I close my eyes as an old, dull whoomph of pain rushes through me. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. But finding out that our lives had changed forever at a motorway service station was … suboptimal. I’ve blanked a lot of memories from that week, and this conversation is really not what I need.
“As I say, I just want a nice restful break. You know. Peace and quiet.”
“Of course you do.” Keith nods. “Peace and quiet. Nowhere like Rilston Bay for peace and quiet.” His face lights up again. “Were you there the year they got the venomous jellyfish? Now, that was a bad business. Three children rushed to hospital. Blamed the coastguards, they did, and to be fair, where were the warnings?”
Venomous jellyfish, now?
“No,” I say a little tightly. “I don’t remember any venomous jellyfish.”
“What about the big food-poisoning scandal?” He looks at me expectantly. “You know how many people were taken ill that week? At least twenty-three, and don’t you believe any different. They tried to make out it was eleven, hush it up, but you talk to the local doctors.” He wags a finger at me. “Dodgy prawn sandwiches, it was, though some say it was the mayonnaise. Fresh, you see? Eggs. Lethal.” He points to his Scotch egg and takes another bite.
OK, that’s it. I cannot listen to this man anymore. He’s bad for my health. In fact, he’s bad for the whole train carriage. A woman to my right is eavesdropping on us, aghast.
“Actually, I’ve got to listen to a podcast for work,” I fib, getting out my phone. “So I’d better do that.”
“You go ahead,” says Keith cheerfully, biting into his Scotch egg again. “Nice to chat. Oh, young love,” he adds.
“What?” I stare at him, feeling a prickly defensiveness at the mention of love.
“Young Love.” He jabs a finger at the cover of my book. “The painting. The Mavis Adler. That’s Rilston Bay, that is.”
“Right.” My eyes run over the painting, which is of a teenage couple kissing on a beach. It’s pretty famous—I’ve seen it on cards and posters. And, actually, I think I did know it was of Rilston Bay, but I’d forgotten.
“Maybe you’ll find young love!” quips Keith. “Or are you attached?”
“No,” I say tightly, searching for my earphones. “I’m not. And I doubt I’ll find love on an off-season beach.”
“Never say never! Staying with a friend, are you?” he adds, as I grope with more urgency in my bag.
“No, at the Rilston,” I reply automatically, then instantly wish I’d been more guarded.
“The Rilston!” He whistles with a kind of incredulous humor. “The Rilston!”
His reaction nettles me. What’s that supposed to mean?
“Yes,” I say. “The Rilston.”
“Didn’t know they were taking guests anymore. Especially not this time of year. Seen The Shining, have you?” He laughs merrily. “ ‘Here’s Johnny!’ ”
Oh, sod off.
“Well, I like being on my own,” I say politely. “So that’ll work out perfectly.”
There are my earphones. In relief, I shove the buds into my ears, but he carries on talking, undeterred.
“Knocking the whole place down, aren’t they? Rebuilding it.”
“I don’t know,” I say, searching on Spotify for soothing music.
“Still doing food, are they?”
I lift my head, feeling alarm bells. “Of course they’re doing food. Why wouldn’t they be doing food?”
“Because I did hear they had a fire in their kitchen.” He shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “Nasty business. You hear anything about that?”
“No,” I say firmly. “Sorry. Well, lovely to chat, but I’d better just—”
To my relief, we’ve come to a halt at a station, and I pretend to be absorbed in watching the people who board the train. There’s a woman and a toddler, in matching pink parkas. There’s an elderly gentleman. And then there’s a guy with a backpack and a surfboard.
A striking guy.
A good-looking guy, it has to be said. His face looks like maybe he takes it to “face gym” to sculpt it every week. There are cheekbones and contours going on. There’s some stubble. Intense dark eyes.
The train moves off again and I watch surreptitiously as he takes a seat, hefting his backpack onto the luggage rack with ease and propping his surfboard against the opposite seat. The woman and little girl are in adjacent seats, and the little girl immediately gets out of hers to have a wander. I’m not usually the broody maternal type, but, God, she’s sweet, in her padded dungarees and ladybird wellies with her strawberry-blond hair tied in pigtails. I’m slightly hoping she’ll come in my direction, but instead she starts patting the surfboard lovingly with her little dimpled hands, and her mother smiles at the guy.
“So inquisitive at this age,” she says. “They’re into everything.”
“Agreed,” says the man shortly, which doesn’t sound like quite the right answer to me. He should say something nice about the adorable toddler and her delicious, pudgy little fingers.
Nor does he have that aw, your child is so sweet expression the mother is clearly hoping for. He looks strained. Pissed off, even.
The toddler’s patting turns to vigorous slapping, and with each slap she crows in delight. The woman to my right gives a laugh and catches my eye with a grin.
“Look at that!” exclaims Keith, who has turned his head to watch the toddler’s antics. “She’ll make a surfer one day! Where are you headed to?”
“My mum lives near Campion Sands,” says the girl’s mother, beaming at Keith. “It’s Bryony’s first visit to the seaside, bless her. Bought her a little bucket and spade, especially. Not really the time of year for it, but she won’t mind.”
Now everyone in the carriage is watching the adorable Bryony with the same indulgent smile—everyone except the guy who owns the surfboard. He looks supremely unamused. In fact, he’s visibly tense. I can see his hands are clenched. Is he some kind of control freak?
“Does she have to do that?” he erupts at the woman, making me jump. “Could you stop her? Could you remove her?”
Remove her? Remove an adorable toddler who isn’t hurting anyone?
“Remove her?” The woman bristles instantly. “Remove her? I do believe this is public transport, or it was last time I checked.”
“Well, I do believe this is my surfboard, or it was last time I checked,” he answers sarcastically, without missing a beat. “So, could you please control her?”
I look at Bryony slapping the surfboard with innocent, infectious joy. How can he object to that?
“She’s not doing it any harm!” I exclaim before I can stop myself. “It’s a surfboard, not the Mona Lisa. What the hell is wrong with you?”
The man turns to look at me, as though only noticing me for the first time. I don’t know if I touched a sore nerve or he just doesn’t like being exposed in public—but there’s a rawness to his expression that makes me suddenly nervous.