So maybe today’s the day I get to meet her. It’s fine. I can deal with it. Maybe I won’t even find him attractive anymore. So. All good.
As I head out of the office, I pause and look upward. Even this early in the morning, the sky is blue and hazy, promising a gorgeous summer’s day. Perfect. I head into Pret and smile at the girl behind the counter.
“A cappuccino, please. That’s all.”
I haven’t had a falafel and halloumi wrap since I’ve been back. I can’t even look at them anymore. Instead, I’ve invested in a slow cooker and have learned to enjoy chopping an onion again. I swap recipes with Mum and Kirsten, and my Tupperware lunch box is my new best friend. Who would have thought? Not me. I do still pop into Pret for the odd coffee and snack, sometimes even lunch. But not every single meal.
Nor have I ever seen the Pret guy again, which is a relief. Probably for both of us.
As the coffee machine roars and hisses, I turn around and survey the street through the glass front of the shop. I watch the buses, the people, the pigeons even, all busily going about their day in the sunshine. And I feel a kind of wave of love for it all. OK, there’s noise, fumes, bits of litter gusting along in the summer breeze. But even so, London doesn’t look like a world of stress to me anymore. It looks like a place of endeavor, of human connection, of chances.
I’m enjoying life, I think as I take my coffee. I’m enjoying the ride. And that’s all you can ask.
Twenty-Eight
I see the first surfboards at Paddington. Two guys in their twenties are carrying them along the concourse to the Exeter platform, chatting and grinning and clearly in high spirits. At first I’m not sure if they’re with us—but then I overhear one say “Terry,” and I know.
I don’t recognize either of them, but that’s no surprise. I’ve been in touch with a lot of people these last few weeks, mostly through my new Facebook page, and the account has mushroomed.
“Hi,” I say, approaching the taller guy, who stops in surprise. “I’m Sasha Worth.”
“You’re Sasha!” His face creases in delight, and he shakes my hand warmly. “Great to meet you! I’m Sam.”
“Dan,” chimes in his friend. “We’re so stoked. This is an awesome idea.”
“Awesome,” Sam echoes. “We always talk about Terry. When I heard about the reunion, I was like, dude, we have to do this.”
“I haven’t been back to Rilston Bay for years,” chimes in Dan. “This is like … awesome.”
On the platform is another guy with a surfboard, talking to a group of five girls—and as I approach, I realize I recognize one of them, even though it’s been over twenty years. She has red hair in a bob. I remember when it was in a long pigtail down her back.
“Kate,” I say, hurrying up. “Oh my God, Kate! We were in Terry’s lessons together!”
“Sasha!” She pulls me in for a hug. “When I got the email, I thought, is that the same Sasha?”
“Same Sasha!” I nod, beaming.
“It’s so good to see you again! And you had a sister, Kirsten?”
“She’ll be there. She’s driving down with her kids.”
“Kids!” Kate pantomimes shock.
“I know, right?”
We’re quite a group now, and I can hear someone saying, “So what’s the plan, exactly?”
“Hi!” I address everyone, feeling like a teacher. “Thank you so much for coming. I’m Sasha, and I just heard someone asking what’s the plan. Well, I’m about to send out an itinerary and various requests for help, so keep checking your phones. But the main thing to know is, when we get to Rilston, head for the beach.”
“How many people are coming altogether?” asks Kate.
“Well.” I hesitate, because the truth is, I’m not sure. “Let’s see.”
By the time two more groups have joined us, we’re commandeering a whole carriage of the train. And as more and more surfboards bob past the window, I start to wonder just how many people are on their way to Rilston Bay.
At Reading, more surfboards appear. People are standing in the corridors, high-fiving each other, calling to one another, and drinking beers.
As we pass through Taunton, a harassed ticket inspector comes up to me and says, “I hear you’re in charge of the surfing group? In future, should you wish to stage such an event, please could you book it in?”
“Sorry,” I say apologetically. “I honestly didn’t know it would be so big.”
And it gets bigger. The train from Exeter St. Davids to Campion Sands is one big party, and as we arrive at Rilston Bay, a massive cheer goes through the shuttle train. Cassidy is waiting for us on the platform, holding up an umbrella—she volunteered to act as a steward—and as she sees me through the streaming crowd, her face lights up.
“Oh my God, Sasha!” she exclaims, coming forward to give me a hug. “This is nuts! Everyone’s come! The hotel’s full, all the guesthouses are full, the beach is full.… All the tourists here for Young Love are like, what the hell?”
“It’s quite something,” I say, watching the throng trooping down the hill toward the beach.
“It’s brilliant. You’re brilliant. The way you had the idea, the way you’ve got everyone together … It’s amazing. Everyone’s saying so. Simon, Herbert, Finn—”
“Finn?” The word pops out before I can stop it, and I curse myself. I wasn’t going to react to his name. I was going to be cool. But look at me, jumping like a rabbit.
“Yeah, he’s already here, helping set up.” Cassidy nods. “He’s … Oh, there he is.” She points over my shoulder.
Shit. I’m not ready.
Yes, I am. Come on, Sasha. Chin up.
I turn and feel my stomach tingle as I see him coming toward us across the station platform. He’s tanned, his hair is blowing in the wind, and his shades are glinting in the sunshine.
So much for Maybe I won’t even find him attractive anymore.
“Hi, Sasha.” He hesitates, then bends to kiss me lightly on the cheek.
“Hi, Finn,” I manage.
“This is quite something!” He spreads his arms out, taking in the melee.
“I know. Thanks for helping.”
“Of course. Waves look good today, so that’s one thing.”
“Thank God,” I say with feeling. “Because I didn’t have a backup plan.”
There’s silence, during which time Cassidy looks avidly from my face to Finn’s, then back again.
“Well,” says Finn at last. “There’s a lot to do, and you’ll want to check in. I’ll be on the beach if you need me.”
He heads off and I silently breathe out. There. That was the hardest bit, and it’s done.
“Now, I’ve put you in the Presidential Suite,” says Cassidy as I pick up my case.
“The Presidential Suite!”
“We’ve just renamed it, actually—Simon’s idea. It was Room Forty-two before. Of course, another time you can have a Skyspace Beach Studio, only there’s been some snag with planning, so don’t hold your breath.” She rolls her eyes. “They haven’t even knocked down the old ones.”