Stay
I’m swimming with Caleb, a Saturday morning in November. Well, I say swimming: I’m actually just floating, face-up to the sky as I scull with my fingers, staring into the vastness of another mottled dawn. The cold clings to my skin like frost to the earth, and every now and then I feel the deep, electric strike of it afresh as the water shifts around me. The water is pearl-gray, the sky dappled with brightness and cloud, like a marble lifted to the light. Occasionally, birds make a dash for clear sky above our heads—snow buntings and knot, bar-tailed godwits and sanderlings. On the beach, other waders dabble tentatively at the shoreline, as if the water’s too bitter today even for them.
But the cold’s doing a pretty good job of invigorating me. I need waking up—we were out late last night with my sister, Simon, and my parents, celebrating Simon’s recent promotion.
I couldn’t help sneaking the occasional sideways glance at Simonlast night—finding myself wondering, as he poured the wine and joked with my mum about golfing his way to that promotion, whether it’s really true that once a cheat, always a cheat.
I noticed, as my mum was laughing at something Caleb had said to her, that she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. “Where’s your ring, Mum?”
“Oh,” she said. “I’ve lost it.”
“Lostit?”
“Shh, shh. It’ll turn up.”
“But Mum... it’s yourweddingring.” I glanced over at Dad—I knew he’d be devastated.
“I know. Ssh. I’m sure it’s in the house somewhere.”
Unexpectedly, I felt my eyes cluster with tears. “Mum, you can’t lose your wedding ring. After all these years—”
“I told you, Lucy. It’s in the house, somewhere.” And then she turned back to Caleb. “Actually, no, I’ve never been to Newcastle. What’s it like?”
Beneath the table, Caleb rested a hand on my leg, just high up enough to make concentrating on my goat’s cheese starter a near-impossible task.
My parents adore Caleb. The first time they met, he spent a full two hours talking to them about their jobs and politics—their two favorite subjects in the world (and I hadn’t even briefed him beforehand). It was nearly time for us to go home before they eventually looked up and seemed to notice I was there.
Last month, Caleb and I headed to Devon, so I could meet his dad, stepmum, two older stepbrothers and their wives and kids for the first time. We stayed in a motel just outside Exeter, meeting his family at an Italian restaurant on our first night. The whole thing was very polite and civilized, with lots of passing the bread and friendly questionsabout Shoreley and my novel and my own family. But I could see what Caleb meant about feeling like something of an outsider: he was so different to everyone else around the table, with their cars and second homes and investment portfolios and opinions on the best places to play golf in Europe.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with all that,” Caleb said afterward, “but it’s just hard to feel like I have anything to add to conversations about skiing and show jumping, you know?”
—
As the weather’s got colder, we’ve tried to keep up our habit of swimming a couple of times a week, albeit in wetsuits now to deflect the worst of the cold. Still, the first minute or so is pretty hard—that initial, masochistic act of plunging a duvet-warm body into glacial water. But once I’ve adapted, and my breathing’s found its rhythm, I can stay in for around fifteen minutes, the ultimate effect of which is pretty similar to downing a couple of strong espressos. We see seals in the water some days, and if we swim after dark, one of my favorite things is looking back toward Shoreley from the water, at the town’s lights glimmering, like a cruise ship docked at night. Afterward, we cross the shingle back to the beach hut, where we shiver together under a blanket and share mugs of hot tea.
Beside me in the water now, Caleb touches my arm. “Think I’m done.”
I bob back into an upright position. “Okay.”
“I need to talk to you about something.”
I smile cautiously. “Sounds serious.”
He finds my hand beneath the water and squeezes it. “See you back at the hut?”
I nod. “Okay. Five minutes.”
—
We go back to the cottage for breakfast, because it’s so cold today that the lure of the wood burner is just too strong. Caleb chops the wood, while I make tea and a plateful of buttered toast with the loaf we picked up from the bakery yesterday.
After he’s lit the fire, I set down the toast and two mugs of steaming tea, and we sit on the sofa together, watching the flames gyrate hypnotically through the glass.
“So, what’s up?” I ask him, sipping my tea. He’s not said much since we got home, his demeanor seemingly a jumble of preoccupation.
“Helen messaged me yesterday. She’s agreeing to the divorce.”
Though my heart does a little somersault, I know this is hardly the moment for a fist pump or high-five. So I just keep my face straight and nod. “How do you feel?”
