“I’ve muted their notifications,” I confess. “I did it yesterday after they invited me to celebrate the Fourth of July.”
“The Fourth of July barbecue invite! I got that too. In February! What the hell?”
He sounds so indignant, I can’t help giving a snort of laughter, and after a moment he’s grinning too.
“Notifications muted,” he says firmly, jabbing at his phone screen.
As we arrive in the lobby, Cassidy is tapping busily at her computer, but when she sees Finn’s scalded arm, she breaks off with a dismayed shriek.
“Mr. Birchall! How did you manage that?”
“Just one of those things,” says Finn casually, and I shoot him a tiny smile, appreciating his tact. “Got some hot water on it. No big deal. But I wondered, you don’t have a bandage, do you?”
“I’m the first-aid officer!” Cassidy beams triumphantly. She bends down and produces a plastic box from under the desk. “Oh, look!” she exclaims as she opens it. “There’s the key to Room Fifty-four. We searched everywhere for that.”
As she dresses Finn’s arm, I decide to broach the message on the beach.
“Cassidy, we found a bottle of champagne on the sand,” I begin. “Right in front of the lodges.”
“Champagne?” she echoes absently.
“On the beach,” affirms Finn.
“Did someone leave it behind?” she asks, cutting a length of gauze.
“No, it’s like a present. At least, we think it is. We can’t tell.”
“For who? Was there a note? Just too late for a Valentine!”
“There was a message on the sand,” I explain, almost reluctantly. It said, ‘To the couple on the beach. Thank you.’ ”
“The couple on the beach,” echoes Cassidy thoughtfully. “The couple on the beach …” Then her head pops up and she looks first at me, then at Finn, her finger pointing triumphantly.
“You’re the couple on the beach! It’s for you!”
“But we’re not a couple,” I say.
“Very much not a couple,” agrees Finn.
“Not a couple,” I reiterate. “At all. So it can’t be us.”
Cassidy looks blank. “Well, there’s two of you,” she explains helpfully. “And you’re on the beach all day. I’m sure it’s for you.”
“But it can’t be,” I object. “Who would give us champagne? And it said, ‘Thank you.’ There’s no reason to thank us for anything.” I summon up the photo of the message on my phone, and as I show her, her expression changes.
“Oh, right!” she says. “One of those. It’s like the Mavis Adler messages,” she adds, as though this will explain everything.
“The what?”
“The local artist? You know, she painted Young Love? The couple kissing? There’s a copy in the library. I’m sick of the sight of it, to be honest.” She rolls her eyes. “We get fans coming here every summer, pretending to be the couple. There’s a local photographer called Gill; she makes her whole living taking photos of tourists kissing in that spot. It’s mad.”
“Right,” I say, bewildered. “I know the painting. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Well.” Cassidy leans forward as though for a cozy gossip. “About five years ago, Mavis Adler did an exhibition, only it wasn’t paintings, it was messages on the beach. Protesting about the environment. Look.” Cassidy summons up a photo on her own phone, then turns it around for me to see. It shows two messages just like the one we saw this morning. Deeply gouged letters lined with stones, reading NO OIL and POLLUTION IS HELL.
“Wow,” says Finn, looking over my shoulder. “Punchy.”
“Yeah,” says Cassidy. “She wrote about ten of them and then took photos and put them in an exhibition. I think she wanted her messages to become as famous as Young Love? Only they never did. Awkward.” Cassidy makes a comical face. “Everyone was like, ‘Paint another couple kissing!’ But she didn’t want to.”
“I guess artists have to follow their hearts,” says Finn, shrugging.
“I suppose.” She puts her phone away. “Anyway, then people started copying her and writing their own messages on the beach, only they got a bit rude.” She snorts with laughter. “My friend wrote a really funny thing about our old head teacher, only he didn’t find it funny.” She gives another giggle, then bites her lip. “Yeah, that didn’t go down well. Anyway, the council said we had to stop and they put signs on the beach, and then it all died down.”
“Right,” I say. “So someone’s copying those again?”
“Looks like it.” She nods. “And handing out champagne. Only I wonder who? Ooh, I wonder if it’s from Herbert?” Her face brightens. “He thinks you’re both lovely guests, don’t you, Herbert?” She raises her voice, but Herbert, who is slumped, apparently comatose, in a nearby armchair, does not respond. “Oh, he didn’t hear, bless him. He’s not asleep, he’s just having some Herbert-time,” she assures us. “He’s been busy today! First he had to help the Bergens check out with their golf clubs, and now he’s just carried two massive suitcases in for some new guests. Leather ones, proper heavy.”
“From the station?” I ask, in slight shock.
“From their car,” explains Cassidy. “Tired him out, poor love. I’ll go and ask him about the champagne.” She finishes off Finn’s dressing, then puts down her scissors and heads across the lobby.
“Herbert!” she cries, straight into his face. “Did you give this lovely couple some champagne?”
“We’re not a couple,” says Finn, sounding a bit tense, but Cassidy seems oblivious. Herbert has lifted his head about an inch off the chair back, as though to impart his last words to the world, and she bends down to hear his papery whisper of a voice.
“He says it wasn’t him,” she announces, standing up. “Funny, isn’t it? Mystery bottle of champagne on the beach. Ooh, maybe it’s for our new guests. You’re a couple, aren’t you?” she adds blithely, as a middle-aged man and woman walk into the lobby from the dining room. The woman, who has long, straight hair and glasses, tenses up.
“A couple?” she echoes, sounding on the brink of tears, and glances at the man, who shifts uncomfortably, his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets. The pair of them look pretty miserable for a couple who have just started a holiday.
“Mr. and Mrs. West, isn’t it?” adds Cassidy.
“For now,” says Mrs. West, after a pause. She glances at her husband, who instantly swivels his head away, as though he wants to avoid not only Cassidy’s friendly gaze and the sight of his partner but basically the whole conversation. Mrs. West’s face jolts as though he’s dealt her a blow, and then she nods, her lips tightening, as though this confirms everything she thought about life, and then some.
“It’s just we were wondering if you were expecting a bottle of champagne?” Cassidy presses on.