Just me.
As I step onto the beach fifteen minutes later, clutching my lodge key, I feel almost unreal. I’ve made it. The sand of Rilston Bay is finally beneath my feet. After all these hours, all these years … I’m back. There’s not another soul on the beach, which I suppose is no surprise—the afternoon light is already fading and the weather has definitely taken a turn. The waves are crashing hard; the wind is whipping my hair round my face; the raindrops feel like sharp pins on my skin.
I don’t care. I’m here.
I spread my arms wide, feel the wind buffeting me, then turn around a few times on the sand, relishing my aloneness, the wideness of the sand, the weather, the vastness of the sky, the sound of gulls … everything. It’s so not London. It’s so not the office. It’s so not sixty-five emails by tomorrow.
I walk toward the sea, my trainers leaving deep imprints in the sand that become filled with water as I near the surf. My socks are already damp, but so what? I’m here. I’m here. I take a few deep, salty breaths, filling my lungs, just letting the sounds and sensations wash over me.
I was expecting to feel instantly euphoric, as soon as I got onto the beach. And I do. Of course I do. It’s glorious. It’s everything I was hoping for. But quite soon I realize that I also feel a bit strange. A bit tense. There’s a disconcerting feeling in my body that I can’t quite pin down. The solitude feels liberating—but oppressive. The pounding surf is almost too loud. And now I seem to be breathing faster, which is wrong. I should be breathing slower. For God’s sake. Can’t I even do relaxing on the beach?
I take a few brisk strides along the sand, trying to escape my confusion, but I can’t. My head feels alternately exhilarated then tight with trapped tears; elated then panicky. It’s as though I’m finally putting down a load I didn’t even know I was carrying—but I can’t let go so easily. I relax a little, then seize up again. It’s as if some part of me keeps grabbing the load back. Maybe for security? Or because I can’t remember what it’s like not to carry it?
Oh God. Basically, I feel a bit of a mess.
But then, what did I expect?
I turn to scan the terrain, trying to distract myself. The rocks, the cliffs, the lodges, the hotel, and, above that, rows of little houses. It all looks almost exactly the same as it did in my memories. That’s all there is at this end of the beach. Farther down you get the surf shops, cafés, ice creams, all that. But this end is simpler. Sea, sand, rocks, lodges.
I turn toward the lodges, taking in their derelict frontages with tender sadness. The paintwork is peeling, the wood is warped, a few windows are broken. One deck has collapsed completely. The “millionaires’ lodges” now look more like clapped-out beach huts. But who cares? A squall of rain hits me right in the face, and I decide that’s enough fresh air. Time to investigate Lodge 1, which is to be mine.
It takes several big hefts to get the door open. I burst through on my fourth attempt, almost falling over, then take a few steps forward on the creaky boards, looking around the space, breathing in the fusty wooden scent.
OK. I see what Cassidy meant. This really isn’t habitable. But I can also see that it might once have been a lovely guesthouse. There are bits of furniture left—a single wooden dining chair, a faded sofa, a pair of lamps. A freestanding heater, which I switch on at once. There’s a small fitted kitchen, with all its appliances removed. A staircase leads upward but has tape fixed over it, reading, DO NOT ENTER.
Cautiously, I approach the sofa and lower myself onto it. I’m expecting clouds of dust, but it seems quite clean. From the sofa, I can see straight through the big picture window to the sea. There’s my view.
There’s my view.
And suddenly I feel tears welling up, so hot and strong and powerful that there’s no question of blinking them away. No way of resisting. I need to cry. I can’t not cry. I have to let go. I feel as if weeks, months, years of strain are pouring out of me. There’s no one to see me, no one to hear.
I remember Mum after Dad died. You’d find her in the kitchen, and as she turned around her smile would be bright but her face wet. “Leaky eyes,” she’d say. “Just leaky eyes.”
Well, now I’ve got leaky eyes. A leaky brain. A leaky body. I brush at my face several times, but the tears just won’t stop. My stomach is crunching with every sob—wave after wave.
I don’t have any tissues, but I find a packet of loo rolls and rip it open. I wipe my face and blow my nose—five, ten, fifteen times—throwing the screwed-up balls into a cardboard box in lieu of a bin. I’m wondering almost detachedly how long a human can cry for. What if I can’t stop? Freak woman sobs for a year solid; doctors mystified; Kleenex makes compassionate donation.
But no one cries forever. At last my tears ebb away and my chest stops heaving and I lie back, gazing up blankly at the tongue-and-groove ceiling. An overwhelming exhaustion has overtaken me. I feel like I’ll never be able to move again. As if my limbs are pinned to the sofa. Or maybe I’m a marble statue in a tomb.
Is this delayed shock? I guess it’s been quite a seismic week. One minute I was at work, I was in London, I was functioning. And now I’m here, in a silent, derelict lodge on an empty beach, not quite sure if I’m functioning or not.
I stare at the ceiling, almost in a trance, for a long time. Until at last it goes blurry and I realize it’s dark. Some kind of automated lighting system has come on outside the window, illuminating the deck. OK. Time to move. Experimentally, I try to motivate my legs, which seem reluctant.
Can I move?
Yes. Come on. I can move.
With an almighty effort, I heave myself off the sofa and look around. Already I feel better. Lighter. Clearer. And I’ve bonded with this lodge, guardian of my secrets. This will be my haven. This is where I will sort myself out. Twenty steps to a better me. I’ll begin tomorrow. I already feel resolute. In fact, I can’t wait.
Six
The next day, I wake to a chilly bedroom. I get out of bed, still half asleep, totter to the window, draw back the curtains to see what the weather’s like—then flinch. Oh God. I’d forgotten about the wooden boards.
Backing away from the unfriendly window, I head into the bathroom—and give a yelp of horror. I’d forgotten about the beady-eyed woodland creatures too. That badger looks like it wants to sink its sharp little teeth into my flesh. I’ll have to clean my teeth with my eyes shut.
As I get dressed, I firmly avoid looking at either the window or the bathroom. Instead, I focus on the photo of the girl in the wetsuit. While unpacking last night, I discovered that Mum had printed out a screenshot of the app for me, and I’ve hung it up on an empty hook on the wall. I’m not saying I’m obsessed—but I do look at the girl a lot. I find her inspirational. She looks so strong and energetic. So vibrant. I will be her.
I studied the 20 Steps app last night while I ate my room-service supper, and it recommends aiming for one step per day. But that’s for people doing it in their spare time, surely? I’m on the full immersion program. So I decided that today I’ll accomplish five steps for starters and then see how I go. It’s all written out in my bullet journal.