Tim is quiet for a moment but then finally replies.
‘It’s okay. You have nothing to apologise for Lottie. You haven’t done anything wrong.’
He continues to stare at the road as they walk slowly, allowing Josh to toddle at his own pace. They have brought the backpack in case the streets are too busy and he needs a carry later.
Lottie waits to see if Tim will say any more in response. He is quiet tonight, unusually so. He is always the one brimming with enthusiasm. Throwing himself into every activity, geeing them all up. But he doesn’t seem excited about tonight, the fireworks or the big party. He is not rising to the occasion and Lottie finds it is she who is having to compensate, talking to Josh in what she sometimes thinks of as her children’s TV presenter voice.
Oh well, it’s probably just the strain of a difficult week taking its toll, she decides. What they say about holidaying with a young child, and it not really being a holiday at all, is so true. And they hadn’t expected this heatwave, even in August. So she jollies them all along and Josh is buoyant enough, talking at intervals about the party, whether there will be cake or ice cream, and asking repeatedly, ‘When? When will the big fire start, Mama?’
‘Soon,’ she promises him. ‘Very soon.’
Down in the town, they gather by the harbourside, which is already filling up with tourists and locals alike. And yes, Lottie can tell the difference. It is a game she likes to play with herself. The tourists are easy to spot. Men and women in top-to-toe Boden? Check. Children with the voice of a choirboy or a head girl, walking around in mini-me duplicate outfits? Check. And Breton stripes. So many of them. Yet not a single one of them has any real claim to this sailor-like garb. Not like the locals and their long-held industry. It makes Lottie chuckle to herself, the irony of it all, though she knows Tim would say she was being mean.
She looks about her, aware that space is already at a premium. People are now spilling out of the bars and restaurants, having staked out their place some hours earlier. Others are lolling against the metal balustrades of the harbour wall, sitting atop them or on the ground with coats and blankets spread upon the concrete. Lottie recognises one or two faces from the last week though. She spots a bunch of lads, bronzed and ebullient. She has seen them working on the beach. One is still wearing a T-shirt from earlier in the day with the logo ‘The Taco Lads’ emblazoned in a colourful roundel across his chest.
Through the clamour of bodies she is also surprised to see Old Ted, standing with his cronies, nursing a pint. He has even taken off his thick fisherman’s sweater in view of the simmering temperature. Lottie didn’t suppose this would be his cup of tea but then it really does feel like everyone is here tonight.She raises her head to acknowledge the woman standing beside him, drinking shandy; the local shopkeeper, Jan. She is with a couple of friends, looks happy and relaxed as the low sun illuminates her crow’s feet and laughter lines. Even the older couple who own the B & B is here, leaning on each other in solidarity, sipping glasses of stout, swaying to the music.
A local folk band is playing, which Lottie listens to with interest, trying to tune in to it, while Josh skips about dancing in a dizzying circle. The female singer is dressed in a gypsy-style white dress with a black waistcoat and is accompanied by a bearded man who sits on a stool playing an acoustic guitar. Their music has a wild, untamed beauty to it, referencing old sea shanties and ghost stories; mermaids and selkies, a young man at sea, lost to the waves. But louder pop music is blaring out of some of the other bars, competing with it until all that’s left is a bizarre mash-up of sound, jarring and dissonant.
As the last of the sun recedes over the water and darkness encroaches, the lights along the water twinkle and shine like tiny beacons. There is talk of lighting the bonfire soon, further along on the beach where it sits, patiently waiting to be ignited. So large that everyone will be able to see its glow and feel its heat, adding to the prickle and swelter of the evening. And then, when the sky is properly dark, the fireworks will be set loose as eyes are raised to watch them, faces turned to see the sparks fly. For just one evening in the year, Lottie thinks, the whole town will be together, looking the same way.
AFTER THE FIREWORKS
SUNDAY
38
Tobias is sitting in the gardens, slumped in one of the hotel’s easy chairs. He is vaguely aware of a crick in his neck, the itch of an insect bite, and pain. Pain in his head, which throbs in the particularly insistent way only champagne can induce. Typical, he thinks. Always the way when he overdoes it on the fizz. Like nectar going in, poison coming out. And he is so parched, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth like a dried slug.
He does not want to open his eyes yet, does not want to commit to the idea of having to rouse himself, to take himself off to bed. The garden is quiet. There are few, if any, people about as far as his senses can tell. The staff has discreetly left him to pass out and sleep off the evening’s excesses. And obviously his dear wife and children have abandoned him.
He remembers Bella and Drew drifting off to meet friends in the town and Olivia saying something about a threatening migraine that she was going to swerve by heading up to the room to lie down. ‘And please don’t bowl in stinking of alcohol and wake me when you come up. You can sleep on the sofa,’ she had warned him.
The rest of the night’s festivities are a bit of a blur. The fireworks had been a highlight, albeit viewed through glassy eyes so that they were more of a hazy shimmer, as though he were somehow insulated from the bangs and fizzes. He had spent a good deal of time chatting to a few other guests while also trying to find that architect of his for a tête-à-tête. There was something bothering him and he couldn’t put his finger on it.Something to do with what Marcus had said earlier, about his youth. A bell that had rung in his head but had soon been silenced by a fug of alcohol.
He slowly peels his eyelids open and looks at the empty garden. The staff must have quietly worked, cleaning up around him, while he slept. All the litter, the stained tablecloths, the discarded napkins, the torn paper lanterns have been tidied away and the austere elegance of the grounds restored.
Tobias struggles to pinpoint what time it is. The sky is still dark but he feels like he has been out of it for an age. Or is it just an hour or so? Impossible to tell. He finds a bottle of water – perhaps left strategically beside his chair by a thoughtful member of staff – and drinks deeply, trying to ignore the tide of nausea that washes over him.
Patting down his clothes, he locates his phone. It has fallen out of his pocket at some point and lies on the grass. Good job there are no ne’er-do-wells about, he thinks. It would surely have gone for a burton, if so. He stares at the phone screen, willing his blurred vision to focus long enough for him to tell the time. Just after half past one, he reads. Not so very late after all then.
He attempts to heave himself up out of the chair. He will try not to disturb the others as he sheds his clothes and dosses down on the sofa in the lounge but he is going to have the mother of all hangovers tomorrow. Today, he corrects himself. It is now Sunday after all.
They are supposed to be returning to London soon. Perhaps he should wait a few more days, see about extending his booking. Or sending Livvy and the kids back without him while he stays on a bit longer to oversee things at the house. The renovation is still at a delicate stage and so much tied up in it. He can’t let things slide now.
He girds his loins and stands, his knees registering a creaking sound, his head protesting further at the movement. He steadies himself with a hand on a nearby table and then staggers acrossthe lawn and into the hotel side entrance, which is thankfully still unlocked. Nodding at the night manager sitting at reception, he hauls himself upstairs, hoping against hope that he can find his key card in his wallet. After a moment of tussling with the lock, he lets himself in.
All is quiet in the cool, dark atmosphere of the suite. He listens out for the sounds of life, quiet snoring or sleepy mumbling from his family. But there is nothing. He fumbles with his clothes, struggles for a minute to remove his shoes and falls gratefully on to the chaise longue.
Trying to get comfortable, he tosses and turns. Thoughts crowd into his pounding head; Drew’s ear piercings, Olivia’s decision to start a business, Belle’s cigarette butts at the building site, whether he has stretched himself too far with this renovation, if the insurance is as comprehensive as it needs to be.
He grunts. Is his cholesterol really an issue, as Livvy says it is? Does she still love him, want him? Do his children respect and admire him? Should he get another glass of water, try to find a paracetamol? And then a name that advances and recedes in his mind, evading capture: Susie Freeman.
Tobias is finally dozing off, his limbs loosening, the spinning of the room slowing and his thoughts subsiding, when he hears it. A loud bang, like a gunshot echoing against the cliffs. It rebounds around the bay, reaching his ears even in this secluded hotel and grounds. It makes him jump, despite his addled state. Whatever could it be? But then he puts it down to a distant car backfiring. Some of these kids round here drive motorbikes and suchlike with ridiculously noisy engines and ostentatious exhausts.
He turns over, tries for sleep again. But then he hears the persistent ringing of an alarm. Who on earth would set an alarm for Sunday morning? It must be a mistake. He grapples with a hand to find the source, to silence it before it can disturb the others. But then the peeling, Doppler-like sound pierces his consciousness as he identifies it is a siren. Has someone set offthe hotel fire alarm? He sits up. No, it would be going off here in the room, out in the corridor. Or is it an especially loud car alarm that has been triggered in the night somehow? He listens. But no, this is different; distant but recognisable. Emergency services. The police or ambulance or fire, who knows, but there are several sirens now, coalescing, becoming louder as they scream their way through the hushed streets of the resort.
He gets up, walks to the window and pulls back the drapes. Of course, they have one of the best views from their suite. They have paid for it after all, and it affords a wide sweep of the bay, day and night. Tobias looks and looks. He didn’t know sirens were allowed after hours. Something serious must have happened to require this disturbance. Maybe there are still some revellers afoot in the town, up to no good. Then he sees it. An orange glow mushrooming in the black sky. A fire. A significant one, too. He hopes it will be contained, brought under control. It could be nasty.
