The Beach Hut (21 page)

Fuck Florence, he thought, then laughed ruefully. He hadn’t had the pleasure.

 

Jane went back into the living area and sat down in her pale green Lloyd Loom chair. It was agonising, seeing someone you love in pain, knowing there was nothing you could do to take it away. She would gladly have taken his suffering for herself. She knew only too well the gnawing feeling Harry would have inside him, how he would be torturing himself with the possibility that things might change, one moment filled with optimism then the next plunged into gloom. But of course she couldn’t. He had to suffer himself. She reminded herself that it was the ability to hurt like this that makes us human, that he would come back stronger in the long run.

She sighed, and reached down for her handbag. The letter had arrived three days before, forwarded from her solicitor to the post office in Everdene. She had recognised the writing on the cream bonded envelope immediately - how could she not, after all those hours of deciphering his assertive scrawl? Even half a century on her heart had leapt into her mouth at the sight of it. How often had she dreamt of a letter from him, a letter begging for forgiveness, a letter declaring he couldn’t live without her? Of course it had never come.

She smoothed out the paper again. She’d already read it a dozen times.

She put down the letter. Tears stung her eyelids, and she wept again, quietly, for the girl who had wasted her life, for the true love she had never found. She stuffed the letter back in the envelope and put it in her handbag, astonished that the pain could have lasted so many years, could still eviscerate her. She didn’t know whether the fact he had longed for her all that time made it better or worse. Of course, it could have been written for effect - Terence Shaw was more than capable of spinning a pretty tale, dropping empty words onto a page to salve his conscience, recasting himself as the hero of the tale.

Oh well, she decided. At least she had been able to share the experience with her grandson, and perhaps spare him the same pain she had suffered. Although she suspected not. Words of wisdom were all very well, but they couldn’t force you to make your head rule your heart. Love, no matter which way it came upon you, was usually painful in the end.

There was a knock on the door. Hastily she brushed what was left of her tears away. She could see through the glass that it was Roy, and she hurried to answer.

He looked a little bashful.

‘I’ve got more sea bass than I know what to do with,’ he told her. ‘My freezer’s full to bursting. I wondered . . . if you would like to help me out?’ He paused, then gave a shy smile. ‘Come for supper, I mean.’

Jane couldn’t help looking surprised. She and Roy had always been friends, but it had never been any more than sharing a cup of coffee. She felt a rush of pleasure at his invitation.

‘I’d love to.’

‘Tonight? Eight o’clockish?’

‘Fantastic.’

He raised a hand in a salute of farewell and made his way back up the beach. Jane watched him disappear into the crowds, past the ice-cream kiosk - the very same one Roy used to work in. If she cast her mind back, she could smell the sweet vanilla, feel the warmth of the sun, hear the tunes on the wireless. She felt as if she could step back into yesterday.

What if she’d kissed him in the kiosk, like she had known he wanted her to, in between customers? What if the kiss had been as sweet as the ice cream they were selling, making her heart pound? He would have inoculated her against Terence Shaw. She would have shown no interest in her employer. She would have been eager to finish her day’s work and rush back to her new-found love. A sweet, innocent, rite-of-passage love, a relationship that was entirely appropriate.

Of course, it would never have come to anything. Even then, Jane had wanted more than Roy would have had to offer, and would have left him at the end of the summer. But at least she would have emerged unscathed, bright-eyed and optimistic after a summer romance. Not bruised and damaged, internally scarred.

She sat back down on her chair. She felt incredibly weary. Burrowing about in the past was draining.

She woke to find Harry shaking her shoulder anxiously.

‘Gran? Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine. I’m fine-I must have just dropped off.’ She looked up at the clock on the wall. It was a quarter past four.

‘I’m going for supper with Roy.’

Harry looked at her, grinning, one of his dark eyebrows raised.

‘Yeah?’

Jane walked over to the sink to pour herself a glass of water. She could feel her cheeks flushing slightly.

‘So what are you going to wear on your hot date?’

‘It’s not a hot date,’ she protested. ‘He’s overrun with sea bass.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Harry was enjoying teasing her. ‘He could have just put it in the freezer.’

‘His freezer’s full.’

‘Of course it is.’ He came and put an arm round her shoulder, squeezed her. She loved that he wasn’t afraid to show affection, her wonderful grandson. ‘You’ll have a great time. Roy’s a dude.’

Dude was the ultimate accolade in Harry’s world.

Jane reached up, brushed the dark hair out of his eyes. If the course of her life had been different, she would never have known this wonderful boy. She wouldn’t have swapped him for the earth, moon and stars.

‘You OK?’ she asked gently.

‘I will be,’ he told her. ‘Time the great healer and all that.’

They hugged, and she looked at the clock. Did she have time to go into town and get something new to wear for this evening? Nothing spectacular, but maybe a new sweater. Or some earrings. She felt a tiny tingle in her tummy and laughed. Pre-date nerves at her age? How ridiculous . . .

 

Later that evening, Harry stood in the doorway of the hut with a restorative can of Coke. He forced himself not to look to see if Florence was around. Instead, he watched his grandmother make her way up the beach. She had looked wonderful tonight, with a white fitted T-shirt and cropped jeans and her sequinned flip-flops, a dark blue linen cardigan slung round her shoulders. Her eyes were smiling, properly smiling, for the first time this holiday. And although he was empty inside, Harry felt a little shoot of hope. She had been brimming with sparkle and optimism, and if she could feel that, after everything she had been through, and everything she had told him, well, maybe, just maybe, so could he. Not yet, not today, but one day. Maybe soon.

M
arisa Miller arrived at the Everdene Sands Hotel with one good suitcase and a smile for all the staff.

They all adored Mrs Miller. The doorman stood to attention, instead of wondering when he could nip off for a cigarette. The receptionist sat up straight and forgot her nagging period pains. And the manager came hurrying out of his office, where he had been agonising over his debts at the bookmaker, wondering how he had ever got himself into this mess, and greeted her with an outstretched hand and a wide smile.

Steven wished fervently that all the hotel’s guests were as charming as Mrs Miller. His life would be so much easier. And he wished he could offer her the service she deserved. He was ashamed that costs had been slashed recently at the hotel, thanks to the economic climate. The bath towels weren’t as thick and plentiful as when she last stayed. The number of staff had been cut, and they didn’t offer an evening turndown any more. Once, the rooms would have been discreetly tidied, the pillows plumped, the curtains drawn, the soft bedside lamps lit. Now, when a guest came back to his room of an evening, it was just how it had been left.

Steven had told the staff in advance that Mrs Miller was to be looked after properly. He knew she was coming, because she had written to him to tell him so. It was, she told him, six months since her husband had died, and she felt strong enough to return to the place where they had always had their annual holiday. The manager felt privileged, and he wanted to make sure that Mrs Miller didn’t regret her decision. It wasn’t often he took pride in his work these days. There was hardly any point, because you rarely got thanks. People were so swift to complain - they found fault with anything and everything in the hopes of getting a refund - so why bother going the extra mile? He hated himself for becoming so cynical. When he had trained as a manager, it was all about the customer. Now it was all about saving money.

For Mrs Miller, he was determined to make an exception. She would have the best. Extra-fluffy towels. Chocolates on her pillow. He had arranged for fresh flowers in her room. And he had reserved one of the hotel’s beach huts for her exclusive use. The hotel owned two for the use of guests, who could hire them on a daily basis. Mrs Miller was to have one for the whole week at no extra charge. She had, after all, been coming here for over thirty years. Stephen didn’t care if it caused a stink.

His outstretched hand was ignored. Instead, he found himself kissed on both cheeks, her skin cool on his.

‘Steven. How lovely to see you.’

He breathed in her scent. Jicky by Guerlain. He knew, because there was always a bottle on her dressing table. Not that he was a stalker, but the scent had haunted him since the day he had first met her and he wanted to know what it was. Women these days smelt so harsh and cloying. Mrs Miller left a lingering trace of lavender and vanilla that intrigued rather than assaulted you. Stephen had wondered about buying some for his wife, but she had left him before he had a chance to track down where to buy it. It wouldn’t have suited her anyway.

In the meantime, he braced himself to give his condolences.

‘Mrs Miller, I am so sorry about your husband. On behalf of the hotel, may I express our sorrow at your loss . . .’

He’d picked this expression up off
CSI
Miami
. He hoped it didn’t sound insincere.

Mrs Miller took one of his hands in hers and smiled.

‘Thank you, Steven. Though, you know, it was for the best in the end. It was no life for him.’

He nodded. He knew about the stroke too, because she had written to him last year to cancel their stay and explain why they wouldn’t be coming. Life was so bloody cruel. In all his years as a hotel manager, he had never seen a couple so obviously still in love as Mr and Mrs Miller. A lot of husbands and wives who came here looked as if they would cheerfully push each other off the highest balcony. But the Millers knew how to keep the romance alive, even at the age of - what? He didn’t know, but they must be in their seventies. Yet they had more verve than most people half their age.

He picked up her suitcase and took the key from the receptionist.

‘Let me take you up to your room.’

She smiled graciously with no protest and followed him to the lift. Inside, he breathed in her scent again.

Maybe one day he would meet someone he could buy it for . . .

 

Marisa Miller had been born plain Mary Bennett, but when, at the age of nine, she determined on a career in ballet, she changed her Christian name in anticipation of a more glamorous life. Her single-mindedness, together with a supportive dance teacher, meant she landed herself a place at a leading ballet school at eleven, despite her parents’ misgivings that it would be a hard life. Marisa was certainly a talented dancer, but that wouldn’t be sufficient to succeed in a world that was renowned for being tough and competitive. Nevertheless, she found the drive and dedication needed. Ballet was her whole world. Her focus was unnerving, even to teachers who were used to girls with naked ambition. So it was very hard for them, when Marisa was seventeen, to take her to one side and tell her she wasn’t going to cut it. Not as a prima ballerina - and she would accept nothing less. She wasn’t the sort of girl to languish in the corps de ballet. No one could put their finger on it, as was often the case, but somehow she didn’t have that extra something. She was graceful, beautiful, technically correct - yet everyone who studied her agreed she was never going to be a Margot Fonteyn. And so it was gently suggested that she should find another career path.