One Moment, One Morning (21 page)

I’m not going home tonight, the note says, decided to stay in Brighton. Fancy going for a swim and picnic on the beach?

Hurriedly, Karen folds the piece of paper, before her colleagues can see. She looks around to check no one is watching, glances up at Simon.

He’s grinning, eyebrow raised.

Her stomach lurches. She fancies him
soo much
– she is powerless to resist. How can she possibly? She knows it’s wrong: he has a girlfriend – he lives with her, for goodness’ sake – and what they’re doing is unfair, cruel. She is not sure what he has said to his girlfriend to wangle a night away and she doesn’t want to know. She would hate it if it was done to her – she has never seen herself as the kind of girl who would steal another woman’s man. She and Anna have always been most disapproving about women who do that, arguing through college and beyond that there are plenty of available men out there, that it is quite unnecessary to go for those who are already spoken for. But she has liked Simon since the day she started this job, and he is the one who initiated this whole thing. He is the one who blew her away with a clandestine kiss at the office summer party just a week ago, who asked if he could come back and stay at hers afterwards; he is the one who doubtless made unconvincing excuses when he returned home the next day. And it only took that single night to open this Pandora’s box of mutual passion; being together was far, far better than it should have been, were it only a one-night stand. Plus, from the way he has been since – more than just flirtatious, snatching moments to be with her that are quite uncalled for given they work in different departments, even once stroking her arm when they had a few seconds alone – Karen senses that he really likes her.

She nods, quickly, surreptitiously, and two hours later they are headed in his car towards Hove, several miles from their office in Kemptown, but risky nonetheless. She watches Simon’s profile as he drives, concentrating, but he keeps turning to her, and every time he does so, he is smiling. He doesn’t seem to care, and she wonders if, actually, he wants to be caught. In some ways she does, because she knows, already, albeit crazily swiftly, that she wants more of this man, that once was never, ever going to be enough.

They stop off at a Greek supermarket and run in to buy food and wine. In the cold light of day it is a grotty little shop, but this isn’t the cold light of day, it is a magical July evening; the world is bathed in the warm peachy glow of seven o’clock sunlight, and everything, everyone, looks stunning, including this funny, down-at-heel grocery store. Inside, it is as if a haven of seductive delicacies is offering itself up to them. So what would normally seem a fairly conventional selection of staple foods and cheap alcohol becomes a cornucopia of delights – hummus, taramasalata, olives, stuffed vine leaves, pitta bread – and they are utterly spoilt for choice. It will all, inevitably, taste delicious. Rapidly, they fill a basket, add a bottle of wine – they are agreed, it should be bubbly, chilled, and why not rosé? It seems to reflect the mood of the evening – heady yet light, harmless. Hardly the choice of immoral wrongdoers, surely: more that of two people enjoying the moment, caught up in such a forceful and unstoppable attraction that any implications their actions might have are pushed light years away.

Minutes later they are parked up on the roadside by a man-made lagoon on the west of the city: beyond it is the sea. It’s as close to ideal as they are going to get without driving further than either of them has the patience for; distant enough from the most popular strip of Brighton beach to be relatively private. Simon slings a tartan travel rug he keeps in the back of his car over his shoulder like a Scotsman’s cloak and, as they stroll along the edge of the purpose-built lake, plastic bags rustling, flip-flops flipping, the light catches baby waves – ripples that dance and sparkle blue and turquoise.

‘Where shall we go?’ Simon asks, when they reach the promenade.

Karen scans the beach; her chief priority is to be far from other people, second to that she wants to be in the sun.

‘There,’ she says, pointing to a spot on the shingle bathed in orange.

‘Perfect,’ says Simon, and he is right: it is.

They crunch across the stones, put down the bags and Simon flings the rug wide so it catches the breeze and lays out flat and square.

Karen stands for a moment, looking at the sea. It is windy but not too windy; the waves are enticing, not intimidating; gulls swoop down and up, round and about, playing in the breeze. Misty shafts of light illuminate the pebbles; tonight they are a million shades of pink and russet and yellow and gold, not grey, as they’re so often pictured.

She can feel Simon watching her, and senses herself as he might see her; long, long chestnut hair spidering in the wind, white cotton skirt flapping about her shins, faded green T-shirt hourglassing her waist and breasts. She is, she feels at that second, womanly; even, possibly, beautiful.

‘Right.’ Simon lies down on his side. He props his head on one hand, and with the other reaches forward to the adjacent space. ‘Come here,’ he invites her, patting it.

Karen doesn’t need asking twice; she turns, kneels, and slides alongside. Within seconds he is kissing her; her body is bending towards him, her back arching like a cat indulging in the heat, stretching out in ecstasy. She reaches up, strokes his hair; he has lovely hair – dark, thick, slightly wavy – it’s one of the first things she noticed about him. And as he presses his body into her, she thinks how wonderful it is to be with a big man, a proper man, not one of these wispy poetic types that she’s fallen for in the past. It makes her feel smaller, more feminine, and she loves that. She inhales his scent: the same smell that blew her away a week before, slightly lemony, fresh, oh-so-male, and, to her at any rate, incredibly, mind-blowingly sexy.

‘Shall we swim?’ he asks, breaking away a few minutes later.

Part of Karen is so enjoying the sensation of his mouth on hers, lips and tongues exploring, that she doesn’t want to stop what they are doing; another part feels they should, as now he has his leg wedged between hers, pressing into her groin, and his hand up her top. If they don’t halt, soon they will be doing far more than they should, given they’re in a public space. Plus she likes the idea of going into the sea: it is balmy, very warm, and if they’re not able to have sex here, then doing something alternatively sensuous appeals. She’s wearing a matching bra and knickers; they could easily pass as a bikini. And if they end up wet, what does it matter? She can go home without them on and no one will know.

‘OK.’ She sits up. At once she slips her skirt down over her knees, her T-shirt over her head and she’s there, almost naked, in front of him. Again she can feel him looking at her.

‘You’re gorgeous,’ he says, running a hand down her back. The feel of his fingers on her flesh makes her tempted to resume kissing, but no, she is going to resist; the waves beckon.

‘Last one in!’ she says, jumping up and running, still in her flip-flops, down the shingle. She kicks off her flip-flops and splash splash SPLASH! – never mind the pain of the pebbles on the soles of her feet – she is in, up to her thighs, oooh, brrrrrr! Quickly-quickly, swiftly dipping so she is past the sensitive bit and up to her waist, and yeooow! further, up to her shoulders. But although the water is cool, it is nowhere near as chilly as she feared it might be – a mild spring and recent heatwave have warmed it. Her hair floats about her, but she keeps her face out, conscious her mascara will smudge and wanting to look her prettiest for Simon. She looks back to land: he is running down the beach in his boxers; within seconds he’s in the water beside her.

She hooks her legs around him, frog-like, and leans back a little, paddling with her arms to keep herself afloat. Despite the cold, he has an erection; she can feel it. Cheekily, she rubs the outside of his boxers with her palm.

He raises an eyebrow again, smiles, and groans, ‘Ooh.’

Then,
whoosh!
and he’s let go of her, and ducked under, emerging with wet hair, face dripping.

Now she grins, flips over and swims off, teasing him. The sky above is breathtaking; wisps of candyfloss clouds in mauve and sugar pink over the elegant white art deco houses immediately to their west. She cannot think when she has ever been this happy.

Then she is back in his arms, he holds her against the waves, and, yes, mm, they are kissing, salt water mingling with saliva. She wraps her arms around his neck, he holds her waist, and now she doesn’t give a damn it’s a public place; no one else is anywhere near them, and no one can see what’s going on beneath the surface anyway. So she scoops her legs around his hips once more and presses into him, gently gyrating her hips so she’s rubbing him rhythmically, tantalizing.

It is too much – or not enough – for him, and he eases his cock out of his boxers, pushes aside her make-do bikini briefs and OH! He is inside her; she can’t quite believe it, the audacity, the sheer pleasure of it: they are actually doing it, having sex in the sea.

They kiss constantly as he moves in and out of her; she has had a couple of lovers before, but honest to God, no one has ever felt as good, as perfect a fit, as Simon. It is surely the best sensation in the world; right now, she can’t imagine one better.

That there are people in the distance walking along the promenade adds to the frisson; the feeling that they shouldn’t be doing what they are for all sorts of reasons, but hell, yes, yes, they should, they really, really should . . .

Later, on the shingle, Simon cracks open the sparkling rosé and they drink it straight from the bottle.

He watches Karen swig; she knows it looks sexual, and doesn’t care. If anything it turns her on, too, although actually she couldn’t possibly be turned on any more than she already is.

‘Hang on,’ he says suddenly. ‘I’m just going to the car.’ And before she can ask why, he is up and off, at so brisk a pace he is almost running.

Shortly he’s back, out of breath.

‘I had it with me to shoot the project we’re doing.’ In his hand is an instamatic camera.

‘Oh no, please don’t,’ protests Karen, holding up her palm. But he ignores her and takes several snaps.

‘My turn,’ she counters, and takes a couple of him. Then, ‘Come here.’ She yanks him towards her. ‘I want one of the two of us.’

‘How are you going to do that? There’s no self-timer.’

‘Like this,’ she retorts, and holds the camera out as far away from them both as she can. She tilts her head into his, smiles, and CLICK! The moment is captured.

*

She is looking at it now, that photograph.

His hair damp, curled on his forehead, not a single wisp of grey; hers falling in tendrils about her shoulders, improbably youthful skin gleaming in the last rays of the day. She is nearer the lens; chin up, eyes slanted, her smile that of a woman who’s just made love. He is grinning, cat who got the cream.

Even now, twenty years later, she can taste the salty tang of the seawater. But no. Karen is standing by the bedroom window, holding the picture frame in her hand; the salt is the salt of her tears.

She once read that memories are like rivulets of water on stone. The more they are replayed, the deeper they become etched in the mind, so the most powerful remain the most potent, forever.

That day is carved into her mind like a railroad cut through rock, and for a while it seems whatever else she tries to think of, she can’t. It’s as if the chemicals in her brain are determined to sweep her up and carry her to another place, like pebbles shifted by waves, gulls carried by wind, or a vapour trail dissolving into the ether.

Still, enough.

Focus, Karen, focus.

What was she doing?

Oh, yes, she was watching out for Anna. Karen lives on a hill; she can see down the whole street from the bay. Anna is due round with some woman she met on the train called Lou, but she is uncharacteristically late.

Hurriedly, angry with herself for giving in to such nostalgia, Karen puts the picture back on the dressing table and roughly swipes away her tears.