‘That must be tough.’
‘I think they’ve found a way to make it work.’ I sound convinced and can only hope in my heart that it’s true.
We continue on the road out of the village, hugging the hedge. I’m struggling to keep pace with Noah and I notice that, almost imperceptibly, he slows his speed slightly. Must have heard me huffing and puffing alongside him.
‘He manages rock bands?’
‘Heavy metal mainly. But yes, he’s a manager. One of his bands is becoming quite successful. Sacred Days?’
‘Never heard of them,’ he admits, ‘but then my knowledge of heavy-metal music is negligible. I’m into more soulful stuff.’
‘Oh, really? Me too.’
‘So Art’s away a lot, travelling?’
‘Most of the time. He goes all over the world. It means that Ella gets a lot of painting done.’
‘I looked at some of her stuff on the internet when Flick told me about it. I thought it was great.’
‘She does really well. Lots of commissions for big corporations and she always seems to be doing exhibitions or installations.’
‘Ever go to them?’
‘As often as I can.’
The truth is that I don’t support Ella as much as I should, as work, as always, gets in the way. She had an exhibition a couple of months ago and invited me to the opening night. I ended up having to work late and missed the entire thing. That was wrong of me. I should have been there. Ella was understanding, of course. But I still felt terrible about letting her down. When we get home I’m going to make much more of an effort to work shorter hours and claim my life back.
‘We have some of her paintings in our offices.’
‘Flick told me that you’re an accountant.’
‘Yes.’ And I bet that she made it sound as dull as dishwater. Which, essentially, it is. ‘I’m a partner in a small practice in north London.’
‘Enjoy it?’
‘Loathe it with a vengeance,’ I admit with a rueful smile.
‘Then why do it?’
I shrug. ‘Stuck in a rut, I suppose.’
‘It’s never too late to change.’
‘No. But sometimes ruts can be difficult to climb out of.’
I don’t intend to tell Noah that my hidden agenda for this week is to discover exactly what Harry and I are going to do with the rest of our lives because I certainly don’t think I can spend it at Hoskins, Framling and Taylor Associates. Even though that’s exactly what I find myself doing.
‘I’m hoping that I’ll come up with a new life plan after this holiday,’ I confess, ‘if that doesn’t sound too grand. I’d love to live somewhere like this, but I don’t know if I’ve got the bottle to leave the convenience of London.’
‘Places like this are good for the soul,’ Noah agrees.
‘It’s so hard to uproot once you’ve got settled into a particular place, a particular way of life.’
‘Perhaps you just need a bit of a jolt,’ he says.
I don’t tell him that the biggest jolt I’ve ever had in my – so far – mundane life was meeting him yesterday. Without meaning to, or even knowing that he has, he’s sent my emotions into a tailspin. But that’s something that only I will ever know.
We turn on to the coastal path. Noah stops and holds out his hand to help me over a stile. I take it and try not to think how good it feels when his fingers wrap round mine. I jump down and he catches me round the waist, steadying me. Is it my imagination, or do his hands hold on to me a moment longer than is strictly necessary for me to get my balance?
‘Thanks.’
My voice is as wobbly as my knees. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should have stayed safe in the pub with Harry. Maybe Noah should have stayed safe with Flick.
He picks a delicate fern frond from the wall and then stoops to pick some wild flowers in the field – a sprig of pink wild campion and a tiny piece of cow parsley. He fashions them into a posy for me and then tucks it into the top of my rucksack.
‘What’s that for?’
Noah shrugs. ‘For nothing in particular.’
‘Well, thank you. It’s lovely.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Then he grins. ‘Come on, last one to the sea is a cissy.’
So we run down the steeply sloping field, laughing together. Noah far outclasses me. Within seconds, he’s streaked ahead and I’m puffing and panting behind. He stops and waits for me, hands on knees. It’s good to see that he’s out of breath too. Then I trip on a bump or a dip or over my own feet and, suddenly, I’m barrelling headlong into Noah’s legs in a good impression of a rugby tackle. I take him out and we both end up in a giggling heap on the ground.
‘I’m sorry, so sorry,’ I say and, laughing, we lie flat on our backs. Then, just as suddenly, a wave of sadness threatens to engulf me. I can’t remember last when I laughed like this with Harry, when we threw back our heads and let joyous noises come out of our mouths, our lungs, for no good reason. This is what I want to do. Be silly in a field with someone who loves me. Is that so much to ask?
Eventually, our laughter dies down and we lie next to each other in silence, staring up at the shifting sky. Dark clouds are rolling in, gathering over the sea.
Noah props himself up on his elbow and looks at me. ‘Are you OK now?’
I blink away the tears that have welled up again and nod.
‘I think that rain might be back,’ he adds. ‘We should get moving.’ So he helps me up but, before we set off, he catches my hand and holds it tightly. ‘That was fun.’
‘It was.’
I think the unspoken message is that neither of us could imagine doing that with our respective partners.
‘And you were the cissy,’ he reminds me, which breaks the moment and starts us off laughing again.
We work our way down to the beach as the rain increases steadily. Our pace increases steadily too and we hit a small, secluded bay just as the rain sets in.
‘Let’s shelter here for a minute,’ Noah suggests. ‘The rain might pass.’
We both look at the gathering clouds out at sea and know that it’s unlikely.
‘I think we’re going to get very wet.’
Noah consults the map. ‘We’re nearly halfway round the walk. Want to press on or make a dash back?’
Our eyes meet. ‘I don’t want to go back.’
‘Me neither,’ he admits.
In that split second, I feel that I can see into his soul and that mine is bared to him. My heart is banging so hard that I fear it will jump out of my chest. Then a thought shocks my addled brain. Is this love? Is this what it feels like? Is this what’s happening to me? I have never felt like this with Harry. I’m sad to say it but my husband has never made my hands tremble.
I don’t know this man, yet all I want is for Noah and me to be alone together. As if sensing my feelings, he takes my hand and it feels so right and yet so wrong. But I don’t pull away. Our palms, slick with rain, burn together.
Noah leading me, we press on and the strength of the shower increases. The fine pitter-pattering soon turns to pelting rain. The sky blackens and the temperature drops.
‘In here,’ Noah says. ‘Let’s shelter.’
We find a rock tucked into an overhang by the cliffs and, hip to hip, settle on it. Pointlessly, I shake the rain from my hair. It’s just a tangled mass of madness and there’s not a thing I can do about it. Noah turns and he’s so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath in the sudden chill. He reaches out and tucks one of my curls behind my ear.
‘Should you put your sweater on?’ he asks. ‘Don’t get cold.’
Untying my jumper from my waist, I pull it on, though I’m not actually cold at all. I feel almost feverish.
I tear my eyes away from him and stare out to sea, trying to marshal my scattered thoughts. In the swell there are three intrepid surfers, still catching waves that either toss or glide them back towards the beach.
I nod my head in their dir
ection. ‘That looks like great fun.’
‘When I was at college, I always used to spend my summer breaks down in Newquay. The folks had a bit of a shack down there on Tolcarne beach. All I did was surf all day and work in a bar at night to pay my way.’
‘Sounds idyllic.’
‘I have only good memories.’
‘Do you surf now?’
‘Rarely,’ Noah admits. ‘I’m too far from the sea to make a dash there and back in what little time I have free. But I still love it and my parents are living down in Cornwall now, so I try to surf whenever I visit them – even when I’m on a quick turnaround.’ He nods out at the raging ocean. ‘There are some good surf beaches round here too. Less well known, but they’ll still give you a good buzz. Perhaps we could give it a go later in the week?’
‘I’d love that.’
He grins at me. ‘Let’s see what we can do then.’
I don’t like to remind him that I can’t see his girlfriend as a surfer chick and I wonder again what it is that they see in each other. Then I remember how busy they were all night. Apart from the obvious, of course.
‘Any other family?’ I ask. Not that it’s any of my business.
‘A brother in Chicago and a sister living the good life out in France. She has a couple of great kids, a host of pigs and chickens. The whole thing. We’re close but don’t see a lot of each other. My parents brought us up to be independent spirits. I think they’d be disappointed if we’d all ended up living in the same street. I never know where they’re off to next. They’re in their late sixties, but they’re always travelling somewhere. I guess that adventurous streak never leaves you. They’re out in Kathmandu for a few months, helping out at a small orphanage they support. We all try to get together at Christmas, but sometimes we don’t even make that.’
I think how different that is to my parents whose interests still revolve around me and Cash in the Attic. They have led a quiet and unassuming life. My dad wanders down to the local Conservative club for half a pint of beer most evenings and my mother trots along to her WI meetings. I wonder who I’d most want to be like in my dotage and, as much as I love my parents, I think that I could quite easily give Cash in the Attic a miss.
‘What about you?’
‘Only child,’ I say.
‘Keen reader. Bound by duty.’
‘That pretty much sums me up,’ I admit.
Noah laughs. ‘I’m sure there’s so much more to you than that, Grace.’
‘Really, I’m very straight. Very boring.’
‘No, you’re certainly not that.’
I flush under his intense gaze and, for sanity’s sake, turn my eyes back to the sea.
We watch the surfers ride in on the waves for the final time then run up the beach towards us, laughing and joking. They’re young, late teens, and they all have straggly, bleached hair and toned torsos. They tumble over each other like excitable puppies. It must be nice to be so carefree. If this is how surfing makes you feel, then I should definitely try it. They have their whole lives ahead of them and I envy them their freedom. They are not yet entrenched in guilt, responsibility and Doing the Right Thing.
‘Hey, man,’ one of them hollers over to us. ‘Want tea?’
By their pile of clothes and paraphernalia, I notice a Primus stove.
Noah looks at me for approval. ‘Sure,’ I say.
‘That’d be great,’ he shouts back.
‘It’ll be ready in five!’
So we watch the surfers pull on fleecy tops and fuss with their boards and make the tea. They bring it over to us in tin mugs and we budge up so that we can all sit down on the sheltered rocks together.
Within seconds the men are talking about surfing. I have no idea what half of it means as every sport has its own unintelligible jargon unless you’re a disciple, but it’s clear that they share a passion. Noah asks them about the beaches round here, which are the best for beginners, and, too soon, our tea is finished.
‘We should press on, Grace,’ Noah says. ‘Unless you want to stay here all night.’
Right at this moment, that sounds like an appealing option.
But, instead, we thank the boys for our tea and then we all high-five each other. How very surfery! I feel as if I’ve joined a little club that, previously, I’d been excluded from. We watch them grab their boards and head back into the swell of the sea.
‘Oh, to be young again,’ he says wistfully as he watches them go.
‘My sentiments exactly.’
Then Noah and I move on, climbing back up from the beach to the cliffs once more. He reaches out his hand and, with only a moment’s hesitation, I take it.
‘I don’t think the weather’s going to be kind to us at all,’ Noah adds.
And I’m not sure that fate will be either.
Chapter Twenty
I hadn’t realised how effectively the cliffs were sheltering us as, now that we’ve left our sanctuary, the rain seems to be coming in much heavier. The sky and the sea have both turned battleship grey and it’s hard to tell where one starts and the other ends. The wind is driving the rain clouds towards us. I scrabble in the bottom of my rucksack for my waterproof, but by the time I find it, my jumper is already wet through, so I give up and leave it where it is.
‘Stand on this side of me and tuck in,’ Noah says. ‘It’ll shelter you a little bit.’
It’s a lovely thought, but even the comforting bulk of his body does nothing to shield me from the onslaught of the elements. Then a thought hits me like a hammer blow.
‘You know,’ I say to Noah, ‘I don’t care that I’m getting wet. I haven’t been this soaked through in years and I’m quite liking it.’
He shrugs. ‘I work outside in all weathers, so I never mind it.’
We walk on, me embracing the rain, letting it run down my face, licking it from my lips. Soon we come to some grassy sand dunes and we work our way down towards Barafundle Bay. Before we descend too far, I stop and look out over the bay. This has to be one of the loveliest places on the whole earth: miles of golden sand stretch ahead of us, deserted because of the rain. Seems that we’re the only people foolish enough to be out here.
‘This is stunning.’
I want to fix this image in my mind for ever. Remember this as a very special day indeed. Close, so close, we just stand and look at it through the mist and rain. A rumble of ominous thunder rolls across the sky and the black clouds scowl down at us. But I’ve never felt lighter.
‘OK?’ Noah asks.
I nod. He takes my hand in his and helps me down the steep stone steps ahead of us, which are slick with water. Rivulets run down the sides like mini-waterfalls.
When we reach the beach a moment of insanity grips me. ‘I want to paddle.’
Noah laughs. ‘Today?’
‘We’re already soaked through.’
‘Sure,’ he says, good-naturedly. ‘Let’s paddle.’
So we sit on a rock and tug off our boots and socks. We leave them where they are and run down to the edge of the sea. The sand is freezing and, when the waves reach our toes, they’re like ice.
I gasp and dance in the water. I can’t decide whether I’m experiencing pleasure or pain.
‘It was your idea,’ Noah reminds me as he shivers with cold. ‘Brrr!’
‘So it was!’
I run into the sea up to my knees and splash and splash. Seconds later, he joins me and, holding hands for balance, we jump the waves together as the rain pours down on us. Then I remember my umbrella in my rucksack on my back and I pull it out.
‘Bit late for that,’ Noah notes.
‘I don’t think so.’
I open the umbrella and swirl it round. I start up with the opening bars of ‘Singin’ in the Rain’.
‘Da-da-da-da-da-dah. Da-da-da-da-dah.’
I twirl and whirl and splash at the edges of the waves. Noah runs alongside me and I pass the umbrella to him. He spins expertly along the breaking surf – singin
’ an’ dancin’ in the rain. We stamp on the surf, one foot at a time, then both together. I drop the umbrella and we link hands and spin round and round together, in and out of the sea, until I shout out with joy. I let my head go back and cry out to the wind, ‘Yeeeeee! Haaaaaaa!’
When we’re all twirled out and breathless again, we link arms, leaning on each other, giggling.
Me, ‘Just singin’.’