The roar from the beach almost deafens me as I step onto the stage, and I feel my eyes welling. I’ll never forget this moment, looking out to the blue horizon, with a sea of joyous people in front of me. The love on this beach feels as real as the salt in the air.
“I’m so thrilled you could all be here,” I say into the microphone. “Thank you all for coming. This is so much bigger than I ever thought it would be, and that’s down to Terry. As Sean says, there’ll be speeches later, but now I just want to thank one other person who did a huge amount of work putting this on.” I glance at him. “Finn Birchall.”
Finn makes a show of reluctance, then comes onto stage, grinning, and nods at the deafening applause which greets him. “I have only one thing to say,” he deadpans into the microphone. “Seize that wave.” Another roar goes up, and Finn laughs. “Over to Terry.”
We make way for Terry, and he stands silently for a moment as the hubbub dies to a respectful hush. His eyes look momentarily bewildered as he surveys the crowd—then they snap into focus.
“Well, what are you all still doing here?” he says sharply, his familiar, hoarse voice traveling across the sands. “You won’t catch a wave by standing on the beach! Enough talk.” He points to the sea. “Go get it.”
Thirty
There are so many surfers that the sea soon becomes ridiculously crowded. But after a while, only the hardcore surfers are still out there, and the others are paddling or sitting on the beach, drinking beers, catching up.
I surf for a bit, then come in, get changed into shorts, and check up on the food. There’s a smell of charcoal in the air, and the barbecues are already churning out burgers. There are picnic rugs everywhere on the sand, and someone’s playing guitar. Keith Hardy is doing some kind of Mr. Poppit set with his puppet to an audience of children, and he gives me a cheery wave, which I return while walking firmly straight past.
I collect a “Rilston cocktail” from the drinks tent, reassuring Nikolai that I don’t need an extra kale shot in it, then take it onto the beach and sip it, watching Ben dig blissfully in the sand.
“We need to come here every year,” I say to Kirsten.
“Oh, I’m ahead of you,” she says. “Already booked the cottage for next summer. And Pam wants to bring her menopause lot. Dunk them in the sea, sort out their hot flushes.” I catch Kirsten’s eye and we both start giggling helplessly. “So,” she adds as we come to a pause. “Finn. What’s that situation?”
“Bringing his girlfriend.”
“Huh.” She removes a tangled piece of seaweed from Ben’s fingers. “Well. You’re not short of hot surfing types here.” She surveys the beach, which, to be fair, is full of athletic guys. “Are you sure this wasn’t just you organizing yourself a speed-dating event?”
“Busted.” I grin, and she nods.
“Nicely done. No one would suspect.”
She has a point. There are loads of eligible men here, all strapping and cheerful and charming. But I can’t seem to focus on any of them. I start conversations with a few guys about random topics … but I’m constantly aware of Finn’s presence. He doesn’t seem to be with his girlfriend, but maybe she’s here and I just can’t spot her, or maybe she’s at the hotel changing into her super-hot bikini, or maybe she hasn’t arrived yet. Anyway. No big deal.
The afternoon slowly drifts into evening, and the party settles into a relaxed vibe. I chat to as many people as I can, including Gabrielle and Mavis and Lev, who says every five minutes that he has to leave, then shakes someone else’s hand. Terry says a final goodbye at the microphone, and the responding cheer sounds as though it’s reaching right round town. A few speeches are made and some songs are sung. Now, as the sun drops lower in the sky, there are fires appearing here and there on the beach. Three guitars are playing, and a few people are dancing.
At last, the children start getting cranky, and Kirsten loads up the double buggy.
“See you tomorrow, OK?” She kisses me. “Wild swimming at dawn? Kale for breakfast? Meditating?”
“All three.”
“Excellent.” She grins.
“I’ll come too,” says Mum to Kirsten. “Help you put them to bed. Well done, Sasha. It’s been a wonderful day. Dad would have been so proud.” She gives one of her little wistful smiles. “I was just thinking of that pub he loved, the White Hart. Do you think it still exists?”
“It does,” I say. “Let’s go there tomorrow and toast Dad.”
“Yes,” says Kirsten softly. “Nice idea.”
They move off, and I’m just wondering whether Lev’s still here, when I hear a voice saying, “She was held up by some train situation. Finn’s gone to collect her from the station.”
Something inside me freezes. I look round to see who spoke—and it’s Finn’s colleague Dave.
Finn’s gone to collect her from the station.
A slow pounding begins in my chest. Olivia. She was held up but now she’s here. Finn’s gone to get her, and soon he’ll be back on the beach with her. Maybe walking around, arm in arm, maybe dancing, maybe sitting in the shallows, with their legs tangled up.
And suddenly I know that I can’t be here to see that. I just can’t. She’ll be too glorious, and they’ll be too radiantly happy, and my heart won’t survive.
I thought my heart would survive, but hearts put on brave faces, it turns out. And now I know, without any doubt, that I need to leave.
“So!” I say brightly, randomly, to anyone who will listen. “I need to go. It’s been fab …”
“Go?” says Cassidy, overhearing. “Party’s just starting! Have a noni juice, get in the mood!” She swigs her cocktail, then puts her head on one side and surveys me. Drunkenly, I realize. “Oh, Sasha.” She plonks a hand on one of my shoulders. “Lovely Sash. Gorgeous, lovely Sash.”
“Yes?” I can’t help smiling.
“Tell me. Tell your auntie Cassidy.” She leans closer. “Why aren’t you together with Finny-Finn-Finn? No one can understand, it, no one. Me, Herbert, Mavis, the girls in the tea shop …”
“Have you been talking about it?” I begin, shocked—then remember who I’m addressing. “Of course you have. Look …” I exhale, trying to keep hold of my steady smile. “I’m fairly sure Finn’s with someone else. So.”
“Someone else?” echoes Cassidy, looking affronted. “Are you kidding me? Someone else?”
“Well … isn’t he?” I say uncertainly. “Didn’t he book his room for himself and someone called Olivia?”
“Olivia?” she retorts, as though Olivia is the most repulsive name she’s ever heard of. “O-liv-ia? Nope. Never heard of her.”
“But he’s picking her up from the station. Someone,” I correct myself. “He’s picking up someone from the station. A ‘her.’ ”
“A ‘her.’ ” Cassidy narrows her eyes as though making calculations. “A ‘her.’ OK, we need intel. I’m asking Herbert. He’ll know.”