The Burnout(26)

“There isn’t a Pret A Manger nearby, is there?” I ask casually. “By any chance?”

“Pret A Manger?” Cassidy looks blank. “No. Nearest one’s in … Exeter, maybe? You didn’t need one, did you?”

“No! Of course not,” I cover myself quickly. “I only asked because I hoped there wasn’t one. I hoped there wasn’t one,” I emphasize. “There are too many chains. It’s terrible.”

“Agreed.” Cassidy nods earnestly. “Oh, that reminds me!” She reaches in her bag and whips out a paper flyer. “Save Our Caves!” She brandishes it. “Stenbottom Caves are closing, unless we save them, so please go along and support.”

“Stenbottom Caves?” I take the flyer, feeling a wash of nostalgia. We used to go to the caves every year. I remember putting on a hard hat, climbing up and down iron ladders, shining a torch round a series of dark, dank underground spaces, and examining stalagmites. (Stalactites? Whatever.) Every year Kirsten and I agonized over which semiprecious stone to buy as a souvenir, to add to our “jewel” collection. I might even still have a couple of them knocking around.

“They have a Magical Sound and Illumination Experience on at the moment,” says Cassidy. “Shall I book you in?”

“Yes!” I say. “Sign me up. Any time.”

“Wonderful!” She claps her hands together. “I’ll tell Neil, he runs it. He’ll be chuffed to bits. And how was the lodge today?”

“Tremendous,” I say, smiling back. “Perfect.”

“Yoga, was it, you were doing out there?”

Oh God. I hope she didn’t see me lying on the beach for all that time.

“Yoga, meditation …” I wave my hands around vaguely. “General … mindful activities.”

“Amazing! Only I was wondering, will you be out there again this afternoon?” she adds hopefully. “Because we’re having some work done on the floor above your room, and it will be a tad noisy between two and five. There’ll be a tiny bit of hammering. And drilling,” she adds, consulting her phone. “Hammering and drilling and sawing. Just if you were planning on a nap or anything …”

Hammering and drilling and sawing.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll be on the beach.”





Seven



As I head back out to the beach that afternoon, I’m all set for some “manifesting.” I’ve read about manifesting before, and to be honest it seems like a load of rubbish—but I might as well have a go.

I collect a pen and A4 pad of paper from my rucksack and walk purposefully along the sand. The wind has died down slightly, and the air is feeling a smidgen warmer, which is a plus. I know exactly where I’m going to sit too. There’s a big rock to one side of the lodges, which Kirsten and I used to eye up for climbing potential. But whatever time we came along, it was always already commandeered by some posh child or other from the lodges—and in a weird way, we felt like it belonged to them.

But now it’s mine. All mine!

I clamber up to the main flat surface—about five feet off the ground—and nestle into a handy hollow, leaning against a solid wall of rock, worn smooth over the years. Very soon I realize something: This rock is awesome! It’s like an armchair. I wriggle luxuriously against the smooth curves and sigh happily. I could sit here all afternoon. I will sit here all afternoon. There’s even room to stretch out my legs.

Right. Manifesting.

I search on my phone for the section in the app on manifesting and skim the details. The gist seems to be that you tell the universe what you want, whereupon the universe will give it to you. Which seems like a pretty good deal. Be specific in your desires, the app urges. Be clear and detailed. Write down a description of what you want to bring into your life, then visualize it.

What do I want to bring into my life?

Oh God. My mind roams around my life, sheering away from one painful, embarrassing area after another. Could I write A different life?

No. Too vague. What if they gave me an even crappier life instead? I have a vision of myself stuck on a desert island, yelling at the universe, I didn’t want this life!

Manifesting is risky, I realize. No wonder you have to be specific. What if you asked for riches and the universe misheard and gave you bitches? Note to self: Write clearly. I look down at my phone again to see if there’s any more help, and see a section on inspiration.

If you are stuck, just allow your soul to speak. Let your pen sit on the page, then write the first words that come to you.

I rest my pen on the page, gaze out to sea, and find myself writing, A HALLOUMI AND FALAFEL WRAP.

No. Don’t be stupid. That’s not manifesting, that’s a lunch order. I rip out the page, feeling embarrassed and hoping that the universe didn’t see it. Right. Try again. Proper manifesting.

I set my pen on the page again and look steadily out to sea, trying to empty my mind of visions of choc bars and think of something that I actually want, deep down.

SEX, I write, then stare at the page, taken aback. I didn’t intend to write that. Why has my mind gone there? Do I even want sex?

No. I don’t. I don’t want sex, and that’s the problem. It stings me, this lack I have. What’s happened to me? I enjoyed sex with Stuart. Well, I did for a while. But then, gradually, I didn’t. We kept arguing anyway, which isn’t exactly conducive. Or did we argue because of the sex? It’s all a confused jumble of memories now, and all I know is that I’m hollow. My body feels numb. I don’t react to anything anymore. Hot guy on the tube: numb. Get chatted up in Pret: numb. Sex scene on TV: numb. The whole activity seems kind of awkward and pointless, even though I can remember once thinking it was the best thing in the world.