The Burnout(25)

“Come back!” I yell, furiously chasing after it, tripping on my flip-flops. “Stupid … bloody …”

At last, with a desperate lunge, I pin the mat down again. Battling as the wind blows it this way and that, I roll it into a sausage, shove it under my arm, then turn to face the sea. Right. Resume.

Hugging the mat, I do three more squats, more slowly this time. Then, after a pause, a fourth. Then I stop. My legs are already aching. My thighs can’t do this.

Oh, who am I kidding? I’m not going to do a hundred squats. Nor can I feel the earth’s electrical energies through the soles of my feet. And as for wild swimming … I shudder at the thought. So that’s three fails already.

Feeling gloomy, I turn, intending to head back to the lodge, whereupon I see a distant figure coming toward me over the sand. A solitary, indistinct figure, making painfully slow progress, like Lawrence of Arabia approaching through the desert. I squint harder, taking in the shuffling gait, the outline of an overcoat. Is that … Herbert?

Yes. It is. And at the rate he’s going, it’ll take him six weeks to reach me.

Grabbing my mat more tightly, I hurry toward him, breaking into a jog as I see that he’s puffing.

“Hi, Herbert!” I greet him as I get near. “Are you OK?”

There’s a pause as Herbert gets his breath. Then he intones in a quavery voice that I can barely hear above the wind, “The management wish to inform you that unfortunately beach service is not available at the present time.”

“Right,” I say, taken aback. “I didn’t think there was any beach service.”

He’s come all the way down here to tell me that?

Herbert is now pulling a piece of paper from his overcoat pocket, and he scrutinizes it for what seems like ten minutes before looking up.

“In addition, unfortunately, the organic kale has not yet arrived. However, Chef Leslie has composed a salad for you, which he hopes is to your liking.”

“Oh, right,” I say, taken aback. “Thanks.”

Herbert nods, then turns, as though to make the long, hard trek back over the sands, and I feel a flicker of alarm. What if he totters and falls? Or the wind blows him over? He’s so frail, it probably could. I have a sudden dreadful image of him falling flat on his face on the sand, moving his arms and legs fruitlessly, like a beetle.

“Tell you what, Herbert,” I say quickly. “Why don’t I walk back with you and have my lunch now? It’s a bit early, but I’m quite hungry, so it’s no problem.” I hold out an encouraging arm. “Let’s go together!”

“Well, if I could perhaps rest on your arm just for a moment,” Herbert says in his whispery voice. “Just for a moment.”


By the time we get back to the hotel, I’m pretty much carrying Herbert again. I escort him into the lobby and carefully help him into a big wing chair upholstered in brown fabric and priced at ￡45. The reception desk is empty, and I wonder briefly whether it’s OK leaving him alone—then a gentle snore tells me that he’s probably fine.

I can’t face my windowless room, and I’m actually quite starving after only having that melon plate for breakfast. So I head straight into the dining room, where a single table is laid.

“Madame.” Nikolai, who was standing by the window like a pillar, springs to life. He pulls back a chair for me, shakes out a starched napkin with lots of elaborate gestures, and lays it carefully across my lap. He fills my glass with water, adjusts my knife, and tugs at my tablecloth several times. Then he hesitates. “Madame would prefer a salad,” he ventures.

Oh God. Madame doesn’t want a salad, Madame’s hungry. But I can’t say that, not after they’ve been to so much trouble.

“Lovely!” I smile brightly at him. “Thank you.”

Nikolai disappears and then a couple of minutes later returns with a plate adorned with colorful circles. There are slices of roasted carrot and beetroot and tomato, all dotted around randomly. It’s actually very pretty. I drizzle my little jug of dressing over the circles, then skewer one with my fork and start to munch. And munch.

Here’s the thing: I like salads. I do. But these vegetables are soggy and mushy and turning into gloop in my mouth, which I can’t seem to swallow. I chew and chew and gulp and swig my water. Meanwhile, Nikolai is watching me constantly, ready to leap forward with a deferential “Madame” if I even meet his eye. He refills my water glass eleven times and, each time, tugs the tablecloth. It’s not the most relaxed meal I’ve ever had.

At last, I put my knife and fork together and breathe out. Nikolai gives his own relieved sigh too—I think we both found that a bit of an ordeal.

Also, small point: The whole meal probably contained about twenty calories, tops. I’m still starving.

“How was your salad?” Cassidy’s voice greets me as she enters the room with a brisk stride. “Was it amazing? It was all superfoods,” she adds proudly.

“Delicious, thank you!” I force a smile.

“I’ll tell Chef Leslie.” Cassidy beams back. “He’ll be so pleased. His mum just fell over, did her hip in, so he needs a bit of good news. Now, what else can we get you? You won’t want pudding, will you? Is there anything else your heart desires?”

I know exactly what my heart desires. I can itemize it. A falafel and halloumi wrap, a choc bar, an apple, a bircher muesli, and a canned drink.