The Beach Hut Next Door (23 page)

TIM

Tim didn’t tell anyone that his party was basically a farewell party.

As long as he didn’t tell anyone, he didn’t have to admit it to himself.

As the day dawned, he thought that Everdene was taunting him. Reminding him what he was giving up. Never had it looked more beautiful; the sands pristine, the sky and sea a matching pale turquoise; the occasional puff of cloud dotted overhead to soften the vista; their Daz whiteness matching the lacy surf at the water’s edge.

He didn’t regret what he was doing, though. He knew it was the right thing. And, he reasoned, he had the rest of the world to explore. He had the freedom and the financial wherewithal to go wherever he pleased, whereas Rachel wouldn’t. He felt happy knowing that she would have the beach hut as a refuge and an escape whenever she wanted it.

And if his generosity had come about through guilt, what of it? Was there such a thing as true altruism, he wondered? And actually, he would never stop feeling guilty, no matter how much he tried to atone. Even if what he was guilty of wasn’t even his fault.

Yes, he would miss Everdene, but it was time for a new chapter, time to move on from the regret he would never be allowed to forget as long as he remained here. And who knew what tonight would bring?

The girl from the deli was called Lorraine. Tim remembered her name as soon as he got her email saying she would love to come to the party.

‘Can I crash?’ she’d asked, and he’d taken that as a good sign, her wanting to stay over. There had definitely been a connection between them as they bantered over the counter. She had something about her. He admired her entrepreneurial spirit, her work ethic and her knowledge of food. As he finished his morning coffee, made from the beans she had roasted and ground for him last time he’d been in, he allowed himself a flicker of excitement. Anticipation was a pleasure in itself, he thought. The allure of the unknown.

The party had turned from a bunch of mates, a pound of sausages and a disposable barbecue into something much more elaborate. He seemed to have asked pretty much everyone on Everdene Sands, because that’s the sort of place it was – parties went viral. And it was obvious if you left anyone out: in for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. Although everyone would bring a bottle and muck in.

He spent the day stringing up bunting; pegging out a dance floor with flares stuck into the sand; setting up his sound system and fine-tuning the Spotify playlists on his Mac: seventies’ funk, nineties’ rave, some chill-out tunes for the small hours, when the full moon would hang over the bay and lull everyone to sleep.

He filled several plastic tubs with sea water. Come evening they would be packed with ice and cans of Red Stripe and pear cider and bottles of Prosecco.

As soon as he realized that the guest list was getting out of hand, he’d decided to delegate the catering. He didn’t want to spend the evening hovering over a barbecue poking sausages. So he was getting The Lobster Shack to come in and do the food. They were bringing industrial catering burners and cooking up huge pans full of seafood paella: golden yellow rice studded with peppers and chicken and giant prawns and mussels.

Then Jenna was bringing down her ice-cream van at midnight, when everyone would be ready for something sweet to keep them going

Tim was pleased to be using the locals to make his final fling perfect.

After all, Everdene had been good to him. He’d had some of the best times in his life here.

He wasn’t going to think about the worst.

By six o’clock that evening, everything was in place. He had an hour to wait for everyone to arrive. He showered, stuck on his favourite O’Neill shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. He was just pulling the tab on his first can of Red Stripe when there was a tap on the door.

It was Lorraine. She was as cute as he remembered, her copper bob set off by a turquoise shift dress.

‘I’m sorry I’m early,’ she said, ‘but I thought I’d struggle to find it.’

He stepped back to let her in. ‘No worries,’ he said. ‘Come in. Let me get you a drink.’

Freckles. She had hundreds of freckles. And smiling hazel eyes.

‘Oh my God, this is just gorgeous,’ she said, looking round the hut, and he didn’t tell her this was his last weekend here. It didn’t seem to matter.

Two hours later, the party was in full swing. Kid Creole and the Coconuts were blaring out across the evening air. Most of the day trippers had left, leaving the sands clear for the guests to spill out up to the water’s edge – the tide was in as far as it would come. As the sun glided gently towards, the silver sea turned to gold.

Vince stood on the edge of the crowds, wondering why he felt so out of place. He thought he was probably in line for the prize of miserable bastard of the year. He should be happy, after all. Everything in his life was falling into place.

His biggest worry, which had been his brother, now wasn’t a worry at all. On the contrary. Chris had totally turned the corner. He was even badgering Vince about them getting another boat and expanding even more. His new girlfriend, Chloe, seemed to have kindled some kind of ambition in him. She was still working at The Lobster Shack, which Vince was pleased about, because she was their best waitress, and she’d promised to stay on until the end of the season. The restaurant was a massive success. It was all down to Murphy, thought Vince. It had been him with the vision.

Murphy. He seemed to have come through the recent events unscathed. In fact, if anything, he and Anna seemed closer than ever. They were here tonight. She’d left the girls with her mother. Of course he was pleased for his friend. Of course he was glad it was working out. But something felt sour. He still wondered if he should have told Murphy the truth.

He drank from his can of Red Stripe. He felt maudlin. Maybe he’d finish his drink and go home. He was about to toss the empty can in the bin and make his escape when he felt a hand on his arm.

It was Anna. Looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in a white tunic with silver embroidery, a wide leather belt at her waist; endless legs and silver flip-flops. She looked angelic. Only Vince knew the truth.

‘I just want to say thank you,’ she said to him. ‘Thank you so much. You made me see sense. You made me realize what it was I had to lose.’

He looked at her in distaste. He would never be able to trust her. What would she have done, if he hadn’t intervened? Would she have run off with her gardener, leaving Murphy to blame himself? Maybe he should have let her?

‘Don’t think badly of me,’ she pleaded.

‘Anna,’ he said, with brutal honesty. ‘I don’t think anything of you.’

He might as well have slapped her.

She breathed in, as if to calm herself.

‘Please dance with me,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to lose you as a friend.’

‘I can’t,’ said Vince. ‘I’m sorry.’

He was damned if he was going to give her absolution. That way she would have got away with everything.

‘You’re right,’ she said, as if she could read his thoughts. ‘I don’t deserve you.’

Vince shrugged. Maybe one day he’d feel differently, but right now he didn’t want to be anywhere near her.

He watched her walk away, into the crowds, to go and find Murphy, who was holding court, looking ridiculously Don Johnson in an unstructured linen suit and mirrored Ray-Bans. She grabbed his hand and led him towards the dance area which was now lit by flares. She pulled him towards her, her unsuspecting husband, and began to dance.

Vince could see that for Murphy, there was no one else at the party. He was entranced by his wife, gracious and elegant and slinky. She was mesmerizing.

Vince didn’t want to look at them a minute longer.

He turned, and walked straight into Kiki.

‘Hey,’ she said, holding out her arms. She was so open. So full of joy. So absolutely the antithesis of what he was feeling. ‘Do you want to dance?’

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, and dodged out of her way. He just wanted to be on his own.

Chloe walked with Chris down to the water’s edge. The tide had turned, and the sea was nudging its way back out. They stood in the shallows, letting the water swirl around their ankles.

She knew this was probably hard for him. A party, where everyone was drinking hard and losing their inhibitions. She stuck to water too, in solidarity, even though he told her he didn’t mind if she drank. But she found she didn’t need alcohol. She felt so happy and relaxed with him. She’d slotted seamlessly into seaside life, which surprised her: her life had been so urban until now, apart from the occasional holiday. Although she was rushed off her feet during her shifts at The Lobster Shack, she adored the way of life.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said.

‘Oh, you don’t want to do too much of that,’ said Chris, turning and stroking her hair.

She smiled, and nestled into him. ‘I might sell my flat,’ she said. ‘And move down here. Permanently.’

He held her at arm’s length and looked at her. ‘Are you serious?’

She nodded. ‘I’ve been doing some research. Looking at all the local businesses. I think there might be scope for me to set up my own agency. PR and advertising and web content. Specializing in seaside businesses. I’ve even got a name. SeaPR.’ She laughed at her own play on words.

‘Well,’ said Chris. ‘Maskells could be your first clients.’

‘I’d give you a discount.’

He kissed her on the nose. ‘Mate’s rates.’

‘Something like that.’ She kissed him back. ‘I can carry on waitressing, for the time being. It looks as if the restaurant’s enough of a success to carry on through the winter. Then if the agency gets big enough, if I get enough clients …’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t get bored? It’s pretty deadly down here out of season. There’s nothing much to do.’

Chloe pulled him to her. ‘I can think of plenty of things to do,’ she whispered.

Jenna drove the ice-cream van carefully across the sands and pulled up in front of Tim’s hut. She never failed to enjoy this moment, when people’s heads turned and they saw her and their faces lit up with joy. No matter what age, the prospect of ice cream from a van seemed to strike a chord with everyone.

She was so lucky, she thought, although as Craig had pointed out to her, she’d made her own luck, by having the idea and being determined and putting in the graft. Although, to be fair, it was Weasel who’d had the inspiration – weasel he might be, but she couldn’t take that away from him.

The weather over the summer had helped, of course – day after day of glorious sunshine. She had got to the point where she couldn’t scoop fast enough, and the farmer who supplied her couldn’t make the ice cream fast enough.

As she stopped the van, and slid open her window, and waited for the first of the guests to crowd round and make their choice, she looked out at the beach, the beach where she had first met Craig. That meeting could have taken another turn entirely, she thought, as she remembered the dark place she had been in, and the wrong choices she had made.

Until he had stepped in and come to her rescue. Thank God he had seen the good in her, she thought. If he hadn’t, if he’d decided to do his duty and turn her in, she wouldn’t be here now. She could see him, through the crowds, sipping his beer, chatting easily. Her hero. Her saviour.

She smiled, slid back the lid of the freezer, revealing a rainbow of ice cream flavours, and began to scoop.

Kiki didn’t take Vince’s rejection personally. If being in prison taught you anything, it was not to judge anyone. She went back over to the bar to get herself another drink. It was good to let her hair down. She spent most days on show to the general public so she was going to make the most of her chance to relax. Being artist-in-residence was a dream come true, but it was hard work: her beach hut had basically been open to all and sundry throughout the summer, while they watched her paint. But she had an amazing body of work to show for it, and was looking forward to putting together an exhibition when her residency came to an end.

She was pouring herself a glass of wine when one of the other guests came up to her. She recognized him as the boyfriend of the girl with the ice-cream van. He was a copper, but she didn’t hold that against him. Just because she’d been inside didn’t mean she had an irrational hatred of the law.

‘I want to ask you a favour,’ he said.

‘Sure,’ she said. He probably wanted a portrait painting.

‘I’ve got this mad, crazy idea,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think I’m up to the job. I thought you might be able to help.’

‘If I can. I like a challenge.’

‘It will mean getting up really early in the morning.’ He looked at her full glass. ‘Tomorrow.’

Kiki was intrigued. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll make this my last drink, in that case. But only if you fill me in.’

Craig looked embarrassed. ‘You’re going to think I’m mad.’

‘Mate, you forget. I’ve done time. Nothing surprises me. Go on, tell me.’

Vince was skulking about on the edges of the party, watching Kiki talk to Craig. He felt self-conscious, even though no one could have any idea what he was thinking or planning, but he felt as if his intentions were obvious. Although, to be truthful, everyone was probably oblivious by now, judging by the empty bottles.

He didn’t know how to go about approaching her. If he hadn’t been such an ungracious and curmudgeonly bastard, it wouldn’t matter so much. Turning on the charm now was asking for a slap in the face. And he wouldn’t blame her. She had done her very best to be nice to him and he’d cut her dead.

He’d been a rotten neighbour, too. He’d watched her painting earlier, peering over the windbreak. She’d taken to putting one up every day now, whether there was a breeze or not, and it was hardly surprising. She wouldn’t want a miserable bugger like him gawping at her while she worked. It was the equivalent of a cold shoulder.

She’d had a large canvas on an easel, and a palette of a very few colours – blue, red and black. Thick, treacly paint that she dipped into with a fat brush, daubing the strokes seemingly at random. He’d wondered about her thought process, or if there even was one, as the brush danced over the canvas, too quickly for him to keep up. Was there any logic to it, or was she just doing what something inside her commanded? It seemed entirely abstract to him. He thought he could probably do it himself, slosh a load of paint all over the place like that.