The Burnout(88)

“Chainsaw a ficus plant?” Kirsten sounds flabbergasted.

“The ficus plant is irrelevant,” I add hurriedly. “Basically he’s a kind, sensible man who got derailed. He’s a management consultant. And he can surf. And he got me interested in men again. In sex,” I add. “Finally.”

“Well, OK,” says Kirsten. “I hear you. Hurrah for sex. Hurrah for love. I just don’t want you to get hurt. It sounds like the pair of you are pretty vulnerable. If he’s having therapy and you’ve been signed off work …”

She trails off into silence and I know she’s deliberately holding her tongue, being as tactful as Kirsten can be.

“So you’re saying it’s a bad idea,” I say, to provoke her into speech.

“I’m not. Necessarily. I’m just saying … be careful. What if you’re two needy, broken people and you’re trying to mend yourselves through hooking up with another needy, broken person instead of … you know, mending yourselves?”

I feel a surge of indignation. Finn and I aren’t two needy, broken people!

“I am not needy,” I retort stiffly. “Nor broken.”

“I’m just concerned, lovely! You’ve quit your job, you’ve found a new man—it’s a lot, Sasha. You were just supposed to get some fresh air and drink some whatsit juice.”

“Noni.”

“Exactly.”

Again there’s silence, as we both regroup.

Maybe Kirsten has got a point. Maybe I have slightly lost sight of why I came down here.

“I’m glad you’ve left your job,” she says into the silence. “But don’t go straight into a brand-new job of making someone else better.”

“I’m not!” I try to convey this to her. “It’s the other way round! He’s making me better.”

“Well, is that optimal either? If he’s got his own problems?”

Her words draw me up short, and I feel a wave of guilt. However much I’ve tried to draw Finn out, he’s resisted. I haven’t been able to help him. I still barely know what caused his insomnia and anger. Overwork, like me, or was there something more? Something his therapist will tease out of him?

“Oh, shit, I have to go,” says Kirsten, sounding distracted. “Ben, not up your nose. But, listen, you took this break for yourself. Yourself. Keep that in mind.”

“OK. I will. Thanks for calling. Oh, just one thing, quickly,” I add. “D’you remember why I talked to the police about that kayak accident?”

“Oh, that. Sorry, I meant to text back. Ben, give it to Mummy now. It was about a fire,” Kirsten adds to me over the sound of baby protests.

“A fire?” I stare at the phone, bewildered.

“That’s all I remember. You went to the police about a fire. You saw that guy Pete burning something? I really have to go. Bye!”

A fire?

I put my phone away, my head spinning. A fire? What fire? I shut my eyes, picturing a bonfire on the beach, a fire in a hearth, a house on fire.… But nothing feels like a memory.

Then boom. My eyes pop open. I remember! Yes! The fire in the bin.

I’m breathless. It’s all come back to me in a rush. I saw Pete burning something in a hidden-away yard, and that’s why I went to the police.

I only saw it because I’d slipped away to the newsagent to spend a pound coin that I’d found on the sand. I went right to the back of the shop to the vending machine, and I was just choosing my gum when I glanced out of the window and saw a fire. Pete was standing in some unused yard next door, poking the fire savagely. To be fair, he often looked kind of mean, but I noticed it particularly.

Still, I thought nothing of it, bought my gum, ran back to the beach, then heard the gossip that a life jacket had failed and that’s why a boy had nearly drowned.

It was only in the middle of that night that I woke up and thought, Oh my God! Pete was burning the life jacket in that bin! I went to Mum first thing and insisted I had to go to the police with important evidence. I guess whatever I said convinced her, because she let me go along and say my piece, even though Dad was feeling unwell and we were planning to leave.

But I’d blanked it. I’ve blanked so many memories from that time.

Now I can see it all, though. There was a fire in the bin—I glimpsed cardboard, papers, all sorts—and Pete was poking it with a stick. When I woke up in the middle of the night all those years ago, I thought I was a top sleuth—Pete had shoved the defective life jacket in there! But I was just a thirteen-year-old girl with too much imagination. Pete couldn’t have been burning the dodgy life jacket, because the gossip turned out to be wrong. The life jacket wasn’t faulty. The kayak was the issue. And how do you burn a life jacket, anyway?

I feel a warm wave of shame. The whole thing was clearly nonsense. I don’t remember the police laughing at me, but surely they must have done. And now I see that police visit for what it really was—Mum giving me a thing. Giving me a moment of importance. A little boost.

Anyway, at least now I know, and I might as well tell Finn. I write him a quick text:

Just remembered what I told the police about—a fire in a bin. Pete was poking it. I thought it was evidence!! Hope you’re having a good time with Mavis Adler. xx

I send it and scramble to my feet. I want to walk along the beach and think hard. Kirsten’s words are still bugging me. Needy, broken. Am I needy and broken? Maybe I was a tad broken. But I’m fixed now. Or at least I’m fixed-ish. I’ve changed. I’m sure I have. I feel stronger. Happier. Sexier.