“That’s kind, Aunt. I’ll try and come back. It’s just I’ve got a lot to fit in before I head home on Sunday.” I try to hide the disappointment in my voice. Clearly Mad Aunt Monica is not going to be a reliable source for my article.
We walk together down her drive, and Monica climbs into a heavily dented green ?koda. As she’s about to drive off, she rolls down the window and asks, “Do you need a lift anywhere?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
“I’m visiting my sister, Sue, your grandmother, tomorrow. All that unpleasantness between her and Annie was a long time ago. Now that you’re here, I’m sure she’d want to see you, patch things up.”
Patch things up, with Bad Granny? Mum told me they fell out over Dad’s will. I found a letter from her saying as much when I packed up Mum’s house. I wonder if the Jersey family convinced themselves Mum and Dad were never married so they could rationalize cutting Mum off.
“I’ve got your number now, you wrote it in the card, we’ll make a plan for Sunday,” Monica shouts as she reverses down the drive. “I’ll make us a Swiss log, everyone likes Swiss log—except for psychopaths. You’re not a psychopath, are you, Laura?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Excellent.”
Then the green ?koda, hedgehog stickers lining the rear window, shoots off up the road. The whole encounter leaves me feeling completely bemused. I don’t know what I’d expected Aunt Monica to be like, what I’d expected her to say, but it wasn’t that. I’m not having much success on any fronts today. There’s still no word from J. Le Maistre, and Maude hasn’t called me back.
I check my phone again, hopeful for a message, but the screen is blank, the battery gone. Oh no, what if they’ve tried to call? My watch says it’s five past two—and I realize I’m now late to meet Ted. Running back down the road to the car park, I see his cab, but he’s not inside. I rush down to the Plémont beach café, looking to see if he’s waiting for me, but there’s no sign of him. Maybe he nipped to the loo, he can’t have gone far. While I’m waiting for him to appear, I walk around the café to the top of the steep steps that lead down onto the beach. The stairs look as though they’ve been rebuilt many times over the years, a constant battle to stave off the destructive power of the sea. I can see why Ted warned me about the tides now—the waves are lapping against the bottom of the steps and they are the only way off this beach.
As I’m watching the shallow water dance against the rocks, a figure emerges from the sea and strides up the small strip of sand that’s still accessible. As I blink in confusion at what this sea creature might be, I realize it is a fully dressed Ted. What on earth? Has he gone for a spontaneous swim in his clothes? He looks like some kind of plane crash survivor, with his wild hair and wet clothes clinging to him, his dark blue jeans and maroon T-shirt slick against his body. He looks up and sees me at the top of the steps, and I wave—his face looks relieved to see me and then furious.
“Where have you been?” he shouts up to me.
“Here! Sorry, I got caught up visiting my great-aunt,” I yell back down.
He charges up the rest of the stairs and is breathing heavily by the time he gets to me.
“I was worried you’d stayed too long in the cave—that you’d got stuck,” he says, glaring down at me.
I slap a hand over my mouth.
“Oh no, you didn’t go in the sea looking for me?”
“I thought you might have hurt yourself, or you couldn’t get back.”
He closes his eyes. I’m touched he was so concerned about me, but I was only fifteen minutes late—it feels like a slight overreaction.
“I didn’t even make it to the cave in the end.”
“And I tried calling you.”
“My phone died. Ted, I—” I can’t help laughing. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t get over the image of him leaping in the sea to look for me like some kind of primordial David Hasselhoff.
When he sees me laughing, he charges past me, back to the car. I hurry after him. “Ted, I’m sorry, but I was only fifteen minutes late. I didn’t know you’d launch a one-man, fully clothed rescue mission.”
He doesn’t turn around until we get to the car. Wordlessly, he opens the boot and pulls off his sopping-wet shirt. I can’t help but look at his bare chest as he wraps a towel around himself—he has an incredible physique for a middle-aged man. He’s got these defined pectoral muscles and a slim, toned stomach, tanned with a light smattering of brown hair. He catches me looking at his body, and I quickly avert my eyes. I was only staring because I’m surprised he looks like that—I didn’t have Beardy McCastaway down as the gym-bod type.