I stretch my legs out silently, gazing up at a bank of clouds, feeling a kind of lightness, almost an optimism. I’ve just covered Step 18 on my program, I realize: CONFIDE IN SOMEONE YOU CAN TRUST. And it made me feel better, just like Wetsuit Girl promised. I can still remember the advice on the app: PROTECT YOURSELF AND THINK CAREFULLY WHO TO TALK TO. IF YOU’RE GOING TO OPEN UP, YOU NEED TO BE SECURE. IF IN DOUBT, CALL ONE OF THE HELPLINES LISTED BELOW, OR VISIT OUR ONLINE FORUM.
But I don’t need a helpline or a forum. I have someone I trust, right here.
Thirteen
That afternoon, I go for another stroll through the town. I’ve got used to my little routine of striding briskly along the beach, then winding round the narrow streets and lanes, peering into shop windows. Although I am not going to buy crisps today, I tell myself. I am not.
I head along the beach toward the Surf Shack and then beyond it, to the place where Surftime used to stand. Maybe the building doesn’t exist anymore, but this is where the accident began. This is where James Reynolds rented out his damaged kayak. Maybe I can find a clue here.
As I gaze at the empty patch of ground where Surftime used to stand, I find myself remembering Pete, who ran it. Now I think back, with an adult’s perspective, I can appreciate that he was good-looking. Tall and strapping with a dark beard and loads of earrings. Kirsten and I sometimes hired bodyboards from him when Terry had run out, and you’d think we might have had a crush on him. But we didn’t. No one did. There was something off about him, for all that he had a wide smile. It didn’t seem real.
I guess it couldn’t have been easy, being in competition with Terry, to be fair. Pete tried to copy Terry, but he just couldn’t quite manage it. He was impatient, I remember that. He didn’t like answering questions. He would snap at children who couldn’t manage their wetsuits. You’d see his classes doing their warm-up routines on the beach, and it all looked quite cursory. I’m not surprised he cut corners with safety, to be honest.
I perch on a wooden post, get out my phone, and dial Mum, then Kirsten, but neither of them replies. I’m not surprised; they’re so busy. So I WhatsApp them each a photo of the second message, then type:
Hi, both! Just wondering, does this mean anything to you? It appeared on the sand. It’s the date of that kayak accident. What do you remember about that? Was there a couple involved in some way??
As soon as I’ve sent it, I realize I should also have given them an update, so I add another message:
All good here. Feeling really great, so much better. Did yoga on the beach today!!! xxx
I wander through the dunes, across the big car park, and into the town, meandering aimlessly here and there, looking for possible gifts to take back. Every gallery seems to be selling pictures made out of driftwood. Would Kirsten like one of those? Or are they in the category of It looked fab when we were by the sea but not so much in Hackney?
As I’m dawdling along, a massive copy of Young Love draws my attention, and I cross the road to look at it. Beside it is a sign: Authorized signed print. We are proud to be the exclusive stockist of Mavis Adler in Rilston. Underneath the picture is a display of mugs, purses, tote bags, and calendars, all plastered with images of Young Love, and I can’t help feeling they detract from the main picture. But I guess it’s the merch that sells.
What with the messages on the beach, I feel a bit connected to Mavis Adler, and I peer at Young Love, looking at it closely for maybe the first time ever. I know nothing about painting, but I can see that it uses quite vivid colors. The sand, the rocks, the shadows, are all in rich ochres and cobalts and … whatever the posh name is for red. There’s even red in the shadows and the clouds. The whole picture has a glow. It’s an intense piece of artwork. It’s arresting. I guess that’s why it’s so popular. And the young couple kissing have a kind of body language that makes you envy them. His arm is wrapped around her waist. Her head is thrown back slightly. You can’t see their faces, but you can see her young, coltish legs dressed in shorts; you can tell he’s a teenager from the back of his head.
I think I’ve always dismissed this painting as being just “that picture on postcards,” but now I’m looking at it properly, I rather love it. Maybe I’ll buy a tote bag.
As I push open the door to the gallery, there’s a ting and a woman comes forward to greet me. She has graying hair, a blue printed smock stuffed into ballooning linen trousers, and what seems like three pairs of socks, stuffed into clogs. On her chest is a wooden badge carved with the name Jana.
“I saw you looking at Young Love,” she says with a friendly smile. “If you’re interested, Mavis Adler has a new exhibition beginning here a week from Saturday. A very exciting new collection.”
I can’t say, No thanks, I was just interested in that one painting, so I take the leaflet and eye it. Then, a moment later, my mind starts turning.
“All new art?” I look up.
“All new art.” Jana nods.
Oh my God! I am officially top detective and I win. The messages on the beach are some kind of art, and we’re the only witnesses because we’re in the lodges.
“Tell me something,” I say, in my best, swaggering, slam-dunk TV-detective manner. “Is Mavis Adler’s new exhibition by any chance a series of messages on the beach?”
“No,” says Jana.
I frown, put out. “No?”
“No,” she repeats. “You’re thinking of a previous collection, Land Conversations, which made use of the beach at Rilston Bay.”
“Well, what’s this new exhibition?”
“It’s a series of sculptures using natural and manmade materials. Here, have a look.” She opens a catalog on a nearby display case. “If you’d like to buy an exhibition catalog, they’re twenty pounds,” she adds.
“Right,” I say, trying not to sound like a Philistine cheapskate. “Well … maybe.”
I flip over the pages to see photographs of huge metal girders welded together into weird shapes. Some of them have bits of driftwood incorporated, and one is nestling in a massive coil of rope, only I can’t tell if that’s part of the art or not. I glance at the title to see if that helps, but it’s called Untitled.
“Amazing!” I say as I get to the end of the catalog. Jana seems to be expecting me to say more, so I grope for some more phrases. “Very powerful. Visceral. I loved the … the.… structural … forms. Quite different from Young Love. And Land Conversations.”
“Yes.” Jana smiles. “Her new work is possibly more challenging than anything she has done previously. But very rewarding.” She juts out her chin as though she’s daring me to disagree.
“Definitely!” I say hastily. “Very rewarding. So, has she ever painted any more pictures like Young Love?”
“No.” Jana’s smile becomes more fixed. “No, she hasn’t. But she is working on a new secret project called Titan. We’re all waiting to see what that is.”
I wander over to a display board entitled The Story Behind Young Love and see a collage of newspaper articles about the real teenage couple who took the art world by storm.
“I never knew they were real!” I exclaim, and scan a few paragraphs about the couple, who are called Gabrielle and Patrick. “Wait, they got married in real life? That’s so romantic!”
“It was all quite widely reported,” says Jana as though I’m a bit dim. “There was a TV documentary.”
“Oh. Well, I missed that.”
I survey the picture from a Daily Mail piece, showing the couple in their wedding finery, and suddenly an idea occurs to me.
“She could paint an update!” I swing round to Jana. “She could paint them in their wedding gear and call it Wedding Love. Or if they have kids, she could paint Family Love. Everyone would love it! You’d sell loads of mugs.”
I’m already creating a marketing campaign in my head. Hashtags, images, partnerships, events, the biggest digital presence you’ve ever seen …
Then I blink and come to, almost in surprise at myself. I never expected my brain to come alive like that. I thought I was off marketing, off work, off all of it. It just shows. Something.