Or desperate.
“So!” My voice swoops up uncertainly. “Now I need to …” I cough a few times. “I guess I need a casual … get back into the saddle. Nothing serious. Just a, you know, fling.” I give the most hideous little laugh. “One of these days.”
“Good idea,” says Finn after a pause, without moving his head.
Good idea? What does that mean?
“Well, you know.” I give another strange laugh. “Just a … It’s a thought.”
“Uh-huh.” Finn nods.
“Right. So. Um.”
I rub my nose. This is the most surreal conversation of my life. I think I’m going to stop talking now. And possibly emigrate. For a while I’m silent, my face tingling, wondering how long the pair of us will sit here on the sand, not looking at each other and also not addressing what just happened. Until Finn takes a deep breath.
“I’ve sworn off casual sex,” he says, in a manner which is so studiedly relaxed that I know he was rehearsing it in his mind. Before I can stop myself, I look at him and catch his eye by mistake, then hastily turn away, my cheeks burning. He looks supremely uncomfortable, and, frankly, I want to evaporate.
“Good for you,” I say, my voice a bit crunchy. “Good move. Makes sense. Makes a lot of sense.”
Why do I feel there’s a massive great story behind that one statement? A story he’s not planning to share with me?
“Yes,” says Finn. “Well.”
I open my mouth to make another meaningless remark, then catch sight of his awkward face and abandon the idea. Enough. A wave runs over my feet and I shiver. We’ve been sitting here in the sea too long. Hope and sexual fantasy were keeping me warm, but now I feel cold and embarrassed and stiff and as if I’ll never get my wetsuit off.
“I think I’ll take my surfboard back,” I say, trying to sound relaxed. “I’ve had enough. It was fun, though.”
“Let me,” says Finn at once, leaping to his feet.
“Don’t be silly!” I protest, but he’s already hefting my board under his arm.
“OK, well, thanks,” I say, realizing I can’t exactly wrestle it off him.
“No problem.” He flashes me a brief smile, then heads off down the beach. He’s striding. Quickly. Almost as if he wants to get away from me.
No. Scratch that. Exactly as though he wants to get away from me.
I watch him for a few moments, feeling a creeping hollowness. Well, there we are. I’ve messed up. I’ve made things awkward. We were friends. I had a burnout buddy. I had a good person in my life. But now he can’t even look at me. Great, Sasha. Just great.
Seventeen
Two hours later, my spirits have plummeted still lower. Sure enough, it took me ages to peel my wetsuit off my clammy, shivering body, while I hopped around my lodge, yanking at the neoprene. By the time I finally emerged, Finn had disappeared, so I hurried back up to the hotel, hoping for a long hot bath and room service. But in the lobby, there was Cassidy, setting out chipped gilt chairs and concert programs, and she greeted me by crying, “I’ve saved you a place at the front! You are coming, aren’t you?”
I was too slow to think of an excuse, so I promised to come. And now I find myself sitting in a gilt chair, clutching a glass of cava, listening to Nikolai recite poetry in Polish. Finn is nowhere to be seen. He must have been cleverer than me and dodged the lobby. The audience is mostly elderly people, who must live locally, and the only person I recognize is Terry’s daughter, Tessa, who is sitting in the same row. She seemed to be peering over at me earlier, almost as if she wanted to talk. But when I smiled, she bit her lip and looked away. She really is shy.
I glance at the program and try not to sigh. After Nikolai, it’s Herbert on the French horn, and then Esteemed local raconteur Dickie Rathbone, who will entertain us with stories of his time in the Merchant Navy. I take a sip of cava, then look up as someone sits next to me.
Oh my God, it’s Hayley. She’s being ushered to her chair by Cassidy and looks about as thrilled to be here as I am.
“I saved you a seat!” Cassidy is whispering breathily to her. “Hotel guests get the premium seats. All complimentary!”
Meanwhile, Nikolai is still holding forth in Polish. He gives a sudden dramatic sob and I squirm uncomfortably. They really should have provided a translation. I glance at Hayley, who is sitting rigidly, and notice that her eyes are a little glassy too. She sees me looking and bristles, so I hastily turn back and fix my eyes on Nikolai, who finishes with a flourish, then bows to the ragged smattering of applause.
“Nikolai, that was wonderful!” says Cassidy, leaping up in her role as MC. “And now maybe you could tell us what the poem was about?” She beams encouragingly at Nikolai, who is mopping his face with a hanky. He nods, then clears his throat as though for a speech.
“The gentleman, he love her,” he proclaims, his voice still throbbing with emotion. “But she not love him.”
There’s silence, as we all wait for more—then realize that’s it.
“Well!” exclaims Cassidy. “I think we all really picked up on the drama there, Nikolai, thank you very much. And now a small interval, while Herbert prepares his French horn. Please enjoy your cava.” She leads a further round of applause, and Nikolai bows several times, looking spent and exhausted, as if he’s just played Hamlet.
I sip my cava—then see Finn coming into the lobby, accompanied by Adrian. They’re both holding glasses of what looks like whisky, and from their flushed faces I’d guess this isn’t their first drink.
“Mr. Birchall!” Cassidy salutes him loudly. “And Mr. West! Just in time! There are seats in the front row for you. Or—” She stops dead as the two guys plonk themselves down in the back row, well away from Hayley and me. “That’s also fine.”
I can’t meet Finn’s eye. I can’t even look in his direction. I expect he went straight to the bar to get over the embarrassment of having a fellow guest throw herself at him.
“Pleasant concert,” says Hayley, making me jump.
“Yes.” I nod.
“Although I didn’t understand a word of that poem.”
“Me neither,” I admit. “It sounded very passionate, though.”
“Yes,” says Hayley tightly. “Well. Passion.” She leaves a pause before adding, “I’m Hayley, by the way. My husband’s Adrian. You probably heard that the other night.”
“I’m Sasha,” I volunteer. “Nice to meet you properly.”
Hayley’s hand is clenching her glass and she’s quivering all over. She seems brimming over with misery. I feel like with one little tap, it would all come spilling out.
“I’ve got the hair dryer, by the way,” I venture warily. “In case you need it.”
“I travel with my Dyson, thank you,” says Hayley, and swigs her drink, blinking hard.
Oh God. I can’t bear it. She looks so unhappy. Should I venture onto personal ground? Should I encourage her to talk? What if she snaps at me? She’s pretty scary when she’s in full flow.
Well, if she snaps, she snaps. I can at least have a go.
“I’m sorry if things are hard,” I say in a low, soft voice.
Hayley’s head whips round as if suspecting a trick—but when she sees my sincere face, something seems to break inside her.
“Yes. They are hard.” She nods several times, her eyes fixed on her glass. “Very hard.” She pauses, and I’m scrambling for something anodyne to say, when she speaks again. “You don’t get married and expect that twelve years later you’ll be texting your friends, asking for divorce lawyers, do you?” Without giving me time to answer, she adds, “Are you married?”
“No.”
“Wise,” she murmurs, her face taut. “Wise girl.”