Whaa-aaat?
I stare at the view, rigid, too shocked to make a sound. The windows are boarded up. Fully boarded. All I can see are planks of wood. I traveled six hours for planks of wood?
“That’s … not a sea view,” I manage at last.
“No, it’s scaffolding,” explains Cassidy. “Didn’t you see it when you arrived? Oh no, you came the other way!” She bursts into laughter. “No wonder you look surprised! You’re expecting a sea view, then I pull the curtains back and you see scaffolding!” She seems highly amused. “Wait till I tell Herbert!”
I’m starting to tremble all over. I think I might lose it in a minute. I’ve been focusing on this sea view as the answer to everything. I’ve imagined how it will heal and mend me. The sky. The gulls. The soothing rhythm of the waves. And now I can’t have it?
“The thing is, my mum—I mean, PA,” I correct, “my PA booked a sea-view room. Sea view,” I emphasize. “And this isn’t a sea view.”
“Seafront,” Cassidy corrects me helpfully. “Not sea view. You are on the seafront side, you just can’t see the sea.” She peers at me, slowly realizing that all is not well. “So, were you expecting a sea view?”
“Yes!” I sound a bit more shrill than I intended. “Yes! I was!”
“Right. Got you.” Cassidy chews the side of her mouth, then gets out her phone. “Bear with me a moment.…” She dials a number and lowers her voice a smidge. “Simon? I’ve got your VIP guest here. The healthy kale lady? Turns out she wanted to see the sea from her room. She’s a bit stressed out. So I was wondering, shall I try and take down some of the scaffolding?” She listens a bit longer, then her face clears. “Oh, right. Of course! I clean forgot! Yes, I’ll do it straightaway. Bye, Simon … I’m such an idiot!” she exclaims as she rings off, clapping a hand humorously to her forehead. “There was a whole thing I was supposed to tell you!” She scrolls through her emails, then draws breath and starts reading aloud in a formal voice. “ ‘We do apologize for the restricted view at the current time. As recompense, we would like to offer you daytime use of a beach lodge, free of charge, as a means of enjoying the unique and beautiful view of Rilston Bay.’ ”
“Beach lodge?” I stare at her warily. “I thought the beach lodges were uninhabitable?”
“Well, you couldn’t sleep in one anymore,” she says, making a face. “But they’re perfectly safe, so we offer them to selected guests as a daytime facility. You can sit in them, stay out of the weather, enjoy the view, whatever you like. ‘Only eight lodges are available for this exclusive offer,’ ” she adds importantly, returning to the script, “ ‘which is offered to a limited number of guests at the discretion of the hotel.’ ”
“Right.” I digest this. “How many guests are staying at the hotel at the moment?”
“Currently, our numbers are quite small,” Cassidy says, looking cagey.
“How many exactly?”
“Well, it’s just yourself and the Bergens,” she admits. “Lovely Swiss couple, but they’re not interested in the beach; they only play golf. So the only person using a lodge would be … well, actually …” She shrugs. “It would be just you.”
Just me.
As I step onto the beach fifteen minutes later, clutching my lodge key, I feel almost unreal. I’ve made it. The sand of Rilston Bay is finally beneath my feet. After all these hours, all these years … I’m back. There’s not another soul on the beach, which I suppose is no surprise—the afternoon light is already fading and the weather has definitely taken a turn. The waves are crashing hard; the wind is whipping my hair round my face; the raindrops feel like sharp pins on my skin.
I don’t care. I’m here.
I spread my arms wide, feel the wind buffeting me, then turn around a few times on the sand, relishing my aloneness, the wideness of the sand, the weather, the vastness of the sky, the sound of gulls … everything. It’s so not London. It’s so not the office. It’s so not sixty-five emails by tomorrow.
I walk toward the sea, my trainers leaving deep imprints in the sand that become filled with water as I near the surf. My socks are already damp, but so what? I’m here. I’m here. I take a few deep, salty breaths, filling my lungs, just letting the sounds and sensations wash over me.
I was expecting to feel instantly euphoric, as soon as I got onto the beach. And I do. Of course I do. It’s glorious. It’s everything I was hoping for. But quite soon I realize that I also feel a bit strange. A bit tense. There’s a disconcerting feeling in my body that I can’t quite pin down. The solitude feels liberating—but oppressive. The pounding surf is almost too loud. And now I seem to be breathing faster, which is wrong. I should be breathing slower. For God’s sake. Can’t I even do relaxing on the beach?
I take a few brisk strides along the sand, trying to escape my confusion, but I can’t. My head feels alternately exhilarated then tight with trapped tears; elated then panicky. It’s as though I’m finally putting down a load I didn’t even know I was carrying—but I can’t let go so easily. I relax a little, then seize up again. It’s as if some part of me keeps grabbing the load back. Maybe for security? Or because I can’t remember what it’s like not to carry it?
Oh God. Basically, I feel a bit of a mess.
But then, what did I expect?
I turn to scan the terrain, trying to distract myself. The rocks, the cliffs, the lodges, the hotel, and, above that, rows of little houses. It all looks almost exactly the same as it did in my memories. That’s all there is at this end of the beach. Farther down you get the surf shops, cafés, ice creams, all that. But this end is simpler. Sea, sand, rocks, lodges.
I turn toward the lodges, taking in their derelict frontages with tender sadness. The paintwork is peeling, the wood is warped, a few windows are broken. One deck has collapsed completely. The “millionaires’ lodges” now look more like clapped-out beach huts. But who cares? A squall of rain hits me right in the face, and I decide that’s enough fresh air. Time to investigate Lodge 1, which is to be mine.
It takes several big hefts to get the door open. I burst through on my fourth attempt, almost falling over, then take a few steps forward on the creaky boards, looking around the space, breathing in the fusty wooden scent.
OK. I see what Cassidy meant. This really isn’t habitable. But I can also see that it might once have been a lovely guesthouse. There are bits of furniture left—a single wooden dining chair, a faded sofa, a pair of lamps. A freestanding heater, which I switch on at once. There’s a small fitted kitchen, with all its appliances removed. A staircase leads upward but has tape fixed over it, reading, DO NOT ENTER.
Cautiously, I approach the sofa and lower myself onto it. I’m expecting clouds of dust, but it seems quite clean. From the sofa, I can see straight through the big picture window to the sea. There’s my view.
There’s my view.
And suddenly I feel tears welling up, so hot and strong and powerful that there’s no question of blinking them away. No way of resisting. I need to cry. I can’t not cry. I have to let go. I feel as if weeks, months, years of strain are pouring out of me. There’s no one to see me, no one to hear.
I remember Mum after Dad died. You’d find her in the kitchen, and as she turned around her smile would be bright but her face wet. “Leaky eyes,” she’d say. “Just leaky eyes.”
Well, now I’ve got leaky eyes. A leaky brain. A leaky body. I brush at my face several times, but the tears just won’t stop. My stomach is crunching with every sob—wave after wave.