As I walk back, dragging my feet, I’m prickly and embarrassed and bad-tempered.
I’m also pondering on the conversation that Finn and I had about the past. I can’t stop wondering, did I know him back then, when we were kids? By sight, at least?
On impulse, I dial Kirsten’s number. She’ll know.
“Sasha!” Her voice greets me against a background noise of kids’ TV. “How’s it going? Mum told me about the kefir and reflexology. Sounds like you’re busy!”
“Well,” I say. “Kind of.”
“How are you feeling?” Her voice softens. “Are you recovering? Breathing the sea air, all that?”
“I’m doing OK,” I say. “Actually, I slept most of today. Didn’t do a stroke of wild swimming. Don’t tell Mum or Pam.”
“Circle of trust,” says Kirsten. “Although I will just mention that sleeping is a symptom of the menopause. You might want to check that out.”
“Hilarious.” I roll my eyes. “Anyway, I’m getting lots of sea air. All good. And here’s a weird one: D’you remember a guy called Finn Birchall?”
“Yes.”
Her simple answer takes me aback. I wasn’t expecting a plain “yes.”
“Well, he’s here. I don’t remember him at all.”
“He was there a few years running. I think I had surf lessons with him, maybe? Does he live in Rilston?”
“No, he’s at the hotel. We’re practically the only two guests.”
“Oh, right.” She hesitates. “Oh, right. Is he kind?”
“Kirsten!” I exclaim.
I know exactly what she means by “Is he kind?” She means, Are you planning to sleep with him? Kirsten and I have a long-developed theory that the only important attribute of any man is that he is kind. In fact, to sleep with a man who is not kind is a form of self-harm. We even made up a slogan: If you’re not kind, never mind.
“First of all, I’m totally off sex, as you well know.”
“Which you should see a doctor about,” puts in Kirsten. “As you well know.”
“Whatever.” I brush her off. “And second of all, this guy and I are pretty much archenemies. He’s totally arrogant and obnoxious and I have actually witnessed him making a toddler cry. He wasn’t even ashamed of himself.”
“OK.” Kirsten laughs. “Well, it sounds like I don’t need to worry. Except.” She suddenly puts on a Grand Inquisitor air. “Is he hot?”
“He’s … not unpleasant to look at,” I admit.
“Built?”
“Pretty built.” I recall his tall, firm torso. “Quite hot. As obnoxious, arrogant men go.”
“Well, don’t get carried away and sleep with him by mistake,” instructs Kirsten. “You do not need an unkind man in your life right now. Or ever,” she amends. “Ever.”
Honestly. Sleep with him by mistake? Who does Kirsten think I am?
“I think I can avoid sleeping with him by mistake,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’m going to be polite to him and nothing more; the end.”
Ten
Polite. I can do polite.
The next morning I head downstairs to breakfast with some bland conversational openers prepared. Like, Have you done the coastal walk? and Do you know the weather forecast?
But as soon as I enter the dining room, I sense something is wrong. Finn is sitting at his table with the most thunderous look on his face, while Nikolai is hovering nearby, looking close to tears. The waiter’s face is pale and his hands are trembling, I notice.
“Good morning,” I say warily, and Finn just gives a kind of grunt.
What’s been going on?
As I slip into my chair, Nikolai gingerly places a rack of toast on Finn’s table.
“Sourdough toast,” he says in a quavering voice. “Sir, I apologize for the error. I apologize for the white toast.” He bows his head abjectly. “It was error.”
I’m watching him, aghast. What the hell has brought about this pitiful confession?
“It’s fine,” says Finn shortly, and I swivel my gaze suspiciously toward him. His face is set. His jaw is super-tight. Poor Nikolai is backing away now, almost genuflecting.
Has Finn somehow turned Nikolai into a gibbering wreck?
Of course he has. It’s obvious. He’s given that poor sweet Nikolai the special Finn Birchall angry treatment, hasn’t he? He’s yelled or slammed his fist down or whatever it is that gives him kicks. Over toast!
I shake out my napkin, buzzing with outrage. I was right first time—he is a monster. Who the hell does he think he is that he can lash out at people? Do the normal rules not apply to him?
Forget polite. Polite is off.
And another thing: He was told to consider his behavior! Does snapping at Nikolai count as “considering his behavior”？ I don’t think so. In fact, I haven’t seen any signs of any “considering,” unless you count drinking whisky, which I do not.
I shoot a scathing glance at Finn, but he’s scrolling on his phone now, oblivious. Pah. As Nikolai approaches my table, I smile at him charmingly to make up for Finn’s horrible behavior.
“Good morning, Nikolai! How are you?”
“Good morning, Madame,” he says, his voice still wobbly. “Madame would prefer a melon plate?” he continues, and I smile back sympathetically, even though the thought of yet more melon makes my heart plummet.
“I would absolutely love a melon plate, thank you. And some toast, please. Any kind of toast,” I add, with a meaningful edge to my voice. “Some details aren’t worth troubling about.” I glare at Finn, who seems bemused. Does he really think I haven’t put together what happened? “Toast is toast,” I continue. “It really doesn’t matter which kind, does it? Unless you’re some sort of mean-spirited obsessive. Thank you so much, Nikolai. I greatly appreciate all your help.”
“Madame would enjoy a kale smoothie?” ventures Nikolai, and I nod enthusiastically.
“Of course! I’d love a kale smoothie! Although in a takeaway cup,” I add as an afterthought. “If that’s OK.”
After a few minutes, Finn gets up to leave, nodding at me brusquely, and I eat my breakfast in silence, feverishly planning all the things I’m going to say to him. If he thinks he’s unaccountable, then he’s going to learn a lesson. I’m actually quite looking forward to having a bona fide excuse to let off steam at him.
After breakfast, I get ready for the day briskly. I head downstairs with my rucksack ready-stuffed with snacks and march straight down to the lodges. As I arrive, I see that Finn is already on the beach, gazing at something on the sand. Perfect. No time like the present.
“I’d like to have a word with you, if that’s OK?” I greet him crisply as I approach. But he doesn’t move. He seems transfixed by whatever it is he’s staring at. “Hello?” I try again. “I just wanted to talk about this morning. I have a couple of questions.”
At last, he moves his head.
“Look at this,” he says.
Deflection. Typical.
“I don’t want to, thanks,” I say. “I want to talk about whatever happened at breakfast.”