“Good to meet you, Annie,” said Paul, and he swaggered out through the gate, a damp cloth hanging out of the back pocket of his jeans.
Annie pushed the door closed and leaned against it. She was sweating. Every part of her, from the inside out. Even her eyebrows were sweating.
She called her beautician.
“Treena’s Beauty Parlor!” trilled Treena.
“Hi, Treena, it’s Annie Sharpe.”
“Annie!” said Treena. “Crikey, it’s been a while!”
“Yeah,” said Annie. “I’ve been remiss in the body hair department lately.”
“I thought you’d found another lady,” said Treena.
“Oh no,” said Annie. “I’ve just been au naturel for a while.”
“Word is you’ve left Max,” said Treena.
“As usual,” said Annie, “the word is right. Max and I have split up.”
“I’m not sorry to hear it,” said Treena.
Treena was privy to and chief keeper of all the secrets in the high street. If MI6 had had a mind to train her, she could have been the greatest spy the secret service had ever known. There was an intimacy between the woman—legs akimbo—on the bed and the beautician brushing hot wax onto her vulva that made one feel able to divulge one’s innermost worries and confidences. A good waxing lady was like a spatula-wielding counselor. Annie had burst into sobs many times on Treena’s table, and not just from the eye-watering pain of having her body hair ripped out by the roots.
“Can you book me in before Saturday?” asked Annie.
“？’Course I can, my love,” said Treena. “What needs doing?”
“Everything,” said Annie. “Tash to toes, please.”
“Date, is it?”
“Not exactly,” said Annie. “But I’d like to be prepared.”
“I’d better block out the whole afternoon,” said Treena.
Chapter 19
Annie spent the next few days familiarizing herself with her new environment. She began by heading right from Saltwater Nook, away from the direction of the hill. Here the promenade swept round for about a quarter mile until it ended abruptly in a set of iron railings. Beyond them were jagged rocks that led up to the grassy cliffs above. A little before the railings were steps down to the beach, and from the beach you could carry on round—tide permitting—to where the headland jutted out in a peninsula to form the bay. Mari had said that the tunnel, which supposedly led to the cellar at Saltwater Nook, began in a cave at the farthest point, before the cliff turned the corner and fell out of view. Even at low tide, Annie guessed you could expect to get your feet wet trying to reach it. On the other side of the peninsula, there was no beach to speak of for a mile or so, only rocks and towering cliffs like ancient sentries.
Curious, Annie headed down the beach toward the edge of the headland, wearing a pair of wellies and carrying a torch she had found hung on the back of the bedroom door. The pebbles crunched satisfyingly beneath her boots; empty mussel shells and lank brown seaweed littered the beach. The sky that morning was the color of lead and the water was a molten mirror image, darkly rippling and swollen with a promise of menace.
The tide was about as out as it was going to go, but she was still splashing through puddles. Deeper pools shimmered in hollows between the rocks, and here the seaweed was alive and waving beneath the surface of the water, its fronds brushing against the plump anemones—like round raspberry wine gums—that suctioned themselves to the pool-sides.
The cave mouth was tucked away, completely invisible from the shoreline and just big enough for a small rowboat or dinghy to sail into unnoticed at high tide. The mouth was angled such that someone watching from the promenade would assume the boat had simply passed around to the other side of the peninsula; perfect for smugglers, thought Annie.
Annie looked back once and turned into the dark cave. The surface water ran down in rivulets, joining and pooling together like quicksilver, pulled by the call of the sea. The sharp echo of drips and constant tinkle of running water was loud in the small space, as though she were miles below ground, instead of toe-deep in a cave mouth.
She flicked on the torch. One side of the cave was chest high in rough warty limpets before it smoothed out into chalky undulations. The other side was formed of natural ledges, which ate into the cave: plenty high enough for a smuggler to hole up in, till low tide, without fear of being swept away. She shined the torch around as she made her way farther in. She couldn’t make out where the tunnel was meant to begin. Even with her torch, the way forward just seemed black. She looked back. The glimmer of daylight seemed small and far away; she must have walked in a curve. Her nerve was beginning to wane. If she should slip or get stuck in here, no one would know she was missing, and she didn’t know exactly how long low tide lasted or how quickly the sea would rush back in to claim the cave.