I don’t. Obviously I don’t. But it’s an unwelcome distraction, having another presence on the beach. I can feel his gaze boring into my back. Or I imagine I can. Either way, I am not lost in a trance of relaxation, and this is not working.
I do a few desultory stretches, then wonder if I should move on to the hundred-squat challenge instead. But that’ll be even worse. I really don’t need an audience for that. And which way do I face? Either I’ll have to do them facing away, in which case he sees my bum bobbing up and down, or I turn around, in which case I look like I’m curtsying to him.
Casually I glance round to see if he’s left—but no. He’s still on the rock. Damn him.
Feeling selfconscious, I stand up, roll up my mat, shove my Hula-Hoop over my shoulder, and decide to move on to STEP 3: COMMUNING WITH NATURE. To remind myself of my task, I open the app on my phone and find the advice, which is illustrated by two photos of Wetsuit Girl. In one she’s cavorting with a dolphin, which seems to be smiling joyfully back at her. In the other she appears to be in a rainforest, touching the bark of a massive tree, an expression of awe on her face.
The ancient natural world can soothe any troubled spirit. Animals instinctively want to help and nurture. Plants want to heal. Harness their power. Reach out to them and feel your mind and body respond.
I’m not wildly optimistic, but let’s give it a try. I shove my phone back in the pocket of my anorak and cast around the beach for some nature. There are seagulls shrieking above me, and I peer up at them, but they’re too far off to make a connection. Also: Do seagulls instinctively want to help and nurture? In my experience, they instinctively want to pinch your food and make messes on your shoulder.
I glance at the waves—but I’ve already tried looking at the waves. OK. What else is there?
Seaweed? Dubiously, I walk over to a patch of seaweed and stare down at it. It’s brown and gloopy and kind of unattractive. I’m not sure it’s doing anything for me. There’s a tiny crab walking over the top of it, though, and I crouch down to look at it more closely. Hi, crab, I say silently, but the crab doesn’t seem to respond. Hi, crab, I try again, but it disappears between two strands of seaweed.
I turn my attention to a whelk and stare at it for a bit, wondering if I could commune with that. Hi, whelk, I try experimentally. Then it occurs to me to turn it over—and it’s not even alive. It’s an empty shell.
This is stupid. It’s embarrassing. What do I think I’m doing? I’m not swimming with a dolphin in turquoise waters; I’m on a chilly English beach, crouching over seaweed, trying to “reach out” to a dead whelk. Forget it. What’s next on the list?
I get up, shaking out my legs, and before I can stop myself, I glance over at the rock yet again. Argh. Stop it. Don’t look at him, Sasha, I instruct myself sternly. What is wrong with me? I’m not here to look at a boy on a rock. I’m not thirteen years old. I have a wellness program to follow. Briskly, I pull out my phone and consult the next step on the app: Dance like no one is watching.
This is a big section, with lots of resources. There are guides to dance moves like the twist and the floss. There’s a film of Wetsuit Girl dancing joyfully in an empty wood. And there’s some helpful advice:
Be the star of your own rock video. If you’re in a crowded area, just tune out! Mix it up with hula-hooping and skipping. Don’t worry about all the people around—just enjoy yourself. Be Beyoncé! Be Shakira! The euphoria will soon be addictive.
There’s even a playlist, so I call it up and shove my earphones into my ears. I listen to the pounding beat for a moment, trying to get into the zone. Then I try shimmying across the sand, swaying my hips, waiting for the euphoria to kick in.
When it doesn’t kick in, I shimmy back again, waving my arms. But I still can’t feel any euphoria, just acute embarrassment. My toes keep catching on the sand in my bulky trainers, and I don’t feel anything like Beyoncé or Shakira. (I’m wearing an anorak. How can I feel like Shakira?) Maybe freestyle dancing is a mistake, I think after a bit. Should I try something specific like the floss? I begin some awkward floss-like movements—then instantly regret it. I could never do the floss, and anyway, it’s the stupidest dance in the world.
My eyes drift toward the rock—and he’s watching me. Oh God.
Maybe I’ll switch to hula-hooping. Studiously ignoring him, I step into the pink hoop, place it round my waist, and give it a twist, jerking my hips back and forth. The hoop falls straight down to the sand. I try again. The hoop clatters down again.
I glance at the rock and he’s still watching. Wait, is he laughing?
OK. Here’s the thing. I wouldn’t worry if there were loads of people. If there were crowds on this beach, I would meditate, do my squats, dance, talk to the seagulls, do it all. I would feel anonymous and unselfconscious.
But there aren’t crowds. There’s just one guy, sitting on a rock, watching me. I can’t dance like no one is watching, because they are. He is.
In a burst of frustration, I march up the beach to the rock. He’s now leaning back, staring up at the sky, and doesn’t move an inch as I approach.
“Hi,” I say. “I have a question. How long are you planning on being here?”
“This beach not big enough for you?” he says without even turning his head.
“I didn’t say that. I asked you a question.”
“Don’t know.” He shrugs. “How long are you planning on being down here?”
“Don’t know,” I say before I have time to think.
Damn. That wasn’t exactly a brilliant, killer reply. Which is obvious from the fact that he doesn’t even bother to respond.
Stalemate.
“Well, enjoy,” I say in pleasant–not-pleasant tones, and stomp off to my lodge.
Once the door is closed, I flop on the sofa, rip open a bag of crisps, and devour them all in a haze of comforting bliss, interrupted only occasionally by minuscule stabs of guilt. I know exercising on the beach should fill me with euphoria. But frankly I’m getting more euphoria from these salt ’n’ vinegar crisps. They should be on the list. Maybe Wetsuit Girl just hasn’t ever tried them.
When I’ve finished the crisps and licked every salty mouthful of crumbs off my fingers, I read all the horoscopes in my celebrity magazines, because I missed those out yesterday. My undrunk kale smoothie is sitting in its cup on the floor, and I eye it with revulsion. Maybe I should dispose of it. But it’s so thick, it’ll clog up the sink if I pour it down there. On the other hand, if I venture outside, Mr. Obnoxious might spot that I haven’t drunk it and make some sarcastic comment.
I’ll just leave it for now, I decide. No one will see. This lodge is my safe space. So safe that I find myself opening the last bag of crisps and stuffing them in. Maybe I can’t commune with nature, but I sure as hell can commune with carbs.
After I’ve finished them, I sit for a while doing nothing, just blankly watching dust motes float through the air—but then, at long last, I rouse myself. Come on, I can’t sit here all day. I poke my head cautiously out of my lodge door and see that the rock is still occupied. He’s still sitting there, staring out to sea, and now he’s drinking … Is that whisky?
I creep cautiously onto the deck, ready to dart back into my lodge at any moment if he turns round. Yes. It’s whisky. He’s got a bottle and a glass and … are those peanuts? I feel slightly indignant that he’s basically set himself up with a bar. Where did he get that whisky? He must have climbed down, fetched the bottle from somewhere, then reclaimed his position on the rock. If I’d been paying attention, I could have nabbed his place.
As though he can feel my gaze, he turns and catches me staring. Drat. Hastily, I pretend I’m doing a calf stretch on the deck. And now a quad stretch. Lots of stretches, la la la, pretend I can’t see him …
“Is there a problem?” he calls.