“Everything moves on, I suppose. Pete’s place doesn’t even exist anymore.” I look at where the Surftime shack used to be, five meters away.
“He left after there was an accident,” says Finn. “There was a problem with a dodgy kayak. A boy nearly drowned and they found out Pete was to blame.”
“I know,” I say. “I was on the beach when it happened.”
“So was I.” Finn frowns as though putting this together. “So … we did overlap.”
There’s a pause while I reassess things slightly. We were both here on this same beach, all those years ago. Do I remember him? Mentally I scan my memories of all Terry’s pupils for a boy like Finn. But there’s nothing.
“We left Rilston the next day,” I say at last, and he nods.
“We’d just arrived. First day of the holiday, and the lifeguards order everyone out of the water. I was in another kayak at the time, actually. I tried to swim over and help, but they yelled at me, told me to get back to shore.” He rolls his eyes. “Great start to the week.”
“We went bowling,” I volunteer. “Did you hang around?”
He nods again. “It was a pretty big deal.”
“I know it was,” I say pointedly. “I remember.”
I’m trying to sound as authoritative as he does. But truthfully, I don’t remember much about that day except a kind of mayhem, screaming, people clustering on the sand, pointing out to sea, and lifeguards running. I’m not even sure how accurate my memories are. Maybe I’ve invented seeing the lifeguards running. When Dad was diagnosed, our life was thrown into such turmoil that everything else slid into unimportance.
“Maybe we overlapped in other years too,” Finn suggests, and now I nod.
“Probably did, we just didn’t know it.”
There’s a different energy between us. We’re looking at each other with a tad more interest.
“So you still surf?” I say.
“Now and again. You?”
“I have done, once or twice.” I shrug. “Did you stay at the Rilston when you were a child? Did you take a lodge?”
I’m so prepared to hear that he was one of those annoying entitled lodge kids that it’s a surprise when he shakes his head.
“My aunt lived here, and the whole family congregated every summer. But then she moved to Cornwall and we started going there instead. My cousin moved back to Devon, though, lives the other side of Campion Sands. I went to visit her before I came here to Rilston.” His eyes narrow with interest. “Why, did you take a lodge?”
“No!” I give a sharp laugh. “We were very definitely not the Rilston Hotel types. We stayed in a guesthouse.”
“So, what are you doing here off-season?” He gestures around at the empty beach. “Strange time to choose if you’re not a big surfer.”
The question catches me off guard, and it takes me a few moments to decide on my answer.
“I just wanted a holiday,” I say at last. “You?”
“Same.” His gaze is distant. “Just wanted a holiday.”
Liar. He’s such a liar! This isn’t a holiday; he’s been told to have time off work to “consider his behavior.”
But then, I’m a liar too. This isn’t exactly a standard-issue holiday for me either.
There’s silence, as though neither of us quite wants to carry on that line of conversation.
“Well … have a good walk,” I say at last.
“You too.”
I turn on my heel and start stumping away over the sand, feeling a bit discombobulated by the exchange. Random memories of Terry, of our holidays here, and even of my dad’s illness are all resurfacing. Combined with a notion that maybe this guy isn’t quite the monster I imagined.
I need chocolate, I decide, and reach into my pocket to get a Galaxy. As I pull it out, a paper comes out with it, and I make a half-hearted swipe at it before it’s lost on a gust of wind. It’s only three seconds later that I realize, with a jerk of horror, that it’s my manifestation. My manifestation about sex. In black and white. And now it’s blowing over the sand toward Finn. The most embarrassing document I have ever written in my life, dancing around freely on the breeze.
As it flutters in his direction, my heart spasms. What if he picks it up and reads it? No. He won’t do that. Don’t be ridiculous, Sasha.
But what if he does?
What if he thinks it’s litter and he’s the type to pick it up? He’ll reach for it, he’ll see the words, he’ll know I wrote them.…
OK, this cannot happen. I need to get it back. Frantically, I hurl myself along the sand, my eyes fixed on the paper scrap. But almost at once I realize my mistake, because Finn picks up on my urgency. He spots the paper and calls, “I’ll get it!” Then he launches himself at it as though it’s a lost lottery ticket, pins it down with his foot, and reaches to retrieve it before I can utter a syllable.
“No! Don’t— That’s confidential!” I yell in a strangled voice. “Confidential!” But he can’t hear me over the wind. Already it’s open in his hand, there’s a faint frown on his face …
And … it’s happened. The worst has happened. He’s read it. I can tell from his face. The widening of his eyes; the tilt of his mouth. He’s just read my innermost thoughts about sex.
Thanks a lot, Wetsuit Girl.
As I reach him, I’m desperately trying to put together some coherent words.
“That’s just something …” I clear my throat. “It’s not … Anyway. Thanks.”
Finn hands me the paper silently. His eyes are scrupulously turned away, but he doesn’t fool me. I know he saw it. The words are large, and they would have taken about five seconds to read. As my eyes scan my own writing, I feel such a wash of embarrassment, I want to sink down into the sand.
Sexual hunger. Sexual fantasies. Craving for sex.
A man with a cock. A sexy man with a working cock. Big, preferably. Any size, thank you.
World peace.
Should I explain? No. I can’t. There is no explanation.
“Thanks,” I manage again, my face prickling.
“No problem,” he says politely.
The fact that he hasn’t made a single sarcastic comment—or even met my eye—is almost the worst aspect of all. It shows he’s tactfully avoiding the subject. Oh God, I can’t bear this, I have to say something.…
“I was writing a song,” I blurt out. “It’s … lyrics.”
Finn raises an eyebrow, and I watch him mentally running over the words again.
“Catchy,” he says at last, then lifts a hand in farewell and heads away toward the dunes. And I stand stock-still, my heart thumping, unable to move for mortification.
Did he buy the lyrics thing? No. Of course he didn’t.
Oh God, why did I have to drop the note? And why does he have to be here? This last thought gathers steam in my head until I emit an exasperated scream. I’d be having a completely different experience if it weren’t for him constantly popping up and rubbing me the wrong way. I’d be relaxed. I’d be enjoying myself. Why does he have to be here?