The Burnout(80)

“Great, thanks. I saw Terry the other day,” I add, remembering our conversation on the train. “I was quite shocked at how different he is now.”

“Ah, Terry.” Keith winces. “Yes, he’s in a bit of a state. Poor man, been through a lot, he has. By the surf school, was he?”

“Yes.”

“That’s his haven.” Keith nods. “That’s his safe place. He always goes back there—everyone looks out for him.”

It suddenly occurs to me that Keith might know something relevant about the kayak accident, although I’m not sure how to frame the question.

“I was talking to a fellow guest about that kayak accident,” I begin. “And I remembered that I spoke to the police. It was a big deal, wasn’t it?”

I’m hoping this might trigger a gush of gossip, and sure enough, Keith’s face lights up.

“Now, that was a scandal. If they hadn’t uncovered the truth, think where Terry would have been!” He stares at me with bulgy eyes, and so does the puppet.

“What do you mean, ‘uncovered the truth’?” I ask. “What truth?”

“That it was Pete’s kayak, not Terry’s,” says Keith, as though it’s obvious. “The police thought it was Terry at first. They were investigating him. Could have been his business that shut down.”

“Why would they think it was Terry’s kayak?” I say, confused, and Keith frowns.

“I don’t remember the details now, but there was a reason. Did Terry lend out the kayak? Or had they got mixed up? Anyway, it was looking bad for Terry at one point. He was beside himself, poor man.”

“It could never have been Terry,” I say hotly. “Terry would never lend out a damaged kayak!”

“Well, the police seemed fixed on him, only something changed their minds.… Ah yes!” He’s distracted by an approaching man in a T-shirt and black jeans, holding a microphone. “Sound-check time, is it? No rest for the performers, is there, Mr. Poppit?”

“No rest for the performers!” echoes the puppet, moving its painted mouth, and I hide a shudder.

“Well, good luck,” I reply, backing away, and bump into someone. “Sorry!” I wheel round—then catch my breath. It’s Finn. He’s here. He’s in a well-cut jacket and looks kind of … What’s the word?

Handsome, says my brain. Gorgeous. Delicious. Sexy.

No. Enough. Don’t start down that path. He looks well groomed. Exactly. Smart shirt. Aftershave. Nice shoes, I notice, glancing downward.

“Hi,” he says. “Wondered if you’d be here.”

“Couldn’t resist the free drinks,” I say, sipping my champagne. There’s something new about his expression. A different light in his eyes. Or am I imagining it?

“Good,” says Finn. “Because I wanted to talk to you.”

He pauses, and I feel my heart skip. Then my brain kicks in, chiding my heart for skipping. Now my chest feels tight. My fingers are damp round the stem of my glass. God, my body is so unruly.

And still Finn is looking at me, his face alive with some thought or feeling, but silent, as though he doesn’t know where to begin. Or perhaps he does know where to begin, but he’s apprehensive about beginning.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I say, to fill the gap. “Did you get through to your therapist?”

“Oh, yes,” he says, frowning, as though confused by the question. “Yes. I … yes.” He pauses and looks around the room, which has become more raucous. “It’s noisy in here. Could we go somewhere?”

My heart skips again. Go somewhere?

But I’m not making the mistake of listening to my skippy, romantic heart. I’m listening to my solid, somewhat-jaded brain instead. He probably means, Go somewhere to talk about the hotel’s billing policy. Or, Go somewhere so I can update you on the cricket score.

“Um, sure,” I say, gulping my champagne. “Sure.”

However, at that very moment, Simon taps on a glass, shushing everyone. Nikolai starts threading through the guests, topping up the champagne as though it’s a wedding, and Cassidy arrives at our side.

“Simon’s going to give a speech,” she says chattily. “He’s dead nervous. I said, ‘Simon, just imagine the audience all wearing one of my Etsy thongs,’ and he was like, ‘What Etsy thongs?’ He didn’t know! So I showed him and he got all stressed again, poor love! He thinks I should do them ‘in my own time.’ ” She laughs merrily. “I was like, ‘Simon, sitting at that desk is my own time: Nothing ever happens!’ But he was all like—” She breaks off and applauds vigorously as Simon steps onto a small podium and taps the microphone. “Woo-hoo! Go, Simon!”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Simon, as the chatter dies to a hush. “Welcome to the Rilston Hotel—and an exciting new chapter.”

A screen behind Simon fills with an artist’s rendition of six sun-drenched glass buildings on Rilston Beach, with a vivid blue sky emblazoned with the words Skyspace Beach Studios at the Rilston.

“Wow,” I breathe. “That’s … different.”

“Today, the Rilston steps into the next millennium,” Simon continues, reading off a card. “With style, substance, and, of course, sea views. I bring you Skyspace Beach Studios!”