“Hi, Herbert!” I greet him as I get near. “Are you OK?”
There’s a pause as Herbert gets his breath. Then he intones in a quavery voice that I can barely hear above the wind, “The management wish to inform you that unfortunately beach service is not available at the present time.”
“Right,” I say, taken aback. “I didn’t think there was any beach service.”
He’s come all the way down here to tell me that?
Herbert is now pulling a piece of paper from his overcoat pocket, and he scrutinizes it for what seems like ten minutes before looking up.
“In addition, unfortunately, the organic kale has not yet arrived. However, Chef Leslie has composed a salad for you, which he hopes is to your liking.”
“Oh, right,” I say, taken aback. “Thanks.”
Herbert nods, then turns, as though to make the long, hard trek back over the sands, and I feel a flicker of alarm. What if he totters and falls? Or the wind blows him over? He’s so frail, it probably could. I have a sudden dreadful image of him falling flat on his face on the sand, moving his arms and legs fruitlessly, like a beetle.
“Tell you what, Herbert,” I say quickly. “Why don’t I walk back with you and have my lunch now? It’s a bit early, but I’m quite hungry, so it’s no problem.” I hold out an encouraging arm. “Let’s go together!”
“Well, if I could perhaps rest on your arm just for a moment,” Herbert says in his whispery voice. “Just for a moment.”
By the time we get back to the hotel, I’m pretty much carrying Herbert again. I escort him into the lobby and carefully help him into a big wing chair upholstered in brown fabric and priced at ￡45. The reception desk is empty, and I wonder briefly whether it’s OK leaving him alone—then a gentle snore tells me that he’s probably fine.
I can’t face my windowless room, and I’m actually quite starving after only having that melon plate for breakfast. So I head straight into the dining room, where a single table is laid.
“Madame.” Nikolai, who was standing by the window like a pillar, springs to life. He pulls back a chair for me, shakes out a starched napkin with lots of elaborate gestures, and lays it carefully across my lap. He fills my glass with water, adjusts my knife, and tugs at my tablecloth several times. Then he hesitates. “Madame would prefer a salad,” he ventures.
Oh God. Madame doesn’t want a salad, Madame’s hungry. But I can’t say that, not after they’ve been to so much trouble.
“Lovely!” I smile brightly at him. “Thank you.”
Nikolai disappears and then a couple of minutes later returns with a plate adorned with colorful circles. There are slices of roasted carrot and beetroot and tomato, all dotted around randomly. It’s actually very pretty. I drizzle my little jug of dressing over the circles, then skewer one with my fork and start to munch. And munch.
Here’s the thing: I like salads. I do. But these vegetables are soggy and mushy and turning into gloop in my mouth, which I can’t seem to swallow. I chew and chew and gulp and swig my water. Meanwhile, Nikolai is watching me constantly, ready to leap forward with a deferential “Madame” if I even meet his eye. He refills my water glass eleven times and, each time, tugs the tablecloth. It’s not the most relaxed meal I’ve ever had.
At last, I put my knife and fork together and breathe out. Nikolai gives his own relieved sigh too—I think we both found that a bit of an ordeal.
Also, small point: The whole meal probably contained about twenty calories, tops. I’m still starving.
“How was your salad?” Cassidy’s voice greets me as she enters the room with a brisk stride. “Was it amazing? It was all superfoods,” she adds proudly.
“Delicious, thank you!” I force a smile.
“I’ll tell Chef Leslie.” Cassidy beams back. “He’ll be so pleased. His mum just fell over, did her hip in, so he needs a bit of good news. Now, what else can we get you? You won’t want pudding, will you? Is there anything else your heart desires?”
I know exactly what my heart desires. I can itemize it. A falafel and halloumi wrap, a choc bar, an apple, a bircher muesli, and a canned drink.
“There isn’t a Pret A Manger nearby, is there?” I ask casually. “By any chance?”
“Pret A Manger?” Cassidy looks blank. “No. Nearest one’s in … Exeter, maybe? You didn’t need one, did you?”
“No! Of course not,” I cover myself quickly. “I only asked because I hoped there wasn’t one. I hoped there wasn’t one,” I emphasize. “There are too many chains. It’s terrible.”
“Agreed.” Cassidy nods earnestly. “Oh, that reminds me!” She reaches in her bag and whips out a paper flyer. “Save Our Caves!” She brandishes it. “Stenbottom Caves are closing, unless we save them, so please go along and support.”
“Stenbottom Caves?” I take the flyer, feeling a wash of nostalgia. We used to go to the caves every year. I remember putting on a hard hat, climbing up and down iron ladders, shining a torch round a series of dark, dank underground spaces, and examining stalagmites. （Stalactites? Whatever.） Every year Kirsten and I agonized over which semiprecious stone to buy as a souvenir, to add to our “jewel” collection. I might even still have a couple of them knocking around.
“They have a Magical Sound and Illumination Experience on at the moment,” says Cassidy. “Shall I book you in?”
“Yes!” I say. “Sign me up. Any time.”
“Wonderful!” She claps her hands together. “I’ll tell Neil, he runs it. He’ll be chuffed to bits. And how was the lodge today?”
“Tremendous,” I say, smiling back. “Perfect.”
“Yoga, was it, you were doing out there?”
Oh God. I hope she didn’t see me lying on the beach for all that time.
“Yoga, meditation …” I wave my hands around vaguely. “General … mindful activities.”
“Amazing! Only I was wondering, will you be out there again this afternoon?” she adds hopefully. “Because we’re having some work done on the floor above your room, and it will be a tad noisy between two and five. There’ll be a tiny bit of hammering. And drilling,” she adds, consulting her phone. “Hammering and drilling and sawing. Just if you were planning on a nap or anything …”
Hammering and drilling and sawing.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll be on the beach.”
Seven
As I head back out to the beach that afternoon, I’m all set for some “manifesting.” I’ve read about manifesting before, and to be honest it seems like a load of rubbish—but I might as well have a go.
I collect a pen and A4 pad of paper from my rucksack and walk purposefully along the sand. The wind has died down slightly, and the air is feeling a smidgen warmer, which is a plus. I know exactly where I’m going to sit too. There’s a big rock to one side of the lodges, which Kirsten and I used to eye up for climbing potential. But whatever time we came along, it was always already commandeered by some posh child or other from the lodges—and in a weird way, we felt like it belonged to them.