“Everyone goes there?”
“Oh yeah. It’s quite popular.” He grins. “Between you and me, it’s where people go to skin up.”
Skin up? I stare at him in even greater horror. Our perfect, romantic, idyllic cove is now Drug Central?
I rub my face, trying to adjust to this new, grim picture.
“So … there’ll be people there now?”
“Oh yeah. There was a party there last night. They’ll all be asleep now, though. See you.” He pushes off and unfurls his sail.
That’s it, then. Our whole plan, ruined. I paddle back through the shallows to where Ben is standing.
“It was so perfect,” I say in despair. “And now they’ve ruined it. I can’t bear it. I mean, look.” I gesture wildly. “It’s hideous! It’s a hellhole!”
“For God’s sake, Lottie!” says Ben, a little impatiently. “You’re overreacting. We used to party on the beach, remember? We used to leave rubbish around. Arthur was always complaining.”
“Not used condoms.”
“We probably did.” He shrugs.
“No, we didn’t!” I retort indignantly. “I was on the pill!”
“Oh.” He shrugs again. “I forgot.”
He forgot? How could you forget whether you used condoms or not with the love of your life?
I want to say, If you really loved me, you’d remember we didn’t use condoms, but I bite my tongue. An argument about condom use is not what you want on your honeymoon. Instead, I hunch my shoulders and stare mournfully out to sea.
I’m so disappointed, I want to cry. This is so absolutely not what I imagined. I suppose, to be honest, I didn’t imagine anyone on the beach at all. I imagined that we’d have it totally to ourselves. We would run over the deserted sand and leap through the foamy surf, landing in a perfect embrace while violins played. So maybe that was a tad unrealistic. But this is the opposite extreme.
“Well, what shall we do?” I say at last.
“We can still enjoy ourselves.” Ben pulls me close and gives me a kiss. “It’s good to be back, anyway, isn’t it? Still the same sand. Still the same sea.”
“Yes.” I gratefully sink into his kiss.
“Still the same Lottie. Same sexy shorts.” His hands cup my bum, and I feel a sudden urge to reclaim at least some of my fantasy.
“Remember this?” I give him my bag to hold. I take a deep breath, preparing myself, then give a light hop and a skip and launch into what is supposed to be a flawless series of cartwheels down the beach.
Ow. Oof.
Argh. Shit. My head.
I don’t know what happened, except my arms buckled beneath my weight, and there were a few shouts of alarm around me, and I landed hard on my head. Now I’m sprawled in an ungainly position on the sand, my breath coming short in shock.
My arm is throbbing in pain and my mind is throbbing in humiliation. I can’t do cartwheels anymore? When did that happen?
“Sweets.” Ben approaches, looking embarrassed. “Don’t do yourself an injury.” His gaze shifts to my shorts. “Slight accident, I think?”
I follow his gaze and feel a fresh jolt of dismay. There’s a rip in my tie-dye shorts. I’ve split them, in the worst possible place. I want to die.
Ben hauls me to my feet, and I rub my arm, wincing. I must have twisted it or something.
“You OK?” says a nearby girl in denim shorts and a bikini top, who looks about fifteen. “You need to take off with a bit more spring. Like this.” She throws herself lightly over and performs a perfect cartwheel, followed by a roundoff.
Bitch.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “I’ll bear that in mind.” I take my bag back from Ben and there’s an awkward silence. “So … what shall we do?” I say at last. “Check out the cove?”
“I need some coffee,” says Ben firmly. “And I want to see the guest house, don’t you?”
“Of course!” I feel a last flicker of hope. Even if the beach is ruined, the guest house may not be. “Only, you go first up the steps,” I add.
If my shorts are split, I’m not having him behind me.
I don’t know if it’s the cartwheel fiasco or maybe my heart monitor at the gym has been lying to me, but I’m not as fit as I thought I was. And 113 steps is a lot of steps. I find myself grabbing on to the handrail and using it to haul myself upward, and I’m glad Ben can’t see me. I’m hot in the face, and my hair has escaped from its elastic, and I’m puffing in a deeply non-sexy way. The sun is starting to glare down, so I’m avoiding looking upward, but as we near the top I glance up and blink in surprise. There’s a figure silhouetted against the top of the cliff. A girl.
“Hello there!” she calls down in an English accent. “Are you guests?”
She’s a stunning girl, I realize as I get higher. With quite an extraordinary chest. All the clichés are springing to my mind. Her boobs look like two brown moons straining against her strappy white tank top. No, two brown lively puppies. Even I’m so fascinated I want to touch them. She’s leaning over to greet us as we stumble upward, and I can see right into the cavernous depths of her cleavage.
Which means Ben can too.
“Well done!” she laughs as we eventually reach the top. I’m panting so hard I can’t speak. Nor can Ben, but he looks as if he’s trying to convey something to me—or is it to the extraordinarily shaped girl?
It’s to the extraordinarily shaped girl.
“Fucking hell!” he manages at last—and he sounds absolutely stunned. “Sarah!”
22
LOTTIE
My mind is a whirl. I don’t know what to focus on. I don’t know where to start.
First of all, there’s the guest house. How can it be so different from the way I remember? Everything is smaller and shabbier and kind of less iconic. We’re sitting on the veranda, which is far less impressive than I remember and has been painted in a quite revolting beige color that’s peeling away in strips. The olive grove is just a scrubby patch of ground with a few sparse trees. The view is good, but no different from any other Greek island view.
And Arthur. How could I have been impressed by him? How could I have sat at his feet, lapping up his pearls of wisdom? He’s not wise. He’s not a sage. He’s a seventy-something alcoholic lech.
He’s tried to grope me twice already.
“Don’t come back,” he’s saying, waving his roll-up in the air. “I tell all you young people. Don’t revisit. Youth is still where you left it, and that’s where it should stay. What are you returning for? Anything that was worth taking on life’s journey, you’ll already have taken with you.”
“Dad.” Sarah rolls her eyes. “Enough already. They did come back. And I’m glad they did.” She twinkles at Ben. “You were just in time. We’ve sold up. We’re leaving next month. More coffee?”
As she leans over to pour the coffee, I can’t help staring. Up close, she isn’t any less extraordinarily shaped. Everything about her is sheeny and silky, and her breasts are straining against her tank top as though they’re in breast-yoga class and are showing off in front of everybody.
And this is the other reason that my mind is in a whirl. Several reasons, in fact. Number one: she’s gorgeous. Number two: it’s quite clear that she and Ben had some whole history here at the guest house before I even arrived. They keep alluding to it and laughing and changing the subject. Number three: there’s a spark between them still. If I can see it, surely they can see it? Surely they can feel it? What does it mean?
What does any of it mean?
I take my coffee from Sarah with trembling hands. I thought coming back here to the guest house would be the glorious finale to our honeymoon, where all the threads would come together in a big satisfying knot. Instead, it feels as though all sorts of bright new threads have appeared and nothing is tied up at all. Especially Ben. He feels like he’s unraveling away from me. He won’t meet my eye, and when I put my arm around him, he shrugged it off. I know Sarah saw, because she tactfully turned
away.
“We get old.” Arthur is still on his rant. “Life gets in the way of dreams. Dreams get in the way of life. That’s the way it’s always been. Anyone want a Scotch?” He brightens suddenly. “Sun’s over the yardarm, Greek time.”
“I’ll have a Scotch,” replies Ben, to my dismay. What’s he doing? It’s eleven in the morning. I don’t want him to start sinking into glasses of Scotch. I shoot him a Is that really a good idea, darling? look, and he sends me back a glare, which I have a horrible feeling means, Butt out and stop trying to run my life.
And again Sarah is tactfully looking away from us.
Oh God, this is torture. Other women tactfully looking away while you exchange acrimonious glares with your husband is the most mortifying experience going. Tied with your tie-dye shorts splitting while you try to do a cartwheel.
“Good man! Come and choose a single malt.” Arthur ushers Ben into the recesses of the guest house, and I’m left with Sarah on the veranda. The air feels prickly between us, and I don’t know where to start. I desperately want to know … what, exactly?
“Delicious coffee.” I retreat into politeness.
“Thanks.” She smiles back, then sighs. “Lottie. I just want to say …” She spreads her hands. “I don’t know if you’re aware that Ben and I …”
“I wasn’t,” I say after a pause. “But I am now.”
“It was the briefest of flings. I was out here seeing Dad, and we just clicked. It lasted a couple of weeks, if that. Please don’t think …” Again she pauses. “I wouldn’t want you to—”
“I wasn’t thinking anything!” I cut her off brightly. “Nothing!”
“Good.” She smiles again, showing perfect teeth. “It’s lovely you’ve come back. Lots of good memories, I hope?”
“Yes, loads.”
“It was an awesome summer.” She sips her coffee. “That was the year Big Bill was out here. Did you know him?”
“Yes, I knew Big Bill.” I unbend a little. “And Pinky.”
“And the two Neds? They got arrested one night when I was here,” she says, grinning. “They were thrown into jail, and Dad had to bail them out.”
“I heard about that.” I sit up, suddenly enjoying this conversation. “Did you hear about the fishing boat sinking?”
“God, yeah.” She nods. “Dad told me about it. What with the fire, it was, like, the year of disasters. Even poor Ben got the flu. He was really ill.”
What did she say? The flu?
“The flu?” I echo, in a strangled voice. “Ben?”
“It was awful.” She draws her brown feet up onto her chair. “I got quite worried about him. He was delirious. I had to nurse him through the night. I sang him Joni Mitchell songs.” She laughs.
My brain is whirring in a panic. It was Sarah who nursed him through the flu. Sarah who sang to him.
And he thinks it was me.
And that was the moment he “knew he loved me.” He told a whole audience so.
“Right!” I say, trying to sound relaxed. “Wow. Well done, you.” I swallow. “But no point dwelling on the past, eh? So, er … how many guests do you have at the moment?”
I want to get off this topic fast, before Ben comes back. But Sarah ignores me.
“He said the funniest things while he was delirious,” she reminisces. “He wanted to go flying. I was like, ‘Ben, you’re ill! Lie down!’ Then he said I was his guardian angel. He kept saying it, over and over. I was his guardian angel.”
“Who’s your guardian angel?” Ben’s voice greets us. He appears on the veranda, holding a glass. “Your dad’s taken a call, by the way. Who’s your guardian angel?” he repeats.
My stomach is churning. I have to stop this conversation right now.
“Look at that olive tree!” I say shrilly, but both Ben and Sarah ignore me.
“Don’t you remember, Ben?” Sarah laughs easily, throwing back her head. “When you had the flu and I nursed you through the night? You said I was your guardian angel. Nurse Sarah.” She pokes him teasingly with her foot. “Remember Nurse Sarah? Remember the Joni Mitchell songs?”
Ben seems almost frozen. He glances sharply at me, then back at Sarah, then at me again. His brow is riven with confusion.
“But … but … you nursed me, Lottie.”
My cheeks have flamed red. I don’t know what to say. Why did I take the credit for nursing him, why?
“Lottie?” Sarah says in surprise. “But she wasn’t even there! It was me, and I’m getting the Brownie points, thank you! I’m the one who sat up and mopped your brow till dawn. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that,” she adds, mock reproachfully.
“I haven’t forgotten,” says Ben, his voice suddenly intense. “Jesus! Of course I haven’t forgotten! I’ve remembered that night all my life. But I remembered wrong. I thought it was …” He looks accusingly at me.
I’m prickling all over. I have to speak. Everyone’s waiting.
“Maybe I got confused.” I swallow hard. “With … another time.”
“What other time?” demands Ben. “I only had the flu once. And now it turns out you didn’t nurse me, Sarah did. Which I find confusing.” His voice is hard and unforgiving.
“I’m sorry.” Sarah looks from face to face, as though she’s picked up on the tense vibe between us. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is!” Ben puts his fist to his head. “Don’t you realize? You saved me. You were my guardian angel, Sarah. This changes—” He stops himself.
I stare at him in indignation. This changes what? I was his guardian angel till three minutes ago. You can’t just switch guardian angels because you feel like it.
“Not that again!” Sarah shakes her head, smiling. “I told you,” she adds to me, as though trying to lighten the atmosphere. “He said all kinds of crazy stuff about angels and all sorts. Anyway.” She clearly wants to get off the subject herself. “So. What do you guys do for a living?”
Ben glares at me, then takes a slug of whiskey. “I make paper,” he begins.
As he’s explaining about his paper company, I sip my tepid coffee, trembling a little. I can’t believe my stupid white lie came out. But neither can I believe how seriously Ben is taking it. For God’s sake. Who cares who nursed whom? I’m so distracted, I tune right out of the conversation, then wake up when I hear the words “move abroad” from Ben. Is he talking about France?
“Me too! I’ll probably sail around the Caribbean for a while,” Sarah is saying. “Do a bit of teaching to make money. See how it goes.”
“That’s what I want to do too.” Ben is nodding vigorously. “Sailing’s my passion. If there’s one thing I want to do in the next two years, it’s spend more time on my boat.”
“Have you ever sailed the Atlantic?”
“I want to.” Ben’s eyes light up. “I want to get a crew together. You in?”
“Definitely! And then a season sailing in the Caribbean?”
“It’s a plan!”
“Settled.” They high-five each other, laughing. “Do you sail?” adds Sarah politely to me.
“Not really.” I’m staring at Ben, seething. He’s never mentioned sailing the Atlantic to me. And how’s that going to fit in with buying a French farmhouse? And what’s all that matey high-fiving about? I want to address all of this straightaway, but I can’t in front of Sarah.
I suddenly wish we’d never come back here. Arthur was right. Don’t revisit.
“So you’re selling up?” I say to Sarah.
“Yeah.” Sarah nods. “It’s a shame, but the party’s over. The hostel took away our business. They’re buying the land. They’ll build more units.”
“Bastards!” says Ben angrily.
“I guess.” She shrugs, sanguine. “To be honest, business was never that great after the fire. I don’t know how Dad has limped on for so long.”
“The fire was terrible,” I chime in, glad to move on to a subject I can talk about. I’m hoping someone will mention the way I b
rilliantly took command and saved lots of lives, but all Sarah says is, “Yeah, what a drama.”
“It was a faulty cooker or something, wasn’t it?” says Ben.
“Oh no.” Sarah shakes her head, and her earrings make little chinking noises. “That’s what they thought at first. But then they worked out it was someone’s candles. You know, in a bedroom. Scented candles.” She glances at her watch. “I must get my casserole out. Excuse me.”
As she disappears, Ben takes a sip of Scotch, then he glances at me and his expression changes.
“What’s wrong?” He frowns. “Lottie? Are you OK?”
No, I’m not OK. The truth is so hideous, I can hardly contemplate it.
“It was me,” I whisper at last, feeling sick.
“What do you mean, it was you?” He looks blank.
“I always had scented candles in my bedroom!” I whisper savagely. “Remember? All my candles? I must have left them alight. No one else had scented candles. The fire was my fault!”
I’m so shocked and distraught, tears are starting to my eyes. My great moment of triumph … It’s all turned to dust. I wasn’t the heroine of the hour. I was the thoughtless, stupid villain.
I’m waiting for Ben to throw his arms around me, or exclaim, or ask me more questions, or something. Instead, he looks uninterested.
“Well, it was a long time ago,” he says at last. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” I stare at him in disbelief. “Of course it matters! I ruined everyone’s summer! I ruined this business! It’s awful!”
I feel ill with guilt. And more than that—I feel as if I’ve been wrong, stupidly wrong, this whole time. All these years. I’ve been cherishing the wrong memory. Yes, I made a difference that night—but it was a disastrous difference. I could have killed someone. I could have killed lots of people. I’m not the woman I thought I was. I’m not the woman I thought I was.
I give a sudden little sob. It feels as though everything’s fallen apart.
“Should I tell them? Should I confess everything?”
“For God’s sake, Lottie,” says Ben impatiently. “Of course you shouldn’t. Get over it. It was fifteen years ago. No one was hurt. No one cares.”