He’s tense, I realize. He’s tense and he’s making me tense too. I preferred it when it was just me and Nikolai anxiously saying “Madame” every three seconds.
At last, Nikolai reappears and I breathe a sigh of relief. First he sets down a plate of melon in front of me. Then he returns to the kitchen and brings out the epic feast that is Finn Birchall’s breakfast.
I want to swoon. The sight of it. The smell of it. Bacon. Eggs. Pancakes. A pile of toast. Solid, warm, delicious food with maple syrup sploshed all over it.
I can’t watch him eat all that, I’ll collapse with hunger. Hastily, I consume my insubstantial melon slices, sip my herbal tea, then survey the kale smoothie with childlike dread. Could I get up and just leave it? No. Not after they’ve gone to such trouble.
Could I throw it in a plant pot? No. There isn’t a plant pot.
Then, with a sudden idea, I call Nikolai over.
“Hi,” I say. “I need to get going, I’m afraid. Could I have my smoothie to go, please?”
Back upstairs in my room, I sit on the bed and stare at the wallpaper until I feel calmer. Then I pack up my stuff and walk through the lawned garden to the beach, clutching my smoothie in its paper cup. The air is cold, but there’s a hint of blue in the sky and crocuses peeping out on the lawn. It’s a good day, I tell myself. Let’s begin like I mean to go on, with positive thoughts.
As I walk, I visualize a successful meditation. I’ll sit cross-legged on the rock. Yes. I’ll gaze out to sea. Yes. I’ll listen to the waves and be inspired. Yes. I have such a clear image of myself that when I finally catch sight of the rock, I stop dead in shock.
Finn Birchall is on the rock. My rock.
Picking up my pace, I stride over the beach and head toward my lodge, which is the lodge closest to the rock. Just saying. I know rocks don’t belong to anyone, but if that rock did belong to anyone, it would be me. How did he get down here so quickly, anyway?
He doesn’t even turn his head as I draw near. He’s lounging in the hollow of the rock, just like all those entitled posh lodge kids used to, and I can’t help it, I feel a flare of indignation.
A voice inside me is saying, It’s just a rock. And Chill out, Sasha. But another, less rational voice is saying, It’s so unfair. The beach was MINE.
I approach the rock from the side and look up at him. He’s staring ahead at the sea, his face in a glower, his fingers relentlessly drumming. Is he meditating? He doesn’t look like it, unless his mantra is Sod the world and everyone in it.
Isn’t he even going to greet me?
“Hello,” I say, my polite manner masking a subtle passive aggression.
（OK, maybe it’s not that subtle. Also, maybe I’m not masking it.）
For a moment he doesn’t even respond. Then at last he turns his head to regard me with dark, impassive eyes.
“I thought we were going to ignore each other?”
“We are.” I give him an even more polite, loathing smile. “Absolutely. Just being a civil human being. Forget I said anything.”
“Apologies if I don’t leap down, shake your hand, and ask you in for tea,” he says, the sarcasm clear in his voice. “But I didn’t come here to be sociable.”
“Nor did I.” I fold my arms. “I came here for solitude. That’s why I was so pleased to see that the beach was empty. Until now, obviously.” I flick my eyes over him, and momentarily his face alters as he comprehends. Then he resumes his murderous stare.
“Well, sorry to ruin your party,” he says, with a shrug that clearly reads not-sorry.
“No problem. Nice rock.” I nod at it.
“Yup.”
“I used that rock yesterday to meditate.”
“Good for you.”
He turns back to gaze at the sea again; clearly our conversation is over. Well, sod him. I don’t need the rock, anyway. I’ll just get on with my wellness program and ignore him.
Except he’s there. He’s just there, and somehow I can’t ignore him.
From his vantage point on the rock, he has a view of the whole beach, I realize, as I walk along the sand with my exercise mat and Hula-Hoop. Trying to stay aloof, I stride straight down to the waves, plonk my mat on the sand, and sit cross-legged, facing the sea, to meditate. Calm thoughts, I tell myself firmly as I watch the waves whooshing in. Calm thoughts. Focus on the sound of the—
Is he watching me?
Casually, I glance round, catch his eye by mistake, and flush, instantly swiveling back to face the sea again. Damn.
Why do I care if he’s watching me?
I don’t. Obviously I don’t. But it’s an unwelcome distraction, having another presence on the beach. I can feel his gaze boring into my back. Or I imagine I can. Either way, I am not lost in a trance of relaxation, and this is not working.
I do a few desultory stretches, then wonder if I should move on to the hundred-squat challenge instead. But that’ll be even worse. I really don’t need an audience for that. And which way do I face? Either I’ll have to do them facing away, in which case he sees my bum bobbing up and down, or I turn around, in which case I look like I’m curtsying to him.
Casually I glance round to see if he’s left—but no. He’s still on the rock. Damn him.
Feeling selfconscious, I stand up, roll up my mat, shove my Hula-Hoop over my shoulder, and decide to move on to STEP 3: COMMUNING WITH NATURE. To remind myself of my task, I open the app on my phone and find the advice, which is illustrated by two photos of Wetsuit Girl. In one she’s cavorting with a dolphin, which seems to be smiling joyfully back at her. In the other she appears to be in a rainforest, touching the bark of a massive tree, an expression of awe on her face.
The ancient natural world can soothe any troubled spirit. Animals instinctively want to help and nurture. Plants want to heal. Harness their power. Reach out to them and feel your mind and body respond.
I’m not wildly optimistic, but let’s give it a try. I shove my phone back in the pocket of my anorak and cast around the beach for some nature. There are seagulls shrieking above me, and I peer up at them, but they’re too far off to make a connection. Also: Do seagulls instinctively want to help and nurture? In my experience, they instinctively want to pinch your food and make messes on your shoulder.
I glance at the waves—but I’ve already tried looking at the waves. OK. What else is there?
Seaweed? Dubiously, I walk over to a patch of seaweed and stare down at it. It’s brown and gloopy and kind of unattractive. I’m not sure it’s doing anything for me. There’s a tiny crab walking over the top of it, though, and I crouch down to look at it more closely. Hi, crab, I say silently, but the crab doesn’t seem to respond. Hi, crab, I try again, but it disappears between two strands of seaweed.
I turn my attention to a whelk and stare at it for a bit, wondering if I could commune with that. Hi, whelk, I try experimentally. Then it occurs to me to turn it over—and it’s not even alive. It’s an empty shell.
This is stupid. It’s embarrassing. What do I think I’m doing? I’m not swimming with a dolphin in turquoise waters; I’m on a chilly English beach, crouching over seaweed, trying to “reach out” to a dead whelk. Forget it. What’s next on the list?