This is all a huge misunderstanding, Wade will understand. He may not completely comprehend passion and love and fear, but he’ll understand this in the end. He really will.
23
Fleur
Mrs C has asked me to meet her here, at the beach.
It’s my most favourite place in Brighton and I’d love to spend all my time here if it was possible.
We’ve been sitting here in silence for quite a while, she has something to tell me. I could tell by the way she spoke on the phone, by the anxiety on her face as she walked towards me, and from the fact she’s started shaking.
I don’t want her to say whatever it is she’s going to say. I want her to keep it inside because I’m only just adjusting to this world where Mum is gone and I can call her that without hesitation. It’s an odd place. The anger doesn’t burn as hard, the feeling of being robbed isn’t as potent. I’m starting to feel normal, I think.
‘I know who killed your mother,’ Mrs C says, as gentle as a bird’s wing through the air. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry that it happened. And I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. But I thought you might prefer to hear it from me rather than the police.’
‘So it wasn’t you?’ I say, with the faintest wisp of humour.
She shakes her head. ‘No, sweetheart, it wasn’t.’
‘Just checking,’ I say, my voice all high and bright. ‘OK.’ I’m trembling as I reach into my inside pocket for a cigarette. Proper, full-on shaking. How I’m supposed to light it with this shaking I have no idea. I manage to get a cigarette out of the packet, but then I put it back in again. I don’t want to smoke. I don’t want to do anything, least of all hear what Mrs C has to say.
‘Who was it?’
She puts her arm around me, holds me close like Mum used to do when she was reading me a story and we would snuggle up on the sofa. I’d move as close as I could to her and wish the story would go on forever so I wouldn’t have to move away from her. Mrs C holds me close as she tells me the story of my mother’s death. She tells me who. She tells me why. But she doesn’t tell me what I can do about it. And she doesn’t tell me how I’m supposed to live with knowing this thing. And she doesn’t tell me that it’s going to stop hurting and horrifying me one day. But she does tell me this: ‘Your mother was one of the most wonderful people I’ve known. She did wrong but she knew that and she was still an incredible human being. I loved her so much. I wish I’d been half as brave as she was and even a fraction as brave as you are.’
My voice won’t work to let me speak.
‘I brought this,’ Mrs C says, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a large sandwich bag filled with rose petals. ‘I thought we could sprinkle some on the sea and wish her well upon her journey.’
I face Mrs C. My head is a whizzing mass of confusion. ‘I’d like that,’ I say. ‘I’d really, really like that.’
24
Three Weeks Later
Beatrix
Dear Me. You can do this thing. All my love to all of me, Beatrix x
‘I’m ready,’ I say to her.
‘Right. Come on then, let’s go,’ she says.
I hesitate, despite thinking I was ready. I look around the hallway to my flat, knowing that the fridge is stocked, the bedroom has clean sheets, extra duvet, a stack of DVDs, an even bigger pile of books and magazines, a water jug, comfy pyjamas instead of the on-show lingerie I used to wear. I have the phone. I have the huge television regifted from my best friend’s living room. Everything is ready, but I feel I am looking around for the last time.
‘I’m scared, Tami,’ I confess.
‘I know,’ she says. ‘And you’re also being incredibly brave.’
‘I don’t feel it.’
‘You are. You can still be scared when you’re being brave. You can do this,’ she reassures. ‘Besides, what’s scarier, first chemo appointment or your mum coming for an extended visit?’
‘Don’t!’ I hiss at her, but I also laugh as she knew I would. ‘I’m actually now tempted to go get back into bed until it all goes away. Mum included.’
‘When does she arrive again?’
‘You know full well she arrives the day after tomorrow.’
‘Yes, I do.’ She picks up her bag, then my bag and opens the front door, then she turns back and holds out her hand. ‘Come on.’
My hand slips easily into hers and I step outside after her.
Slowly, I shut the door behind me, knowing that the next time I open this door, the next stage of my life will have begun.
Fleur
From The Flower Beach Girl Blog
Things I wrote on the postcard I sent to my dad today:
Dear Dad. I love you, but please stop calling me. I can’t speak to you
right now. I will be coming back soon to see you and we can talk
then. For now, I’m living with Mum’s best friend and her family. I’m
going to apply for art college down here. I have a boyfriend and he’s
moving here, too. Most importantly, I’m going to try to be happy.
Please be happy, too. I truly, truly love you. Fleur x
25
Three Months Later
Tami
‘Shhh, we mustn’t wake the clouds,’ Anansy whispers.
The three of us are on the beach, looking up at the sky again.
‘We still don’t know where they sleep,’ Cora says ever so quietly.
‘I do,’ I say softly.
‘Where, Mama?’ they both ask.
‘At The Rose Petal Beach.’
‘With Auntie Mirabelle?’ Cora asks.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a lovely place to sleep,’ Anansy decides. ‘Have fun with Auntie Mirabelle,’ she calls quietly to the sky.
‘Yes, have a nice time,’ Cora adds.
The shadow that falls over us causes both girls to squeal in delight and scramble to their feet. ‘Dad!’ they shout in unison, the hush needed for the sleep of the clouds forgotten. They throw themselves at him, as if they haven’t seen him in an age, when it was only four days ago.
He gets down on his knees and hugs them close. He does this now: he shows how much he loves them, how devoted he is to them. It’s not words and showy gestures, when he has them for the weekend he spends the entire time with them. He plays with them, does their homework with them, cooks and cleans for them. He proves every day that they are his priority.
He’s still in therapy, he’s still on his perpetrator course, he’s still trying to be a better man. I get to my feet, brush myself down and retrieve my coat.
‘See you later,’ I say, kissing each of their heads, lingering on each one because, while walking away from them for the weekend is getting easier, it still hurts. There’s no other way to describe it. It hurts. But that’s part of my new life. ‘Have a good time.’
‘See you later, Mama,’ they chorus, well versed in this ritual. ‘We will.’
‘We’ll call you later,’ Scott reassures.
‘Yes, great,’ I say, as well versed in this ritual as the girls.
I begin my way up the pebbles back to the promenade, the ache growing deeper and stronger. It never really, truly stops until I am with them again, until that is the longest time I’ll go without seeing them every day.
‘Oi,’ Scott calls suddenly.
I stop, turn back to him.
He tips his chin up at me, like he did all those years ago.
It’s over for us, but we have Cora and Anansy, we have the memory of our first, and we have the life that existed before our story started to be unwritten. We’re bound together for ever by those things. And by the love I had for him that I know will never completely go away.
My face creases in a smile, like it did all those years, too.
I glance up at the clouds as I saunter towards home. They roll on by without a care in the world, maybe heading for a sleep at The Rose Petal Beach, maybe just drifting to another part of the planet.
&
nbsp; I can do that now: drift, without a care in the world.
26
Mirabelle
Not very long ago
I’m closing my eyes really slowly in the hope I can freeze-frame the world. And once it’s done, once it’s paused, I’ll know my lover will still be out there somewhere, and our lives won’t have passed each other by.
The ice-cold sea slaps against my shins, and even though I don’t want to, I know I have to open my eyes again, I have to come back to where the world is still turning, moving, going on.
The people who are on Brighton beach will see me here in the sea, a perfect red rose in my hand, and they’ll wonder what I’m doing, or they’ll think I’m really quite mad. I am. Of course I am. But I need to be here and I have to do this because I can’t freeze-frame the world.
Each petal of the rose comes away from the stem after the gentlest of tugs, and I keep on pulling until the spindly green stalk is bare except for the tightly curled inner bud, which is folded like tiny arms around its shiny red heart. Once my hand is crammed with dark red petals that I must be careful not to crush, I step further into the waiting sea.
I shut my eyes, ever so slowly, and try again to freeze-frame the world. I want it to work, I want the world to stop, because I can’t believe this is all happening to me. I can’t believe my life in London is over, and now I have been banished – entirely by choice – to Brighton, to be beside the sea. I open my eyes, stare out to the horizon, in the city where I lost my lover; the place where my life is about to begin again.
I move deeper into the sea, the water hungrily soaking my dress, robbing my body of heat. And carefully, slowly, I release the petals in my hand. I want to be brave like her, the woman in the legend of The Rose Petal Beach.
I want to be able to do what she did and pledge my life to finding my lover. She lost her beloved at sea and, without a second thought, she went to the deserted island where he was last seen and she promised to search every inch of it until she had found him. As she walked her feet were cut by the sharp pebbles of the beach and because her love was so rare and wondrous, so deep and beautiful and pure, every drop of her blood turned into a rose petal, until the beach became a blanket of perfect, red petals.
A few of my petals dance out of my hands, floating away on the breeze, the others spiral downwards onto the foamy water and are immediately carried out on the retreating waves.
After she had walked every step of the island, the woman lay down on her beach, her rose petal beach, and slipped into her final sleep. And in her sleep, her endless sleep, she found the man she had been looking for.
I want to be as strong as the woman from the story, instead of trying to freeze-frame the world. I want to promise I’ll do whatever it takes to learn the truth about my lover’s life and death.
But standing here, I know I can’t, it’s not in me to follow through with such a quest – I’m just too scared that my lover was murdered, and the same thing is going to happen to me.
Now
Have you heard the story of The Rose Petal Beach?
Do you think it’s a story worth dying for?
Have you heard the story of The Rose Petal Beach?
If you have you’ll know I left my life in London and came to Brighton to find my first lover, the person who showed me who I was meant to be.
Have you heard the story of The Rose Petal Beach?
If you have you’ll know that in the end it wasn’t my lover I died for, it was for her, my baby, the only person who has ever mattered to me.
Have you heard the story of The Rose Petal Beach?
If you have, you’ll know there’s only one thing left for me to do: to lie down here on my petal-covered shore, and start my endless sleep.
Have you heard the story of The Rose Petal Beach?
I hope so. I want it to do for you what it did for me – make me believe you should never give up because you’ll always find what you’re looking for.
Acknowledgements
I feel so honoured to be able to write another set of thank yous at the end of a book. It’s going to get gushy, so please look away now if that’ll upset you.
Thank you to
My fantastic family and incredible in-laws. You’re a great bunch of people. Love you all so much.
My fabulous friends. You make me smile by being in my life.
The divine team at Quercus: David, Mark S, Bethan, Katie, Caroline P, Iain, Caroline B, Mark T, Dan, Jenny (for my beautiful covers, especially), Astrid and all of you who have been so welcoming and kind.
Ant & James. Never change – you’re both wonderful.
Emma D, PR woman extraordinaire.
Dr Sarah Marshall and Adam Dukes for their professional input.
Also, I want to say
To Jo. You’re amazing. Thank you, for all of it.
To E & G, never stop being who you are (which is pretty outstanding).
And to my darling M. Love you more every day.
My final thank you goes to you
Thank you, as always, for buying this book. Really hope you enjoy it. Dorothy Koomson is the author of seven other novels: The Cupid Effect, The Chocolate Run, My Best Friend’s Girl, Marshmallows for Breakfast, The Ice Cream Girls and The Woman He Loved Before – all of which have spent several weeks on the Sunday Times bestseller list. Her books have been translated into thirty languages and regularly top the bestseller charts around the world. Dorothy is currently working on another book and a screenplay. She lives in Brighton.
Find out more about Dorothy and her books at
www.dorothykoomson.co.uk
or follow her on Facebook and Twitter.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
1 Tami
2 Tami
3 Tami
4 Beatrix
5 Beatrix
6 Tami
7 Tami
8 Tami
9 Fleur
10 Tami
11 Tami
12 Beatrix
13 Beatrix
14 Fleur
15 Beatrix
16 Fleur
17 Fleur
18 Tami
19 Tami
20 Beatrix
21 Tami
22 Tami
23 Fleur
24 Three Weeks Later
25 Three Months Later
26 Mirabelle
Acknowledgements
Dorothy Koomson, The Rose Petal Beach
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends