The Burnout(74)

He then puts the mouthpiece to his thin, papery lips. As he puffs on his French horn, a feeble farting noise fills the air, and I sense everyone in the audience quell a giggle.

Undeterred by the sounds he’s making, Herbert carries on puffing on the horn, producing fart after fart. As the noises continue, there’s a general snuffling sound of people holding in laughter, and I’m suddenly desperate to meet eyes with Finn. Even if things were awkward between us earlier, we can still share a joke as friends, can’t we? Nonchalantly, I lean back on my chair and turn my head, telling myself I’ll catch his eye, just once.

But the back row is empty. He’s gone.





Eighteen



He’s sworn off casual sex. Is that like going vegan? Is it a thing? It’s bugging me as I lie in bed the next morning, staring up at the peeling ceiling. How casual is “casual,” anyway? And why didn’t I reply? Why was I so dumbstruck?

But what could I have said?

And anyway, was he actually saying something else? Of course he was.

I shut my eyes, letting the painful truth assail me once more. He was being tactful. Letting me down gently. Letting us both save face. He just doesn’t see me that way.

At least he didn’t begin, Sasha, I really like you, you’re a lovely girl, but …

My already-cringing insides cringe still harder. My stomach feels like one big stew of embarrassment, and now I have to see him. Maybe. If he hasn’t already checked out and deleted my contact from his phone.

I’m so dreading our encounter that I almost decide to skip breakfast. Except that I’m also starving hungry. So eventually I sidle into the dining room, trying to blend in with the wallpaper—and breathe out in relief when I see that I’m the only guest.

I intersperse eating my scrambled eggs with telling Nikolai how brilliant he was last night and glossing over any mention of esteemed raconteur Dickie Rathbone, who spoke for half an hour and laughed so hard at his own jokes that I couldn’t understand anything he said.

When I’ve finished my breakfast, I take my kale smoothie in its paper cup—tomorrow I must try to head that off in time—and head out of the dining room. The lobby is empty, and for a few seconds I pause, my heart thudding. Shall I dodge the whole situation? Head off somewhere for the day and avoid Finn completely?

No. That would be lame. Come on, Sasha. Bite the bullet.

Holding my head up high, I walk straight out of the hotel, through the garden, and down to the beach. As I get near, I can see he’s there.

My stomach is churning with nerves; I’m not sure I can speak. But I don’t have to, because as I approach, Finn turns to greet me, with such a warm, glowing expression that I feel a clench of disbelieving hope. Is he pleased to see me? Thrilled to see me, even? I find myself hurrying forward with an eager smile, thinking: Did I miss something?

“At last!” he says. “Sasha! I’ve been waiting for you!”

“Have you?” I give a tremulous laugh, my heart galloping.

“Of course!” He points at the sand where he’s standing. “New message,” he adds, and I stop dead in my tracks.

The messages. That’s why he’s excited.

I mean, of course it’s the bloody messages.

“Amazing!” I manage, my smile still bright. “What did they say? Let me see!”

As I hurry forward, I try to refocus my mind. The message will be a good distraction, I decide, so let’s take it seriously. It’s written on the sand in exactly the same way as the other messages—letters lined with pebbles—and next to it is a fruitcake in a tin.

YOU DID EVERYTHING. 8/18

“We did everything,” announces Finn proudly, as though I can’t read. “Apparently.”

“Except we did nothing,” I object, almost out of habit. “And it’s not us.”

“Well, who else is it?”

OK. I’m going to really think about this. Distraction, distraction, distraction.

“What else happened that day of the accident?” I crinkle my brow. “What did you do?”

Finn shrugs. “Hung around. Watched the coastguards. Talked to the police.”

“Talked to the police?” I look up at him sharply. “About what?”

“Everything.” He rolls his eyes. “First, they gave me a lecture about not trying to be a hero. Then they wanted to know where I got my kayak from, who signed it out, was there a safety protocol, blah blah.”

“You didn’t tell me that before,” I say, my brain starting to turn. “That you talked to the police, I mean.”

“Thought it was obvious.” He shrugs. “Nothing happened. They talked to me, said thanks very much, gave me a sweet, off I went.”

His words are sparking a memory in my head. A sweet.

“A humbug.” The words come out before I know I’m going to say them. “They gave out stripy mint humbugs.”

“Yes.” Finn looks surprised. “You’re right.”

I can see them now. The basket they were in. I can see it all: the room, the people, everything.

“I talked to the police too.” I rub my face, feeling discombobulated. “I’d forgotten. Was it in the Seashore Café?”

“Yes, upstairs. They talked to loads of people. Lots of kids. Everyone.”