CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
LAUREN
A decade ago and Charlie is seven years old. He’s a wonderful little boy, so sunny and full of fun. He loves the beach. I taught him to swim last year and he’s already one of the best in his year at school.
He loves the water. And he loves staying with ‘Corsica Gran and Granddad’, as he calls them. Frank’s parents are a lot older than mine and apparently not terribly interested in children. My dad can be cantankerous – he’s always been that way – but he softens with Charlie, and he adores him, as does my mum. Charlie’s bond with them has always been special.
On those Corsican beaches my little boy picks up fragments of smooth sea glass and shells, and says they’re ‘sea presents’ for me. I guess we’re exceptionally close, and I feel very lucky. I’d have liked more children, but it just didn’t happen. As things aren’t great with his father and me, I’ve convinced myself that it’s probably for the best.
Anyway, Charlie is a wonderful kid and I couldn’t wish for more, really. He is enough.
His dad has never come to Corsica with us. ‘Too busywith work,’ he’s always said. But this particular summer, we’ve been invited to stay at Frank’s friend’s villa in Mexico. He shows us photos. It has a stunning garden with jewel-bright hammocks strung between the trees, and is a short walk from the beach. I’m keen, and Charlie’s keen, so off we go.
When I think about it now, this is the only other time Charlie has had a bit of a strop on a beach. A whole decade before the shrouding with Minnie’s stinky towel, he’s quite mad at me.
This time, in Mexico, it’s not about sunscreen. At seven years old Charlie tolerates being slathered from head to foot in Factor 30. No, the issue today is about swimming in the sea.
We’ve come to a beach that’s well known as the most beautiful for miles around. It’s also notorious for rip tides. We know, from what locals have told us, that it’s not safe to swim here – ever. I’d hazard a guess that it’s doubly unsafe when you’ve been drinking beers and wine all day, as Frank has.
‘It’s fine, Lauren. I’m just going for a little dip!’
At that point he’s keeping himself pretty much topped up throughout the day, and I’ve almost stopped noticing the squiffy eyes and blurring of the edges. It’s just Frank being Frank. However, a week into our holiday I’ve started to wonder if I can put up with him for much longer. I’m not sure this is what I want for myself, or for Charlie. Being married to a drinker is at best pretty dull (all those repetitive rants) and at worst, stressful and frustrating – and deeply lonely too. And I have started to think about a future for myself that doesn’t include Frank.
I’m just sick of making excuses and covering up for him. I’m also very used to drunk Frank, and often barelyregister it anymore. But that blistering-hot afternoon on a Mexican beach, it strikes me how very pissed he is.
‘Frank, please don’t swim,’ I say.
‘I’m a good swimmer!’ he insists. ‘You always think you’re the best but I’m really strong, I’m like a fuckingdolphinin the ocean …’ That’s not true and we both know it. But he’s already torn off his T-shirt and shorts and is standing there in his trunks, ready to run in.
‘You said we couldn’t swim, Mum.’ Charlie turns to me indignantly. As if I were boss of his dad and could control him in any way.
‘That’s right, love. It’s not safe,’ I tell him.
‘Why isn’t it safe?’ He’s outraged at the injustice of it as his dad jogs across the flat golden sand towards the sea.
‘Because of the rip tides,’ I explain, taking hold of Charlie’s hand. ‘There are really strong currents and they can drag you under.’
‘I’d be all right,’ he says.
‘No, love – it’s so dangerous. Remember what those people at the restaurant were saying? You could easily drown here …’
‘Why’s Daddy gone in then?’ he asks.
Because Daddy is a fucking idiot.‘He’s just being a bit reckless,’ I reply.
‘Mummy, let me go in!’ He tugs his hand loose and starts to run after his dad.
‘Charlie, no!’ I cry out.
He ignores me, or maybe he’s so focused on plunging into the water that he doesn’t hear me. I yell again, my feet hitting the hard, damp sand as I race after him.
Frank is already in the water, waving and shouting and – this part I can’t believe, I’mincensed– urging us both to go in and join him. ‘It’s lovely! You don’t know what you’re missing, you two!’
I catch up with Charlie and grab at him but he wriggles free like an eel. ‘He’ll be fine. I’ll keep an eye on him,’ Frank shouts as our son sploshes in to join him.
‘Hewon’tbe fine! Frank, come out!’ I’m terrified now. The vast, unblemished beach is almost deserted, apart from a small group of naked sunbathers in the far distance, who’d amused Charlie greatly when we’d first spotted them. ‘Mummy, that man’s going to burn his willy!’
‘He’ll fry his sausage,’ Frank had agreed, and we’d all laughed. But I’m not laughing now as our son starts swimming out to sea.
