I get out my phone again and skim through the photos of messages, reading them here and there.
To the couple on the beach. Thank you.
To the couple on the beach. Thank you again. 8/18
You did everything. 8/18
Maybe I’m being stubborn or deluded. But they don’t feel like fan tributes to me; they feel like actual messages.
“Talk to me!” I say in frustration, waving my arms at the words on the sand. “What is all this?”
A moment later, I hear a scuffling sound behind me and I freeze. Is someone there? Watching me? I whip my head round and hear more scuffling. Oh my God. Are they in one of the lodges?
“Who is it?” I leap to my feet. “Who’s there?”
Breathing hard, I hurry to the lodges, bursting into mine first and looking all around. But it’s still and empty. I try all the lodges, look behind them, then finally peer under the deck. There’s nothing.
At last I sink down onto the deck and stare out to sea. Maybe I’m losing it. Maybe I just wanted “the couple on the beach” to be Finn and me.
At the thought of Finn, a soft warmth creeps over me, and I sink back on my elbows, staring up at the cloudy sky. The truth is, none of this matters. I was in Finn’s arms this morning, in his bed, in his heart. That’s all that matters.
As my phone rings, I’m actually smiling, and when I see Kirsten’s name, I feel a leap of happiness. Perfect timing.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she greets me in her usual vigorous way. “I’ve been meaning to ring, but it’s been a hellish couple of days. And nights. Ben had earache.”
“Kirsten, don’t worry about me!” I say at once. “Get some sleep!”
“Mum’s snowed under,” she continues, ignoring me, “and I said I’d keep tabs on you. Which I’ve failed to do. How are you? Please don’t say you’re spiraling because none of your family loves you enough to pick up the phone.”
“Of course not.” I smile. “I’m good. It’s all great. Oh, by the way, I quit my job.”
I slip this last bit of news in casually, hoping I can turn it into a small, trivial nonevent. But Kirsten clearly doesn’t get the memo.
“You quit?”
Yes.”
“Right.” Kirsten is silent for a moment. “OK. Well, good for you. You need a break.”
“I’ll find another job. I just need, you know. A breather.”
“Yes. I do see that.” She pauses again. “You haven’t done anything else drastic while we weren’t looking, have you? Cut your hair off, got a tattoo?”
No!” I laugh. “But … but I have met someone. This amazing man.” A foolish smile spreads over my face. “Oh God, Kirsten. He’s just … he’s … we’re—”
I break off, because I can’t explain. How can I explain? I don’t want to spoil the magic that is Finn and me by dipping into my brain to find some bunch of words that will sound lame and prosaic even as I say them.
“Right,” says Kirsten, not sounding quite as captivated as I hoped. “Wow. Who is he?”
“It’s Finn,” I say, suddenly remembering that we’ve discussed him. “Finn Birchall.”
“Obnoxious Finn Birchall who made a toddler cry?” says Kirsten incredulously.
“I was wrong about that,” I explain. “He wasn’t obnoxious, he just couldn’t stand the noise. He was burned out, like me.”
“Burned out, like you?” echoes Kirsten in a weird-sounding voice. “Sasha, you said you weren’t going to sleep with him by mistake. Remember?”
“I didn’t sleep with him by mistake!” I say indignantly. “We’ve been helping each other. And then it went further. I know it sounds sappy, but it’s like we were meant to share the beach. He came into my life just when I needed him.”
I hear Kirsten murmur, “Oh God,” under her breath, and prickle. What does Oh God mean?
“Anything wrong with finding love?” I say defensively.
“Don’t get me wrong,” says Kirsten. “I’m all for love. But, Sasha, do you really think it’s a good idea to be propping up some guy with problems when you need to be looking after yourself?”
“Propping up?” I echo in shock. “That’s not what— Finn doesn’t even talk about his stuff. He’s the one helping me. All I know of his problems is that he was swamped, like me, and he had brief anger issues and he wanted to chainsaw a ficus plant, but he’s having therapy.” I realize I’m not exactly pitching Finn in his best light. “And he’s great,” I add feebly.
“Chainsaw a ficus plant?” Kirsten sounds flabbergasted.
“The ficus plant is irrelevant,” I add hurriedly. “Basically he’s a kind, sensible man who got derailed. He’s a management consultant. And he can surf. And he got me interested in men again. In sex,” I add. “Finally.”
“Well, OK,” says Kirsten. “I hear you. Hurrah for sex. Hurrah for love. I just don’t want you to get hurt. It sounds like the pair of you are pretty vulnerable. If he’s having therapy and you’ve been signed off work …”
She trails off into silence and I know she’s deliberately holding her tongue, being as tactful as Kirsten can be.
“So you’re saying it’s a bad idea,” I say, to provoke her into speech.
“I’m not. Necessarily. I’m just saying … be careful. What if you’re two needy, broken people and you’re trying to mend yourselves through hooking up with another needy, broken person instead of … you know, mending yourselves?”
I feel a surge of indignation. Finn and I aren’t two needy, broken people!
“I am not needy,” I retort stiffly. “Nor broken.”
“I’m just concerned, lovely! You’ve quit your job, you’ve found a new man—it’s a lot, Sasha. You were just supposed to get some fresh air and drink some whatsit juice.”
“Noni.”
“Exactly.”
Again there’s silence, as we both regroup.
Maybe Kirsten has got a point. Maybe I have slightly lost sight of why I came down here.
“I’m glad you’ve left your job,” she says into the silence. “But don’t go straight into a brand-new job of making someone else better.”
“I’m not!” I try to convey this to her. “It’s the other way round! He’s making me better.”
“Well, is that optimal either? If he’s got his own problems?”
Her words draw me up short, and I feel a wave of guilt. However much I’ve tried to draw Finn out, he’s resisted. I haven’t been able to help him. I still barely know what caused his insomnia and anger. Overwork, like me, or was there something more? Something his therapist will tease out of him?
“Oh, shit, I have to go,” says Kirsten, sounding distracted. “Ben, not up your nose. But, listen, you took this break for yourself. Yourself. Keep that in mind.”
“OK. I will. Thanks for calling. Oh, just one thing, quickly,” I add. “D’you remember why I talked to the police about that kayak accident?”