That’s a game I like to play. Others look for feathers or rainbows or coins. I look for unexpected magic. Small miracles sparking out of black holes. Perfect parking spots. Chance meetings. Stars aligning for subtropical mini-breaks and festivals . . .
Hugh follows me out onto the balcony. He leans on the banister, inhales the salt air and exhales about six months’ worth of stress from the office. Compared with the dryness of Canberra, the post-storm humidity seeps into your lungs here, even in winter. The air pulses with the invisible vibrations of life and the ocean itself seems to reach over the rise, caressing your skin with its spray – pulling you towards it, irresistibly, like the moon pulls tides.
‘This do?’ Hugh asks.
One look at the expression on my face and he smiles, relieved. I’d told him in the car that, freak storm or not, I was uneasy about the whole idea of taking a spontaneous long weekend like this – especially with him.
‘I’ll stay out of your way,’ he’d promised. ‘I’ve got a uni mate up this way. We’ll have a beer and catch up while you’re at the festival.’
‘What would you have done if I’d said no?’ I ask him now, but I already know the answer. We’d be halfway to Coffs Harbour by now, gearing up for a milkshake at the Big Banana.
‘And pass this up? I’d have kidnapped you,’ he says. He eases into the hammock, testing his weight against the heavy rainbow-coloured fabric before swinging his legs into it, in a way that I’m positive he hasn’t done since he was a child.
Who is this relaxed man, and what has he done with my perennially industrious boss?
‘You’d have held me hostage in this hideous Airbnb?’
‘Yep. Let you suffer the cursed ocean with its endless racket on your private balcony.’
‘Did we already decide I get the balcony room?’ I ask.
‘This is a luxury kidnapping, Kate, with only the best views.’
‘What if I just want to sleep in and devour 1980s romance novels for two straight days and can’t even make it to the festival?’
Please make me go.
‘That festival is non-negotiable,’ he says, stretching his arms up behind his head. ‘Don’t mess with me or I’ll force you to watch a sunrise on the beach.’
‘Is that really within budget?’
‘Kate, sunrises are free. You need this holiday more than I thought.’
I pull at the ropes of the hammock and he startles, as if he’ll be tipped out. If this is what beach-house Hugh is like, then I can think of worse things than being holed up for an unplanned mini break in his company. He should let this side of him out in the office.
‘I’ll have to work a bit while we’re here, too,’ he says.
‘Mate, that’s boring. Don’t you need the break as well?’
There’s a beat before he answers. ‘Yeah, probably.’
And there’s that glimpse again of whatever is troubling him.
‘The problem is, I’ve got this lazy team member. Chronically late. Leaves things ’til the last minute. Makes ridiculous excuses – even calls in the bomb squad to avoid the office. Loses sleep catching up on work overnight, then snores for hours on the plane, distracting me from my spreadsheets.’
‘Hello. That was not me.’
‘Tell that to the busybody in front of us,’ he suggests. ‘She kept turning around and glaring at me. Asked me to wake you up at one stage or she’d report you to the steward for making a public nuisance.’
‘She didn’t!’ I’m half amused, half secretly worried he’s serious. Maybe I do snore at high altitudes—
He smiles at me. ‘It’s all right, Kate. You didn’t snore.’
Relief.
‘It was the sleep-talking that really threw me off.’
Please, God, not the sex hallucinations.
‘I made a deal with unconscious Kate,’ Hugh says. ‘We’re keeping our conversation private. She was very funny.’
Am I not funny awake? Maybe I’ve lost my sense of humour. Ugh.
‘I hate how grief reduces you,’ I admit.
He looks at me, bewildered. ‘Reduces you? Is that what you think?’
20
I’m under the beach’s spell without even setting so much as a toe on the sand, and it’s time to rectify that. I kick off my boots, peel off Justin’s jacket, toss it on the wooden table and run down the outdoor staircase in bare feet. From the garden, a short path leads me over the rise and onto pristine sand.
There it is. My ocean. I’ve taken Charlie for day trips to South Coast beaches as often as possible since Cam died. Each time I stand on sand, near waves, I feel a tiny bit more human. More myself. Or some new version of me that’s a little less heartbroken and a little more together. There’s something about the unstoppable rhythm, no matter how bad things get, that comforts me.
Hugh doesn’t follow me. I think he instinctively knows I need this moment.
The wide beach stretches north, and south all the way to the iconic Byron Bay lighthouse, standing on the most easterly point in Australia, above Wategos Beach. The once sleepy coastal town is now a popular backdrop for the Instagram stories of Hollywood celebrities and influencers peddling plant-based collagen powder, hemp oil and crystals in front of ring-lit tripods.
It’s unseasonably warm for late winter, and there’s another storm brewing to the south-west, towards Lismore. I walk towards the shore, the sand getting firmer and wetter beneath my feet, and step out a little way into the cold water, deep enough to have to dig my feet in solidly to keep my balance.
It’s a lot like grief, standing here. You’re dragged from the shallows into the depths where it’s dark and heavy and you can’t see or hear or breathe. There were times over the last two years when, if I screamed, grief would swallow up the noise. It was bigger than my voice. A whirl of emotion for which there’s no sufficient word in the entirety of the English language.
I take a few steps further out until the water laps the hem of my skirt. It’s icy and clear, a stark contrast to the warmth of the sun on my shoulders. Every so often a bigger wave hits and I sink deeper and dig my toes further into the sand to keep my balance.
Suddenly, there’s a much bigger wave coming and no time to back away from it. I’ll be saturated in my dry-clean-only skirt but I don’t care. I know it will knock me off my feet and drag me along the sand unless I dive under it. And when I do that, fully clothed, I feel reckless and crazy, and shockingly cold.
Sometimes I flirt with death. It’s just a fleeting glance. A blip, somewhere on the outer edge of my radar. A faint, comforting reminder it’s always there in case I need it.
A mother shouldn’t have these thoughts.
I don’t know how long I stand there, soaked through, after that. There are no more waves that big. I think the tide is going out. I’m frozen. Stuck. And I want to cry, but I can’t. The afternoon breeze is increasing, clouds are billowing and now I’m shivering. I take a few steps backwards until I’m back on dry sand. Spent.
I know he’s standing there before I even turn around. I can sense him. Watching from a respectful distance. Protecting me. Letting me lose it, right to the edge, but not quite over it.
I close my eyes and in moments he is standing right behind me. Close enough for me to feel his energy.
Cam.