“Excuse me?” It takes me a moment to realize that the girl behind the counter is addressing me.
“Oh.” I look up. “Hi.”
“Sorry, but I’ve got to ask. Are you the lady staying at the Rilston?” She peers at me avidly. “The kale lady?”
The kale lady?
“I’m Bea. Cassidy’s my friend, and she’s told me all about you,” she continues in an enthusiastic rush. “How healthy you are. Salads and kale and yoga on the beach all day long. Noni juice—that’s a new one. Cassidy called me, asked if we had any. I said, ‘Never heard of it!’ What’s it do, then, noni juice?”
Oh God. This bloody noni juice. I have no idea what it does.
“It benefits you,” I say vaguely. “It has various … benefits.”
“Benefits your noni?” She giggles and bites her lip. “Sorry. It’s just that’s what Cassidy and I used to call … you know.” She glances down at her crotch. “Those bits,” she adds, in case I haven’t understood. “Down below. Privates.”
“Right. Yes. Got it.”
“Anyway, how can I help?” she asks, as the door tings and another girl comes in, wearing an anorak. “Paula, it’s the kale lady!” Bea points at me excitedly, then adds, “We’re not the healthiest shop in the world.…” She looks around doubtfully. “I don’t know what you’ll have.”
“The spelt scones are gluten-free,” offers Paula as she takes off her anorak.
“No, they’re not,” contradicts Bea.
“Well, they’re something-free. Are you vegan?” Paula peers at me.
“She’s healthy,” Bea answers, before I can reply. “It’s different. Ooh, I know!” Her face brightens. “We do salad garnishes. You could have a couple of those. I’ll put them on a plate, give you a doily. Two pounds fifty, that all right?”
Oh God. How do I order six doughnuts and a Bakewell slice now?
No. I can’t. I can’t face the kerfuffle.
“I’ll just have some mineral water, please,” I say after a pause, and Bea nods respectfully.
“Of course. Didn’t think of that. Mineral water.” She hands me a bottle and takes my money, and as I’m leaving, she calls out, “Hope you get your noni juice!”
Back outside, I exhale hard. Enough messing about. I need food. From some nice anonymous outlet. Hunching my shoulders, I start marching through the streets, right to the other end of town, where the cute cottages merge into less cute breeze-block buildings and garages and rundown flats. I dimly recall a small supermarket at this end of town, and … Yes! It’s still here.
It’s the tiniest, grimmest shop, staffed by a silent guy in a brown T-shirt. There’s nothing fresh, only packets and jars, but that suits me fine. I collect three jumbo bags of crisps, some chocolate biscuits, a bag of salted peanuts, a bottle of wine, and a tub of ice cream. I throw in Heat, Grazia, and Best-Dressed Celebrities and finally a Mars bar, then head to the till. The guy in the brown T-shirt looks at me hard for a moment, surveys my items, raises his eyebrows, then shrugs and starts to scan them. I stash what I can in my rucksack and put the rest in a plastic bag. As long as I don’t get spotted on the way back, I’ll be fine.
I pay with cash, and as the guy gives me my change, he touches his nose briefly.
“I don’t see nothing,” he says in sepulchral tones and nods at my bag. “I don’t say nothing. More to life than kale.”
Oh my God.
Everyone knows?
Feeling totally conspicuous, I hurry back through the drizzly streets, my bag of treats tucked under my arm, where I hope no one can see them. As soon as I can, I turn through the car park and make for the sand dunes that run between here and the beach. They’re huge sandy hills with grasses sprouting on top and steep-sided paths winding between them. They’ll shield me from view.
As I approach the dunes, I’m suddenly flooded with childhood memories. We spent hours here, playing hide-and-seek, sliding down them, lying on the tops of them, plucking at the vegetation, and talking about life. I choose a path I remember well, and as I make my way up a familiar sandy incline, I feel the same anticipation I always did, knowing that any minute I’ll emerge onto the beach and see the sea.…
Then a deep male voice stops me in my tracks.
“Dear Sir Edwin, I would like to apologize for my behavior last week.”
Hang on. I know that voice, don’t I? A dry voice with an edge of impatience. I’ve heard it before.
I think intently for a moment—then realize. It’s that guy from the train, the one with the surfboard. And he sounds just as tense and sarcastic as he did then. He may be saying sorry, but he doesn’t sound sorry.
The voice continues: “I should not have raised my voice to you in the departmental meeting, even though you’re a complacent, smug, total bloody—”
He stops midstream and sighs deeply, while I roll my eyes. Obviously, apologizing doesn’t come naturally to this guy.
“I should not have raised my voice to you in the departmental meeting,” he resumes. “Nor should I have slammed my coffee cup down on the boardroom table, causing spillage and damage to papers. I respect you highly and can only express my dismay at my actions. I am taking some time out from work to consider my behavior. I look forward to seeing you again at the office, and may I apologize again. Best, Finn Birchall.”
There’s silence. I don’t know what to do. I’m breathing hard, I realize, clutching my bag of goodies tightly against me, leaning against the sandy slope as though it will hide me. I don’t want to confront anyone right now, least of all some man with a temper issue. And I’m just debating whether to back away when the voice starts up again.
“Dear Alan, I would like to apologize for my behavior last week. I should not have punched the coffee vending machine in your presence, nor threatened to dismantle it with a sledgehammer.”
He did what? I stifle a giggle.
“I’m sorry that you were unnerved by my actions and can only apologize. I am taking some time out from work to consider my behavior. I look forward to seeing you again at the office, and may I apologize again. Best, Finn Birchall.”
This is excruciating. I shouldn’t be hearing this, but I’m riveted.
Slowly, silently, I creep forward, keeping to the side of the sandy path. I know this path. There’s a bend ahead and a little hollow where we used to sit as kids. I bet he’s there.
Sure enough, a moment later I glimpse him—and I was right. It’s the man from the train. Tall, dark-haired, leaning against the side of the hollow, dictating into a phone—using voice recognition, I guess. He’s angled away, so all I can make out is broad shoulders in a North Face jacket, a glimpse of ear, his hands holding his phone, and that firm, stubbly jaw. As I’m watching, he edits his text, then starts a new dictation, and I freeze.
“Dear Marjorie, I would like to apologize for my behavior last week. I should not have exhibited frustration with the office ficus plant for dropping leaves into my lunch nor threatened to chainsaw it into bits.”
I give another stifled giggle, clapping a hand over my mouth.