‘You’re just hot as fuck,’ Danny laughed and hoisted her up on his back. He piggybacked a screaming Vic over the stony beach. When he threatened to throw her in the ocean, she kicked off her shoes and squealed as the icy water hit her toes. He went to steady her as she wobbled and then, without warning, he leant in, and their lips met in a short but tender kiss.
When they broke apart, he looked stricken. ‘I’m sorry, Vic. It kind of just…’
Victoria looked right into his eyes. ‘I’m not.’ She grabbed him back towards her and found his lips again. Their eyes remained open, fixated on each other with a fierce hunger for whatever lay ahead. A drunk and stoned collision ofbodies driven by lust; an exploration of physical desires unencumbered by the weight of emotional entanglements.
A lone seagull screeched above.
Rudely awoken by her bladder, Vic began to recollect the goings on of the night before and groaned softly. She was thankful the en-suite light was on so that she could easily gather her clothes from the floor of Danny’s stylish apartment and hastily dress in there. Not knowing what one-night-stand etiquette was these days, she was just searching in her bag for a pen to leave a note for him when he stirred.
‘Hey.’ He smiled.
‘Hey.’ Vic smiled tentatively back.
‘Doing a runner, were you? I don’t blame you. I have terrible morning breath.’
‘It’s just…’ Vic sighed.
‘It’s OK,’ Danny replied sleepily. ‘I really do hope you work everything out, and I mean that.’
‘You too,’ Vic whispered, a whole gamut of emotions swirling through her.
‘And do pop to my gallery if you ever find yourself in Brighton again.’
Vic picked up her bag. ‘I’m not sure, I…’
‘Only regret the things you don’t do in this life, Vic. Be kind to yourself, eh?’
Blowing him a kiss, Vic made her way down the stairs that she couldn’t even remember climbing just hours before. Thankfully it was early and, hoping the streets would be empty, she stepped out onto the street. Mortified to be greeted not only by a chilly breeze, which sent her thin silver dress whooshing up over her thighs, but also the beeping and cheering from two builders in the cab of a white van, she did a deep curtsy and stuck two fingers up atthem.
Vic suddenly felt desperate for the toilet. This walk of shame, right along the front of Brighton’s promenade, was going to be not only cold but long. With a pounding head and feeling sicker by the minute for having cheated on Nate – and with the lesser worry that the girls might have forgotten to get her jacket from the nightclub cloakroom – she began to strut as fast as her strappy heels would allow her.
Taking in the pier and the grey, angry-looking sea, she thought not only what a magnificent painting it would make, but also that her familiar memories of Brighton and its landmarks would now most definitely bear a different weight. Namely, getting off her face and having the most amazing sex with a handsome artist called Danny Miller.
She was approaching the road that led down to their hotel when the sound of laughter and excitable chatter reached her ears. She was about to put her head down and march on past when she noticed that there, sitting outside the twenty-four-hour café, wearing their thick winter coats and being kept warm by the outdoor heaters, were Orla and Mandy, stuffing their faces with full English breakfasts.
‘Well, well. Looks like someone had quite the night. Don’t tell me you got the ride, too?’ Orla teased, her grin widening. ‘Here.’ She handed Vic her coat, which Vic put on hurriedly. ‘After you messaged us, we luckily remembered to get this for you, ’cos clearly that was the last thing on your mind when you went off with young blondie there.’
‘I guess that’s who you’ve been with?’ Mandy said, almost apologetically. ‘He was cute, I’ll give you that.’
Vic could feel the group on the table next to theirs pricking up their ears and felt herself flush with embarrassment. Mandy pulled out a chair and put her hand on top of her friend’s as she sat herself back down. Vic took a huge glug of Orla’s orange juice, let out an exaggerated breath and shook her head.
‘I’m so sorry for leaving you on your hen night, Mand.’
‘Don’t be silly. The two of us ended up dancing on the beach like silly buggers and then coming here, where the action was still happening.’ Mandy hiccupped. ‘But when either of you two decide to get married, please make sure it’s not in the autumn or winter, because if it is, we are flying to the Caribbean for the hen weekend.’
‘I’mnevergetting married, but I’ve had the best craic,’ Orla said. ‘Without a fecking man in sight, as well – see, I can do it!’ she laughed. ‘Anyways, tell us everything, Sharpie, and it better be good.’ Orla looked at her phone. ‘Your message said, and I quote: “I’m off my face and talking art with a real cutey. See you later.” So, come on, tell us. Did Vic get some dick?’
Vic grimaced. ‘I feel so bloody guilty, but before I go into the sordid detail, I really must pee!’
As Vic let herself into the flat that night, the relief she felt when she could hear Nate snoring was immense. Getting into bed as quietly as she could, she pulled the covers up to her neck and turned over to face the wall. From what she could remember, she’d had great fun with Danny. He had seemed like a decent and genuine guy, and he was as hot as they come. But that wasn’t the issue here, for it was guilt that was now lying heavy on her heart. Because, for all his faults, Nate Carlisle was a good man, and she had been unfaithful to him.
And it wasn’t that she didn’t like him or despised him in any way. Quite the opposite. He had done nothing wrong and when they were getting on, they did have great fun together. She had always considered herself to be loyal and honest and had never cheated onanyonebefore. She thought back to Joti’s comment. So, what, really, was the matter?
With feelings of self-loathing and confusion, Victoria Sharpe fell into a fretful slumber.
FOUR
LONDON
