‘It takes two to make a baby, you coward. I wasn’t having sex on my own, you know.’ I shoot him daggers. ‘Maybe you should have known how to use a condom properly.’ My sarcasm grates and I hate it, but I can’t stop myself.
‘That’s right. Blame me. It could never be anything to do with you, could it,’ he spits back, a red flush rising up his neck. ‘You should have got the morning after pill.’
I scramble to my feet, sending cushions scattering. He’s right. I should have done that, but I was sure I’d be OK, we’d only done it once and the thought of going to the doctor and asking had made me wish a hole would open up and swallow me. So I’d done my best impression of an ostrich and prayed everything would be fine.
‘That’s right, blame me. Because this is all my fault and nothing to do with you, is it? I should have known you’d say that.’ I bend and yank my bag and coat off the floor. The blood is thumping through my ears and my breath is coming in short staccato bursts. If I don’t get out of here quickly, I’m going to burst into tears and I’m dammed if I’m going to cry in front of him. ‘I’m going. Leave me alone. I hate you.’
I run out of Daisy and ignore his calls of ‘Ellie. Wait.’ I can’t bear the thought of talking to him for one minute longer.
Chapter Seven
There’s a sense of peace surrounding the café this early in the morning. It’s empty because it’s supposed to be. It used to feel like the calm before the storm to quote a cliché. Now the storm hanging over me is a different one. I pick up one of my takeaway cups and study the logo. Reeni and I had come up with it on a long winter’s evening when we were fed up with sanding the outside wooden boards of The Beach House and needed a break. It’s a simple light green outline of a pitched roof house where none of the lines connect to each other, and there are two navy blue wavy lines behind the house depicting the sea.
I really need to take a photo before Greg asks about it again. I balance the cup on the table by the window and take a picture on my phone. The smudges on the glass detract from the cup and remind me to put window cleaning on tomorrow’s list of jobs.
To take a competition-worthy entry, I’m going to have to go down onto the beach, it’s where I take my best photographs.Jill is covering the café today because I’ve got the fundraiser. I glance at the clock. If I hit the beach now, I’ll have enough time to grab some photos before Reeni comes to pick me up.
With no thought-out plan, I head down onto the beach and wander towards Thorbridge. I click at anything that grabs my attention. Clumps of sprawling seaweed. A tiny, perfect shell nestled in a larger one. White, foamy waves are breaking against the dull blue of the vast sea and the sun is hiding behind early morning clouds, stealing the water’s sparkle. It feels like an omen. I flick through the photos on my camera. They’re good, but none of them light me up inside.
As I round the bend, the village comes into view and the row of rainbow beach huts is impossible to miss. They stand out against the dull green of the dunes and the golden beach stretching out beyond them in a gentle curve. They are picture perfect and haven’t changed since my school days.
I wonder about taking another beach hut picture. I walk to where the sea is damp and nestle my coffee cup into the sand, the grains higgledy-piggledy around its base. I’m going to get damp doing the next bit, but all in the name of art. I watch the waves coming in to make sure I’m fully out of reach, then lie down on my tummy and set up my camera. I keep the cup in focus and have the row of brightly coloured beach huts in fuzzy focus behind. The first couple aren’t quite right, and I screw the cup further into the sand and throw a couple of shells down next to it, then try again. This one is perfect. I sit back on my heels and stare at the tiny screen of my camera. The tempo of my breathing has increased, and I move my gaze from the screen to the huts themselves.
Very rarely do I give myself permission to study the huts. Well, one in particular. Walking along this part of the beach normally involves me staring straight ahead rigidly, my gaze never straying to the right. But with Jackson back, memories Ihave worked so hard to expel hover over me like a rain cloud I have no umbrella for.
The huts are all in perfect condition and much loved, not a rotten bit of wood in sight. All except the yellow one nearest to me. Daisy, number eight. She’s hardly changed.
A lump expands at the back of my throat. I swallow, trying to dislodge it. Her colour isn’t as obvious as the others after years of taking the full brunt of seaside weather, but there are still large splashes of yellow ingrained into the wood, which give it away. The shutter has been repaired using bare, unpainted wood and now safely covers the front window, although it’s currently rattling in the breeze. The bottom corner of her door is rotting and I bend to watch a black beetle scuttle out from the jagged shards of rotten wood. Curious, I poke at the wood and it splinters under my touch releasing several woodlice. I jerk backwards and stumble off the concrete veranda. It’s depressing to think that an abandoned Daisy has been invaded by creepy-crawlies. And impossible not to wonder, if someone had loved her in the way Reeni and I had, whether she’d still be the sanctuary I’d gravitate towards.
The toast I had for breakfast is churning in my tummy, trying to claw its way back up my throat. I turn away. Reliving Daisy’s history is not going to do me any good. I hug my camera to my tummy as if it’s about to leap out of my hand and my heels sink in the sand as I walk away as fast as I can.
The fundraiser is opening its doors to the public at ten. Aaron sweet-talked the farmer who owns the field next door to the hospice and it’s currently a hive of activity. Someone in a fluorescent jacket directs us in the direction of the food alley. There’s a line of vehicles and we park up next to a transit van withMarina’s Authentic Spanish Churrossplashed across theside of it in red and yellow.
‘Hi, we’re The Beach House. Which spot is ours?’ I say to an official-looking man carrying a clipboard. There are two rows of long tables in the middle of the space with food trailers on either side of them and a couple of empty spots.
‘We’re borrowing trestle tables from the hospice. Hang tight. You can set up there when they arrive.’ He points to a vacant spot opposite the Camper Café, where Jackson and Milo are busy tying up a cream-and-green balloon arch to the VW van. I haven’t seen Jackson since the day Olly went missing.
‘The lads are already here. Let’s say hi,’ says Reeni, already walking towards them.
I grab her arm, bringing her to an abrupt stop. ‘Let’s go for a wander? We can’t set up yet. Might be our only chance.’ I’ve turned my back on the camper and I’m holding on to Reeni tighter than I need to.
She glances across at Jackson, then studies me for a second. ‘OK. It’d be nice to see what’s here, I guess.’
There are a few early people milling around in between the huge variety of stalls and I have to say I’m impressed. There are several craft stalls selling, amongst other things, handmade jewellery, ceramics, candles and organic bath products and cards. A couple of small children’s amusement rides, which I know Olly will love when his granny brings him to visit later. A raffle jar stall run by the local WI where every jar is filled with anything from homemade jam or honey to Smarties or hair bobbles, and some games stalls, a petting zoo and finally a small stage over in the corner for karaoke and a children’s magician.
‘So,’ says Reeni, stopping at the hoopla stall and handing the vendor a two-pound coin in return for three hoops. ‘How do you feel about him being back?’
She doesn’t have to say his name for me to know exactly who she’s talking about. I haven’t told her I kissed him. I normallytell her everything, but I figured the best way to deal with that was to stick my head in the sand and pretend it never happened, at least for now. And I’m not ready for the inquisition I’d get.
‘I don’t know.’ I take the hoop she’s offering me. ‘I thought I was over him. Over what happened, but …’ I’m trying to put my feelings into words, but it’s hard when I’m not even sure what they are. ‘I can’t stop thinking about what I did,’ I blurt out eventually and I fling the hoop at the pegged board, missing woefully, nearly hitting the stallholder in the head.
I keep staring at the hoopla board, hoping Reeni will impart some of her wisdom, but she stays silent and throws one of her hoops. It bounces off the board and lands on the grass.
‘I’ve got on with my life, gone out with other people, thrown myself into work, built myself a new life, but …’ I fiddle with the yellow-and-white friendship bracelet around my wrist, not even wanting to admit the next bit to myself. ‘I’ve never been able to forget him or forgiven myself for how I treated him.’
I expect Reeni to mollify me. When she doesn’t, I rush on to fill the space.
‘He didn’t deserve any of it. He did nothing but treat me right, and I threw it all back in his face. I’ve dreamt about meeting him again and getting the chance to apologise.’
