An hour later, the hot sand of Tathra beach stretches before us. Another cliff towers above the historic wharf, the cove fringed by a national park buzzing with cicadas, as we place our towels in a shady spot under the trees near the surf club.
‘This is exactly how I imagined my midlife crisis would unfold,’ I say, smiling. At least I’d imagined as far as the sun and the sand … I hadn’t ventured to the hot screenwriter taking his shirt off in front of me, which is frankly as breathtaking as the ancient wilderness framing the scene behind him.
‘You’re hardly middle-aged,’ he argues.
‘And how old are you, then?’ I counter, fascinated to know.
He holds my gaze for a second, on the verge of telling the truth. Then, eyes glinting, says, ‘I’m not middle-aged either.’
I can see that. The whole beach can see it. The man is clearlyin his prime.
‘Come on, Beau, you know my age.’
‘And you know mine. It’s on the paperwork we exchanged.’
I pull my dress over my head, if only to snap myself out of blatantly staring at the elaborate tattoo of a magnificent lion roaring across half his chest.
‘Courage?’ I ask, nodding at it, as soon as I’ve freed myself from the collar of my dress, which has scraped through my hair and wrecked my ponytail.This wouldn’t happen to Harlow.
‘Sorry?’
‘The lion. Does it represent courage?’
‘Something like that,’ he replies after a beat, turning to face the ocean, but not before I notice the name ‘Lucinda’ buried in the lion’s mane. Is she the woman he’s had to write out of his screenplay? Or another woman?I’ll have to check April’s notes.
My navy one-piece is the most boring article of swimwear on this beach, beside all the neon orange and hot pink and with kids dashing around in frilly florals with big plastic floaties. Normally I’d be self-conscious in swimwear in front of someone like Beau, but in truth I felt far more exposed screaming at the ocean, standing on top of his car, having some sort of existential spiritual reckoning. Perhaps I’d been screaming for Fraser, as if the song I wrote for him was an over-the-waves siren call, tempting him back to me through a glitch in time.
But he didn’t come, of course. He never does. ‘Beau, thank you for facilitating that, um, that—’
‘Exorcism?’
Yes!That’s what it felt like, in retrospect. Not a ‘calling in’ of Fraser at all. An expulsion of something else. Grief? No,trauma. Trauma from the way it happened. My role in it. The fact that it was my fault. The guilt I’ve been carrying that I could have prevented Fraser’s death if I hadn’t been on that Zoom. If I’d been braver, earlier.
As raw as it was, the experience on the bonnet of Beau’s ute had felt like an epic, cinematic eleven-o’clock number—that sweeping, showstopping song that comes late in the second act of a musical, where the protagonist has some sort of life-altering personal revelation.
‘The exorcism was all you,’ he says. ‘I’ve never seen nor heard anything like it.’
I must look worried, because he tilts his head and looks directly into my face to ensure I’m paying attention and adds, ‘It blew me away.’
He starts walking towards the water, but I’m still wired from the way the music pumped through me and how it felt to expel that scream. I run after him and pull his arm. ‘You know this area. I thought I read that there was somewhere near here where you can cliff-dive.’ He seems taken aback, but I point at the lion on his chest. ‘Courage, remember?’
‘Courage, Hepburn. Not stupidity.’
We stare each other down, and I watch in real time as his expression cycles through disbelief and worry, landing on excitement. ‘Cliff jumping. In middle age? It’s unseemly.’
I hoot at this and push his tattooed shoulder playfully.
‘Right,’ he says, taking my hand and marching us back towards our towels, which he scoops up before we head back to his car. Moments later, he starts the engine, revving it. His arm is on the back of my seat while he reverses, the same as it was inmy Jeep the other night, and I’m staring at him, thrilled by this sudden adventure, until he catches my eye: ‘Second thoughts?’
‘No!’ I say emphatically, smiling broadly as he screeches out of the car park and drives up through the hilltop village, and towards Kianinny Bay. If we live to tell this story, Sara will kill me. But after the sensitive way he listened to my music, I don’t feel so compelled to update Rach as to my whereabouts anymore.
Once we’re parked, it’s only a short walk to the cliffs and suddenly my bravery is wavering, the swell rolling, ocean heaving, white foam bubbling in the dark blue depths.
‘After you,’ Beau says, on the edge of the rock.
‘Goodness,’ I respond. ‘You go.’ It’s as if we’ve collided at the door of a Michelin-starred restaurant and we’re dancing through the interaction with two sets of excellent manners.
A larger wave crashes in the water beneath us. ‘Fortiores una,’ Beau says, pointing at another tattoo on his shoulder.
