‘Oh, right. Yes. I guess.’ I must sound about as enthusiastic as someone being asked to watch paint dry in the rain.
‘Nothing serious. I mean I know you don’t want commitment, but I thought going to dinner might be nice?’
Days ago this was exactly what I wanted and a pang of guilt hits me. I make the effort to change my tone. ‘That’d be lovely. I’ve heard great things about it. Next week?’
‘It’s a date.’ Greg beams at me. ‘The non-serious kind.’
‘Lovely.’ I give him a grateful smile and pat him on the arm as I turn to head into the café to see if Jill’s had a better day than I have.
Seventeen Years Ago
Eight weeks pregnant.
Jackson and I sit in silence, fingers entwined, as a normal sunny Saturday morning flashes past us through the bus window. Kids on bikes, a dad washing his car, and several people out pushing buggies or arguing with toddlers who have different ideas about how their morning should go. I try to imagine pushing a buggy and looking down into the eyes of a tiny baby who’s depending on me for everything, and my insides shrink. I can barely bloody look after myself, how the hell can I look after someone else?
We’ve come to the beach to talk properly. We had our first midwife appointment yesterday which sort of makes the whole thing feel real although all she mostly did was talk to our mums while Jackson and I did great rabbit-in-headlight impressions.
I can smell the sea air the minute I step down onto the pavement from the bus. There’s something magical about the clean fresh air and crashing of the waves, even if I won’t go anywhere near the water.
‘Do you want anything to eat or drink?’ Jackson nods towards Sullivans.
There’s a waft of freshly brewed coffee from the open door of the café and saliva pools in my mouth. It’s a smell I used to love, but morning sickness has ruined all that. Without me uttering a word, Jackson knows.
‘Come on, let’s hit the beach,’ he says and begins to quicken his strides.
We walk down the main street, faster than I want to go, past the pastel-coloured shops full of tourist tat and people meandering along at a snail’s pace. The door to Bert’s Bakery is open and a group of kids spill out onto the pavement as we walk by. They talk amongst themselves and sneak looks at me. The sun is blazing down from the sky, but I know that’s not the reason my face is on fire. Again, Jackson rescues me and his fingers curl around mine and he pulls me to him as we walk. The gap in between the shops is easy to miss, and most of the tourists do, but we head down the ramp onto the beach. I take in a lungful of salty air, hoping it will calm my sickness. The tide is out and the golden sand is strewn with strands of bobbly bottle-green seaweed and scatterings of tiny seashells that crunch underfoot as I walk.
‘Take your shoes and socks off,’ Jackson says out of the blue.
‘Why?’
He is already bending to do exactly that. ‘It feels good.’
I screw up my face. ‘No way.’
‘I know you don’t like the sea, but it’s not that bad.’ He jogs into an incoming wave and kicks, sending white foam spray in my direction.
I squeal. ‘Oi. Don’t.’
He runs back and falls into step alongside me, laughing. ‘You never did tell me why you won’t go in the water.’ He gives me aplayful push in the direction of the sea. ‘Go on. Get your feet wet. It won’t hurt.’
‘It’s dangerous.’
‘What is? Paddling? No, it isn’t. You can swim, can’t you?’
It’s alright for him. He loves swimming or surfing or simply messing around in the sea with his mates.
‘Of course I can,’ I say, indignant. Although I’m not entirely sure that is true.
Dad taught me to swim four summers ago. He’d got fed up with me going to school swimming lessons and never really getting anywhere. So, in the summer I turned eleven, he’d decided he’d teach me. I’m sure he ment well, but wading out to sea with me until I was out of my depth and then staying just out of reach, so I spent more time under water than above it, was not a teaching method I’d recommend.
I thought I was going to drown. Sink in the salty water and never breathe air again when the tip of my big toe touched the sand and by some miracle, I managed to keep my head above water. I cried every time he made me do it. Not that I think he noticed or cared.
Dad’s efforts did have the desired effect. I could swim, I think. But however much I loved the beach and the smell of the air, I would do my damnedest to never put a foot in the sea ever again. It scared me so much it made me dizzy.
‘I don’t like it, OK,’ I say, embarrassed to tell Jackson the real reason. ‘Anyway, we didn’t come here to mess about.’
‘Alright. I was trying to lighten the mood,’ he mumbles, kicking at the damp sand with his bare feet.
