The Beach Hut (29 page)

‘Sorry?’

‘This - one-night stand thing. It’s not right.’

She gave a little laugh.

‘Come on. We’re both grown-ups.’

Liam peeled himself away from her. He stared up at the ceiling.

‘It’s not you,’ he said. ‘It’s—’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ Helena turned away and walked over to the kitchen area. She squirted some Fairy Liquid savagely into the sink and turned on the taps. ‘Just bugger off if you want to. I can handle it.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ said Liam. ‘I really like you. I want it to . . . matter. I don’t want to just get my leg over and walk off.’ He gave her a rueful smile. ‘I’ve done that once too often.’

Helena nodded sagely.

‘I’m guessing there’s history behind this?’

‘Like I said,’ he replied. ‘It’s not you ...’

Helena rolled her eyes.

‘Goodnight.’

She plunged their brandy glasses into the sink full of warm water. She heard the door of the beach hut click softly as he left.

Trust her to pick the one guy on the planet who had sworn a vow of celibacy to father her child.

 

The next morning, she heard a bang on her beach-hut door. She looked at her watch, bleary eyed. It was only just after seven. What was going on? She rolled out of bed and staggered across the room. Mornings were not her strong point. Not until she’d had two mugs of Earl Grey at least.

He was standing at the top of the step, dressed in a wetsuit, holding up another. On the sand behind him lay two boards.

‘Surf’s up,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘Let’s get the best waves before you get an audience.’

She stood in the doorway, speechless.

‘Come on. Chop-chop.’

No one did this to Helena Dickinson. Took her by surprise. Told her what to do. Set her a challenge she wasn’t sure she could meet.

He held out the wetsuit.

‘I reckon you’re about a size twelve? Stick it on. Let’s get going.’

 

Three hours later and she was exhausted. She didn’t know what ached more, her arms, her legs or her stomach muscles. She was battered from falling off - wiping out, as they called it - but she’d finally done it. She’d stood up on her board and rode in on a wave. Not very elegantly, granted, but she felt as if she was flying. When she finally fell, he came and gave her a hand to stand up.

‘I did it!’ she cried, triumphant. ‘I totally did it. It was fantastic!’

‘That’s it now,’ he grinned. ‘You’ll be hooked.’

Without thinking, she threw her arms around his neck. Their lips met, salty. It was a brief kiss, but a kiss full of promise, full of meaning, before a wave came up behind her and knocked her off her feet.

She came up laughing. He was right. She was hooked.

 

She managed to drag herself back to the hut on trembling legs. He teased her all the way. It was a new experience for her, a man who tested her, who wasn’t afraid to make fun. No one at the hospital ever did, and Neal certainly wasn’t one for light-hearted japes.

She made them pancakes, with sliced banana, Devon clotted cream and drizzles of maple syrup. They lay on a rug in the sun afterwards, in a carbohydrate slump.

‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ said Helena.

‘Shit,’ Liam sat up. ‘You’re not married. Tell me you’re not married.’

‘I’m not married,’ she assured him. ‘But I’m not a drug rep either.’

And so she told him the truth. About her job, and about Neal doing a runner. And he wasn’t fazed, or freaked out, or pissed off that she’d lied to him. He lay there listening to her unburden herself, and when she’d finished he just stretched out a hand and took hers.

They fell asleep together in the sun.

Sirens screeched. Bells rang. Somewhere in the background, Dizzee Rascal begged for someone to come and dance with him. Despite the cacophony, Serena was gripping the steering wheel with total concentration. She eased off the throttle as she took the corner, then put her foot down as she drove hell for leather down the straight before slowing down again for the hairpin bend. She could see the finishing line, the audience cheering either side of the road, as she maxed the car for the last half-mile, then swept under the flags to tumultuous applause two seconds before her rival.

‘Yesss!’ She jumped off her seat, arms in the air in a gesture of triumph.

Next to her, Adrian slid off his seat with a wry grin of defeat.

‘I never knew you could drive like that.’

‘I’ll let you into a secret.’ She leant in close to him, and he breathed in her scent. He should be used to it by now, but it still made him light-headed. ‘I used to come in here with Harry. When he was about thirteen. We played all the games, but that was his favourite. I bet our initials are still in the computer.’

They walked away from the Grand Prix simulator. All around them, people were hypnotised by the games on offer, even though the odds were stacked against them. Fruit machines, roulette wheels, Kentucky Derbys: they pumped coins in endlessly, the thumping cascade of occasional winnings spurring them on.

‘Of course, Philip would have flipped if he knew. He hates this place.’ She made a face, imitating her husband.
‘It’s for
drongoes.
’

She didn’t have to explain to Adrian. He knew his own brother only too well. He could just imagine his reaction if he found out his wife and son had been sneaking into the arcade for a bit of harmless fun. Sneeringly condescending vitriol. And some sort of sadistic punishment for Serena when she was least expecting it-a cruel put-down in front of guests, probably, or his refusal to attend some social occasion she was looking forward to. Petty punishments, because Philip was a coward and a bully. Adrian had been at the mercy of his brother’s tongue more times than he cared to remember when they were young, and because of his placid nature he had never retaliated.

He was getting his own back now, however.

Not that this was motivated by revenge. Not at all. Adrian genuinely adored Serena. He had done since the day Philip had brought her home with him to meet the family, nearly twenty years ago. Adrian had only been sixteen then, and at the time thought it was probably a rite of passage to fancy your brother’s girlfriend and that he would get over it one day. But he hadn’t. Gradually, over the summers at Everdene, they had become closer. And closer. Until now . . .

He grabbed her to him, suddenly overwhelmed by his strength of feeling. The slightly surreal surroundings had brought it home even more. It was nearly the end of the summer; The Shack would be handed over to someone else come the autumn. If they didn’t come clean, she would slip away, back to Warwickshire, and maybe the strength of
her
feelings would fade. The summers were the only time they had together - snatched, stolen moments, always cautious not to arouse anyone’s suspicion. The rest of the time they communicated by mobile via an elaborate system of codes. He thought back on those phone calls; they sometimes spoke for hours, lying on their respective beds, the miles stretching interminably between them. Even when they spoke about the mundane it was intimate, and when they spoke about the intimate . . .

‘We have to tell everyone,’ he told her. ‘We have to tell them now. Or we never will.’

He pushed her back against the fruit machine. He could feel the bass through her body. He wanted her so badly it hurt.

They still hadn’t had sex. Something was holding them back. When it happened, they both wanted it to be right, not a sin. They’d only ever kissed. He couldn’t imagine anything better than kissing her, but no doubt it would be.

‘I know.’ She looked into his eyes, her gaze unfaltering. Behind her head the machine flashed and winked. ‘I’ll tell Philip tonight.’

‘And I’ll tell my mother.’ Adrian didn’t relish the prospect. Jane had had her fair share of bad news this year, and she was very protective of her family. He didn’t know how kindly she would take to someone trying to destroy it from within. Serena would be the scapegoat, he knew that already. Not him. And not Philip.

They held each other tightly. Around them, chaos reigned - neon flashed, machines beeped and squawked, the carpet swirled in a tangle of electric blue and acid yellow. The air was thick with the scent of burgers and candy floss from the snack bar in the corner, and kids wandered around with cups full of luminous flavoured ice. It was hell or heaven, depending where you stood on amusement arcades.

‘Dad?’ To six-year-old Spike, blinking up at them, it was absolute paradise. But he looked confused. Why were the two of them hugging like that?

They peeled away from each other quickly. It had been one of the strictest rules of their affair, not to compromise Spike in any way.

‘Hey.’ Adrian ruffled his son’s hair, the little tuft that still stood up in the front, the tuft that had given him his name. ‘Serena just beat me hands down.’

‘I’ve run out of money.’ Spike held out his hands to prove he wasn’t lying.

‘Two pounds. That was your limit.’

‘I wanted to win the Bart toy. I nearly got it.’

Adrian sighed. That was the problem with the arcade. It taunted you and teased you, made you believe you were about to come away with one of its crummy prizes. Spike had been longing for a Bart Simpson cuddly toy from the grabber.

‘Let’s give it one more go,’ said Serena, taking Spike’s hand. ‘You never know.’

‘I do know,’ said Adrian, but he followed them anyway.

Serena slotted another fifty pence into the machine. She bent down next to Spike and told him which buttons to press to manipulate the grabber. Adrian knew what would happen. It would hover tentatively over Bart, then reach down with its claws and clutch helplessly at the prize, an ineffectual grasp of maybe an arm or a leg, before raising itself up again to its starting position, empty-handed.

But to Adrian’s amazement, under Serena’s guidance and encouragement, Spike managed to position the grabber in just the right spot. He squealed in excitement as Bart was born aloft. Moments later, he had him in his arms, a fluorescent-yellow toy made of cheap synthetic fibre that undoubtedly did not bear the approval of the programme-makers.

Seeing the incredible pleasure on his son’s face made Adrian feel warm inside. It was what life was all about. And he knew that a future with Serena would make sure his life would be filled with these moments. It was one of the things - one of the many things - that he loved about her, the way she treated Spike. She always had time for him, had time to make things special. She always thought about what he might like, and bought him little presents. Nothing expensive-a windmill on a stick, a set of paper flags to stick in his sandcastles, his favourite magazine. Or a delicious oyster, the ice cream packed inside the wafer shell-a sweet treat that wouldn’t spoil his lunch.

He shut his eyes so he could savour this precious moment. Tomorrow, all hell would have broken loose. She might be his, or she might not. He prayed she had the strength to fight for what they had talked about incessantly for over a year now, but he knew she had a lot more to lose than he did. Serena had a marriage, and two children, and a family home. Adrian just had Spike. And Spike was only ever on loan to him as and when his mother thought fit. So he had nothing to lose, and everything to gain.

 

Adrian waited until Spike was tucked up in his bunk with Bart firmly under his arm, then poured his mother a glass of Bourgogne Aligote and flipped the lid on a Peroni for himself before he took the plunge. He, Jane and Spike were alone at The Shack; Philip, Serena, Harry and Amelia had rented a hut a few doors down, and David and Chrissie and their three were coming down the next afternoon, all in readiness for the annual end-of-season party at the weekend. That seemed a lifetime away at the moment. Adrian knew he had to strike now, before arrangements took over and everyone descended into pre-party hysteria and catering crises, which they did every year.

His mother, he thought, looked well. She had seemed very relaxed this summer, despite, or perhaps because of, her bereavement. In the past, she had always been on tenterhooks, having to second-guess Graham’s mood, pussyfoot around him.

Adrian didn’t need a therapist to tell him that it was probably his relationship with his mother that had fuelled his relationship with Serena. They were both in the thrall of powerful but selfish men who treated them like dirt. Adrian had always tried to protect his mother from his father, but what could he do when the cruelty was more mental than physical, when he couldn’t put his finger on what his father had ever done, only knew that it made his mother desperately unhappy? At least with Serena, who suffered in much the same way, he could do something to help her, by taking her away from the source of her unhappiness.

He remembered the first day he realised that she felt for him too. Just over three years ago. He had found her crying round the back of the hut where they hung the wetsuits to dry.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, astonished at the emotion that rose up inside him. The urge to protect her, and the urge to thump Philip, whom he guessed was behind her misery.

‘Just a silly argument,’ she tried to assure him, but the tears flowed thicker and faster. He put an arm round her, and she buried her face in his chest. He could have stood like that for ever.

She didn’t confide in him that time. He knew he would have to build up trust. So he didn’t probe, he was just there. And when, finally, the tears stopped because there couldn’t possibly be any more, he told her he was going out in the RIB, the lightweight speedboat the family had bought a few years before and kept in a unit further down the estuary.

‘Fancy coming?’ he asked. ‘It’ll blow away the cobwebs. Mum’s looking after Spike for a while. I said I’d go and check the boat out, give it an overhaul.’