The Burnout(29)

He did what? I stifle a giggle.

“I’m sorry that you were unnerved by my actions and can only apologize. I am taking some time out from work to consider my behavior. I look forward to seeing you again at the office, and may I apologize again. Best, Finn Birchall.”

This is excruciating. I shouldn’t be hearing this, but I’m riveted.

Slowly, silently, I creep forward, keeping to the side of the sandy path. I know this path. There’s a bend ahead and a little hollow where we used to sit as kids. I bet he’s there.

Sure enough, a moment later I glimpse him—and I was right. It’s the man from the train. Tall, dark-haired, leaning against the side of the hollow, dictating into a phone—using voice recognition, I guess. He’s angled away, so all I can make out is broad shoulders in a North Face jacket, a glimpse of ear, his hands holding his phone, and that firm, stubbly jaw. As I’m watching, he edits his text, then starts a new dictation, and I freeze.

“Dear Marjorie, I would like to apologize for my behavior last week. I should not have exhibited frustration with the office ficus plant for dropping leaves into my lunch nor threatened to chainsaw it into bits.”

I give another stifled giggle, clapping a hand over my mouth.

The man runs his own hand roughly through his hair, as though marshaling his thoughts. It’s a strong hand, which I now imagine crashing a coffee cup down on a boardroom table or chainsawing a ficus plant. I wonder what he does. Something involving clients. And colleagues. God help them.

“I understand that you are fond of the ficus plant and were upset by my intemperate language,” he continues. “Again, I apologize. I am taking some time out from work to consider my behavior. I look forward to seeing you again at the office, and may I apologize again. Best, Finn Birchall—”

He breaks off, looks at his phone for a moment, then thrusts it into his pocket, exhaling hard. From my partial view, I can detect that his face is creased in a deep frown. There’s a silent beat during which I don’t even breathe. Then he stands up straight from his leaning position as if to go, and I feel a spike of panic. Shit. Shit! What am I doing, watching him like this? What if he catches me? He’ll do more than slam down a coffee cup. Does he have a chainsaw about his person?

On lightning-fast, silent feet, I sprint back down the slope, along the edge of the dunes and into the next sandy hollow. Soon I’m out of sight, concealed between two high dunes and hardly breathing. I have no idea where the guy is, but it doesn’t matter. The point is, he didn’t catch me listening.

I wait a few seconds, safe in my hiding place, then put on my best “natural” air as I proceed down a steep bank and out onto the beach. The tide is out; the shore is vast and empty. The lodges are way over at the other end, and I turn my steps that way, forcing myself not to look around for the guy. It would be a complete giveaway.

In any case, it’s fine. He must have gone in some other direction, because there’s no sign of him or anyone as I tramp over the sand.

I reach the lodge without any other encounters, shut the door firmly, sink down on the sofa, and tear open a bag of crisps. And oh my God. That first salty, crispy, oily crunch is heaven. Heaven. I tear through the first packet, savoring every mouthful, then start cramming peanuts into my mouth. They feel solid. They feel like food. I was starving, I realize, starving.

After a while, my mouth starts to feel too salty, and I realize I could have done with an apple or something.

But I’ve got something even better. Wine.

I slosh some into a Rilston Hotel mug, sit back on the sofa, open Heat magazine, take a deep slug, and breathe out. OK, now you’re talking. Now you’re talking.

It’s sharp wine, I realize after a second slug. It’s almost vicious. The label on the bottle says White Wine, with no other information. But I don’t care. Who needs extraneous, pointless facts? It’s wine. The end.

And now I have my steps for the rest of the afternoon all planned out: 1. Drink wine. 2. Eat crisps. 3. Consume ice cream. 4. Read about celebrities until my brain addles. 5. Repeat.

I’m not sure these steps will lead to a “better me,” but they will lead to a “happy me.” “Better me” can just wait for a bit. In fact, I’m tempted to tell “better me” to sod right off.


By five, I’ve consumed the entire tub of ice cream, half the wine, and all the magazines. My teeth are coated with sugar, my brain is dazzled by celebrity boob jobs, my thoughts are fuzzy with wine, and I feel a kind of general well-being, just tinged vaguely with the sense that I’ve polluted my body with a year’s supply of crap.

Well. Whatever.

It’s getting dark, and I don’t fancy dozing off on the sofa and waking up at 3 A.M., so reluctantly I rouse myself. I’ll go back on the program tomorrow, I resolve. I’ll do some squats and eat some bean sprouts. But now what I most feel like doing is sleeping for about seventy-two hours.

As I get back to the hotel, the lobby is full of commotion. Nikolai is moving antique chairs around while Cassidy bossily directs, and Herbert is holding a French horn, which looks like it dates from 1843.

“We’re going to have a little concert!” Cassidy announces as she spots me. “Perk up the guests. Next week, we thought, only we’re going to rehearse tonight. Herbert can play the horn, and Nikolai says he can recite poetry in Polish and he’ll tell us what it means after. Did you have a lovely day?” she adds to me. “And were you wanting to eat in the dining room later?”