I get up, shaking out my legs, and before I can stop myself, I glance over at the rock yet again. Argh. Stop it. Don’t look at him, Sasha, I instruct myself sternly. What is wrong with me? I’m not here to look at a boy on a rock. I’m not thirteen years old. I have a wellness program to follow. Briskly, I pull out my phone and consult the next step on the app: Dance like no one is watching.
This is a big section, with lots of resources. There are guides to dance moves like the twist and the floss. There’s a film of Wetsuit Girl dancing joyfully in an empty wood. And there’s some helpful advice:
Be the star of your own rock video. If you’re in a crowded area, just tune out! Mix it up with hula-hooping and skipping. Don’t worry about all the people around—just enjoy yourself. Be Beyoncé! Be Shakira! The euphoria will soon be addictive.
There’s even a playlist, so I call it up and shove my earphones into my ears. I listen to the pounding beat for a moment, trying to get into the zone. Then I try shimmying across the sand, swaying my hips, waiting for the euphoria to kick in.
When it doesn’t kick in, I shimmy back again, waving my arms. But I still can’t feel any euphoria, just acute embarrassment. My toes keep catching on the sand in my bulky trainers, and I don’t feel anything like Beyoncé or Shakira. （I’m wearing an anorak. How can I feel like Shakira?） Maybe freestyle dancing is a mistake, I think after a bit. Should I try something specific like the floss? I begin some awkward floss-like movements—then instantly regret it. I could never do the floss, and anyway, it’s the stupidest dance in the world.
My eyes drift toward the rock—and he’s watching me. Oh God.
Maybe I’ll switch to hula-hooping. Studiously ignoring him, I step into the pink hoop, place it round my waist, and give it a twist, jerking my hips back and forth. The hoop falls straight down to the sand. I try again. The hoop clatters down again.
I glance at the rock and he’s still watching. Wait, is he laughing?
OK. Here’s the thing. I wouldn’t worry if there were loads of people. If there were crowds on this beach, I would meditate, do my squats, dance, talk to the seagulls, do it all. I would feel anonymous and unselfconscious.
But there aren’t crowds. There’s just one guy, sitting on a rock, watching me. I can’t dance like no one is watching, because they are. He is.
In a burst of frustration, I march up the beach to the rock. He’s now leaning back, staring up at the sky, and doesn’t move an inch as I approach.
“Hi,” I say. “I have a question. How long are you planning on being here?”
“This beach not big enough for you?” he says without even turning his head.
“I didn’t say that. I asked you a question.”
“Don’t know.” He shrugs. “How long are you planning on being down here?”
“Don’t know,” I say before I have time to think.
Damn. That wasn’t exactly a brilliant, killer reply. Which is obvious from the fact that he doesn’t even bother to respond.
Stalemate.
“Well, enjoy,” I say in pleasant–not-pleasant tones, and stomp off to my lodge.
Once the door is closed, I flop on the sofa, rip open a bag of crisps, and devour them all in a haze of comforting bliss, interrupted only occasionally by minuscule stabs of guilt. I know exercising on the beach should fill me with euphoria. But frankly I’m getting more euphoria from these salt ’n’ vinegar crisps. They should be on the list. Maybe Wetsuit Girl just hasn’t ever tried them.
When I’ve finished the crisps and licked every salty mouthful of crumbs off my fingers, I read all the horoscopes in my celebrity magazines, because I missed those out yesterday. My undrunk kale smoothie is sitting in its cup on the floor, and I eye it with revulsion. Maybe I should dispose of it. But it’s so thick, it’ll clog up the sink if I pour it down there. On the other hand, if I venture outside, Mr. Obnoxious might spot that I haven’t drunk it and make some sarcastic comment.
I’ll just leave it for now, I decide. No one will see. This lodge is my safe space. So safe that I find myself opening the last bag of crisps and stuffing them in. Maybe I can’t commune with nature, but I sure as hell can commune with carbs.
After I’ve finished them, I sit for a while doing nothing, just blankly watching dust motes float through the air—but then, at long last, I rouse myself. Come on, I can’t sit here all day. I poke my head cautiously out of my lodge door and see that the rock is still occupied. He’s still sitting there, staring out to sea, and now he’s drinking … Is that whisky?
I creep cautiously onto the deck, ready to dart back into my lodge at any moment if he turns round. Yes. It’s whisky. He’s got a bottle and a glass and … are those peanuts? I feel slightly indignant that he’s basically set himself up with a bar. Where did he get that whisky? He must have climbed down, fetched the bottle from somewhere, then reclaimed his position on the rock. If I’d been paying attention, I could have nabbed his place.
As though he can feel my gaze, he turns and catches me staring. Drat. Hastily, I pretend I’m doing a calf stretch on the deck. And now a quad stretch. Lots of stretches, la la la, pretend I can’t see him …
“Is there a problem?” he calls.
“No, not at all,” I call back. “Enjoy the view. Enjoy your whisky.” I give the word whisky a pointed edge, I’m not even sure why. I’m not anti-whisky. So why did I say it like that? I don’t quite understand the way I’m behaving around this guy.
“I will, thanks.” He takes a slug. “Want some?”
“No thanks,” I say politely.
“I assumed you didn’t.” He gives me a level gaze. “That was a joke.”
Oh. Ha ha. I’m just searching around for some devastating put-down when a roaring sound makes me jump. Is that a motorbike? On the beach?
I watch in disbelief as a bike races toward us over the sands. Is that a pizza-delivery bike? It draws up beside the rock and a guy gets a pizza out of his pannier, then looks up at Finn.
“Finn Birchall, Rock by the Lodges, Rilston Bay Beach?”
“That’s me.” Finn nods.
My jaw is on the floor as I watch Finn take his pizza and pay for it. That’s genius. Pizza delivery. Why didn’t I think of that? The bike roars away again, and Finn glances down to see me still staring at him, agog.
“Sorry, does pizza offend you?” he says shortly. “I’m not sure if it’s organic—let me check what toppings I ordered.…” He pretends to consult the box. “Oh yes, pepperoni with extra toxins. Guess not.”
“Pizza doesn’t offend me,” I say frostily. “In fact, I’m really not interested in what you eat.”
“Oh, really?” he shoots back. “Could have fooled me. Every time I look up, you’re giving me a sanctimonious look or asking how long I’ll be or giving me a hard time for sitting on your rock.” He gives me a steady stare. “Which it’s not. Can’t a guy just sit on a bloody beach?”
Sanctimonious? I feel a surge of rage. I’m not sanctimonious!
“On the contrary, I’m just getting on with my wellness project,” I say in distant tones. “Obviously I was hoping to use that rock for my meditation today, but you go ahead. Have it all day.”