well, it’s everyone’s seat.”
He offers me a tentative smile. “True, and that being the case…feel free to join me on it?”
He seems pleasant enough, and if he ends up being a creep, I feel confident I have enough krav maga training to be able to deal with him.
“OK.” We sit at opposite ends of the bench, both of us gazing out at the waves crashing against the barriers, both of us with folded arms as an awkward silence dances between us.
“Is this your ‘place to think’, too?” he murmurs finally.
One corner of my mouth pulls up. “It’s certainly becoming it.”
“Mine too. Something about that plaque just speaks to me. ‘Lucinda and Angus’. I wonder who they were, and what they were like?”
I smile to myself. I’m going to keep their secret.
“I bet you anything they’d get a kick out of this,” I observe. “People using their bench to think about life and get their heads on straight.”
He turns to me. “Want to talk about it?”
I think for a long moment. Talking to a stranger, someone who doesn’t know me or Leo and so doesn’t have a vested interest in the outcome, is irresistible. And yet… “I hardly know where to begin.”
“That’s alright. I’ve got nowhere else to be.” His face, so sharp when I first saw him, is now warmer. Kinder.
I narrow my eyes. “Nor have I, so feel free to spillyourguts, as well.”
He considers it, and then nods. “Deal.”
I gently laugh. “Guess we could both use a stranger’s perspective.”
“Which reminds me,” he says, holding out his hand for me to shake, “where are my manners. David.”
I take it. “Sadie.”
“OK, Sadie, do you want to go first, or shall I?”
I study his face. He has this strange mix of stoicism and a sense of being…lost. Adrift. His eyes are tired, and his mouth is tight. This is a man who needs to offload. “You go.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” he says, a wry twist to his mouth as he looks out over the sea again. There’s the faintest breeze, and it feels wonderful against my still clammy face. He thinks a bit, and then sighs. “Her name is Hannah.”
“Ah.” We’re both kindred spirits, then. Both preoccupied with specific people.
