The Burnout(89)

As if to prove a point, I stride briskly along in the buffeting wind until I’m all the way at the other end of the beach, by the steep cliffs. There I stop and survey the sea, and into my mind, as ever, comes Terry’s hoarse voice. Why are you worrying about the sea? The sea sure as hell isn’t worrying about you.

The sea isn’t worrying about me. It’s just crashing onto the beach, over and over, totally unconcerned. I swivel around to face the cliffs, which seem to look back at me with blank, impassive expressions. They aren’t worrying about me either. I find this reassuring. And suddenly I know exactly what Wetsuit Girl meant about grounding. I’m aware that I’m standing on the earth on my own two feet. Not a soul in sight. Just me.

On impulse, I rip off my trainers and socks and let my bare soles squish into the sand … and I feel it. I understand it. The earth is supporting me. It’s holding me up. Wherever I go in life, it’ll be there for me. Like these cliffs and this beach and these million-year-old pebbles.

I can’t quite believe I’m saying such woo-woo stuff to myself, but it feels real and convincing and comforting.

“Hi, Dad.” The words are out of me before I know what I’m going to say. I clear my husky throat and draw breath. “I’m here. I’m back in Rilston. I’m … OK. I’m OK.”

It’s years since I’ve spoken aloud to Dad. But now, as I stand here, my feet rooted in the sand, on this beach that he loved too, I feel tears running down my face. The earth underneath me. Dad out there for me. Both of them will always be there. Whatever else happens. Whatever rocks me or hits me or buffets me.

The wind is getting steadily colder. But with every minute I stand there, I feel stronger. Taller. More robust. I’m not needy and broken, whatever Kirsten said. I’m mending. I’m resilient. I’m standing barefoot on a winter beach, for God’s sake! I’m tougher than I thought.

Spontaneously, I take a beaming selfie to send to Mum, Kirsten, and Dinah later. Then I summon up the 20 Steps app and gaze at Wetsuit Girl. Her smile doesn’t seem smug anymore but warm and friendly. I’m grateful to her, I realize. She’s been with me the whole time, and her advice was all good. I really am a whole new Sasha. Physically, I feel in better shape. Mentally, I feel in better shape. Maybe in better shape than I’ve been for years.

So now I need to sort my life out. Confront it instead of running away from it.

The thought hits me out of the blue, and I blink in shock. Am I running away? Am I dodging the big issues? I couldn’t stand my life. I wanted to leave. I couldn’t cope with any of it. I just wanted to blank the whole thing, get some rest and recuperate.

But now, for the first time since I’ve got here, I can imagine myself back in London. Tidying my flat. Finally throwing out those dead plants. Getting on top of stuff. And, most important, working out what my values and priorities actually are.

I want to enjoy life again, I realize. Because life is the ride, and the ride is it. You have to enjoy it. I imagine myself reconnecting with all my friends. Meeting up for a drink. Maybe even buying some food and cooking supper. Doing all the things that I’ve been putting off, that felt so impossible.

And the weird thing is, none of it feels scary anymore. It feels like a challenge—but a good one. The kind that makes you feel a pleasant rush of adrenaline, not the sort that makes you want to hide in a cupboard, whimpering.

I’d like to stay here all day, thinking this through, but it’s late February and my toes are practically numb. So at last I swivel to head back to the Rilston. At the very least, I decide, I’ll walk all the way in bare feet, then look back at my footprints on the sand and feel momentous and maybe take a photo.

But, oh God, I can’t manage that either. It’s so bloody freezing that after about twenty strides I cave in. I bend down to put my socks and trainers back on, and as I’m standing up again, I see a distant figure coming in my direction.

Finn? No. Not Finn. But a man. A tall skinny man with … I squint. Is that a hat? No, it’s his hair. His wild hair.

Wild hair which seems weirdly, impossibly familiar.

That can’t be—

That isn’t—

No way. I swallow hard several times, staring in disbelief. It is. Walking toward me, like some sort of weird beach mirage, is Lev. He’s dressed in a waterproof parka, jeans, and black suede trainers, which are already covered in sand. And he’s looking straight at me.

“Sasha Worth?” he calls as he nears me. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Lev Harman.”

He’s introducing himself to me? The founder of Zoose is introducing himself to me?

“I know,” I reply, feeling unreal. “We met when you interviewed me.”

“Quite.” He nods. “But you’ve just left Zoose.”

“Yes.”

“And you sent a twelve-page memo about the company.”

“Twelve pages?” I stare at him. “No. I just filled out the form.”

“They printed it out,” he says, pulling a sheaf of papers out of his pocket and brandishing it at me. “Twelve pages.”

“Right.” I rub my face, which is damp with sea spray. “Sorry. Didn’t realize I had so much to say.”

“You had a lot to say.” He surveys me intently. “And I want to hear more.”