“No, they’re not,” contradicts Bea.
“Well, they’re something-free. Are you vegan?” Paula peers at me.
“She’s healthy,” Bea answers, before I can reply. “It’s different. Ooh, I know!” Her face brightens. “We do salad garnishes. You could have a couple of those. I’ll put them on a plate, give you a doily. Two pounds fifty, that all right?”
Oh God. How do I order six doughnuts and a Bakewell slice now?
No. I can’t. I can’t face the kerfuffle.
“I’ll just have some mineral water, please,” I say after a pause, and Bea nods respectfully.
“Of course. Didn’t think of that. Mineral water.” She hands me a bottle and takes my money, and as I’m leaving, she calls out, “Hope you get your noni juice!”
Back outside, I exhale hard. Enough messing about. I need food. From some nice anonymous outlet. Hunching my shoulders, I start marching through the streets, right to the other end of town, where the cute cottages merge into less cute breeze-block buildings and garages and rundown flats. I dimly recall a small supermarket at this end of town, and … Yes! It’s still here.
It’s the tiniest, grimmest shop, staffed by a silent guy in a brown T-shirt. There’s nothing fresh, only packets and jars, but that suits me fine. I collect three jumbo bags of crisps, some chocolate biscuits, a bag of salted peanuts, a bottle of wine, and a tub of ice cream. I throw in Heat, Grazia, and Best-Dressed Celebrities and finally a Mars bar, then head to the till. The guy in the brown T-shirt looks at me hard for a moment, surveys my items, raises his eyebrows, then shrugs and starts to scan them. I stash what I can in my rucksack and put the rest in a plastic bag. As long as I don’t get spotted on the way back, I’ll be fine.
I pay with cash, and as the guy gives me my change, he touches his nose briefly.
“I don’t see nothing,” he says in sepulchral tones and nods at my bag. “I don’t say nothing. More to life than kale.”
Oh my God.
Everyone knows?
Feeling totally conspicuous, I hurry back through the drizzly streets, my bag of treats tucked under my arm, where I hope no one can see them. As soon as I can, I turn through the car park and make for the sand dunes that run between here and the beach. They’re huge sandy hills with grasses sprouting on top and steep-sided paths winding between them. They’ll shield me from view.
As I approach the dunes, I’m suddenly flooded with childhood memories. We spent hours here, playing hide-and-seek, sliding down them, lying on the tops of them, plucking at the vegetation, and talking about life. I choose a path I remember well, and as I make my way up a familiar sandy incline, I feel the same anticipation I always did, knowing that any minute I’ll emerge onto the beach and see the sea.…
Then a deep male voice stops me in my tracks.
“Dear Sir Edwin, I would like to apologize for my behavior last week.”
Hang on. I know that voice, don’t I? A dry voice with an edge of impatience. I’ve heard it before.
I think intently for a moment—then realize. It’s that guy from the train, the one with the surfboard. And he sounds just as tense and sarcastic as he did then. He may be saying sorry, but he doesn’t sound sorry.
The voice continues: “I should not have raised my voice to you in the departmental meeting, even though you’re a complacent, smug, total bloody—”
He stops midstream and sighs deeply, while I roll my eyes. Obviously, apologizing doesn’t come naturally to this guy.
“I should not have raised my voice to you in the departmental meeting,” he resumes. “Nor should I have slammed my coffee cup down on the boardroom table, causing spillage and damage to papers. I respect you highly and can only express my dismay at my actions. I am taking some time out from work to consider my behavior. I look forward to seeing you again at the office, and may I apologize again. Best, Finn Birchall.”
There’s silence. I don’t know what to do. I’m breathing hard, I realize, clutching my bag of goodies tightly against me, leaning against the sandy slope as though it will hide me. I don’t want to confront anyone right now, least of all some man with a temper issue. And I’m just debating whether to back away when the voice starts up again.
“Dear Alan, I would like to apologize for my behavior last week. I should not have punched the coffee vending machine in your presence, nor threatened to dismantle it with a sledgehammer.”
He did what? I stifle a giggle.
“I’m sorry that you were unnerved by my actions and can only apologize. I am taking some time out from work to consider my behavior. I look forward to seeing you again at the office, and may I apologize again. Best, Finn Birchall.”
This is excruciating. I shouldn’t be hearing this, but I’m riveted.
Slowly, silently, I creep forward, keeping to the side of the sandy path. I know this path. There’s a bend ahead and a little hollow where we used to sit as kids. I bet he’s there.
Sure enough, a moment later I glimpse him—and I was right. It’s the man from the train. Tall, dark-haired, leaning against the side of the hollow, dictating into a phone—using voice recognition, I guess. He’s angled away, so all I can make out is broad shoulders in a North Face jacket, a glimpse of ear, his hands holding his phone, and that firm, stubbly jaw. As I’m watching, he edits his text, then starts a new dictation, and I freeze.
“Dear Marjorie, I would like to apologize for my behavior last week. I should not have exhibited frustration with the office ficus plant for dropping leaves into my lunch nor threatened to chainsaw it into bits.”
I give another stifled giggle, clapping a hand over my mouth.
The man runs his own hand roughly through his hair, as though marshaling his thoughts. It’s a strong hand, which I now imagine crashing a coffee cup down on a boardroom table or chainsawing a ficus plant. I wonder what he does. Something involving clients. And colleagues. God help them.
“I understand that you are fond of the ficus plant and were upset by my intemperate language,” he continues. “Again, I apologize. I am taking some time out from work to consider my behavior. I look forward to seeing you again at the office, and may I apologize again. Best, Finn Birchall—”
He breaks off, looks at his phone for a moment, then thrusts it into his pocket, exhaling hard. From my partial view, I can detect that his face is creased in a deep frown. There’s a silent beat during which I don’t even breathe. Then he stands up straight from his leaning position as if to go, and I feel a spike of panic. Shit. Shit! What am I doing, watching him like this? What if he catches me? He’ll do more than slam down a coffee cup. Does he have a chainsaw about his person?
On lightning-fast, silent feet, I sprint back down the slope, along the edge of the dunes and into the next sandy hollow. Soon I’m out of sight, concealed between two high dunes and hardly breathing. I have no idea where the guy is, but it doesn’t matter. The point is, he didn’t catch me listening.
I wait a few seconds, safe in my hiding place, then put on my best “natural” air as I proceed down a steep bank and out onto the beach. The tide is out; the shore is vast and empty. The lodges are way over at the other end, and I turn my steps that way, forcing myself not to look around for the guy. It would be a complete giveaway.
In any case, it’s fine. He must have gone in some other direction, because there’s no sign of him or anyone as I tramp over the sand.
I reach the lodge without any other encounters, shut the door firmly, sink down on the sofa, and tear open a bag of crisps. And oh my God. That first salty, crispy, oily crunch is heaven. Heaven. I tear through the first packet, savoring every mouthful, then start cramming peanuts into my mouth. They feel solid. They feel like food. I was starving, I realize, starving.
After a while, my mouth starts to feel too salty, and I realize I could have done with an apple or something.