‘Yeah, you know. The plaque on the back. I love reading them. Each one is like a little story. Love and loss. I always wonder about the people they’re for – make up stories about them in my head.’
‘Yes,’ he says, startled. ‘I know what you mean. It’s funny. I do the same thing.’
‘You do?’ She widens her eyes. ‘I thought I was the only one.’
He notices that a few strands of her hair are caught in her earring, creating a delicate loop that he wants to touch, to unravel. Her hair is halfway between blonde and brown. What name do people give to that colour? Honey? he guesses. Amber?
‘What does the inscription say?’ he asks. ‘On your bench.’
‘“For Frank, who loved the view from this bench. I know you are still sitting beside me.”’
His pulse jumps with recognition. ‘It says that?’ Then he registers the first bit of the inscription. ‘But did you know this guy … Frank?’
‘No. Just, he’s got the same name as someone … someone important to me.’
‘A boyfriend?’
She shakes her head. ‘Nothing like that.’ She rubs her nose. ‘You’re English?’
Relieved, he nods again. ‘From London.’
‘On vacation?’
‘Kind of. I’ve been travelling. Nearly at the end of my visa.’ Is that disappointment he can see in her eyes? Maybe it’s just his wishful thinking. But he makes a decision in that second. ‘I’m staying here for the rest of my trip,’ he tells her. ‘Got a job at Ally’s until they find a permanent replacement. I’ve never been in Atlantic City before. Fancy showing me around?’
‘Fancy?’ She turns the word over, smiling to herself. Then she gives him a long, penetrating look. ‘Why me?’
Sam’s heart has started to hammer at his ribs. ‘I don’t know anyone else.’
‘You don’t know me.’
‘No, but I … well, I hoped that you might be kind enough …’
‘I’m not a groupie. Just so we’re clear.’
‘No.’ Sam widens his eyes. ‘God, no. I didn’t think …’
She shrugs. ‘Not much to see. Tourists stick to the boardwalk and the casinos.’
‘Well,’ he says slowly, doing a good impression of casual, ‘maybe you could show me the real city, then?’
‘You wouldn’t like it much.’
He looks at his trainers, kicks them into the sand. Is this her way of saying no? He glances up. She’s bending down, and he realises that she’s pushing her feet into her shoes. Not the clumpy men’s boots from before, but red pumps. She’s not in black any more; she’s wearing glittery ankle socks and a red and yellow dress. She straightens up, brushing her hands against her dress. ‘After work,’ she says. ‘I can meet you after work tomorrow.’
‘Great.’ He tries to stop himself grinning too hard. ‘Can I walk you home?’
Her head jerks and she angles her body away. ‘No need.’
‘It’s just … well, isn’t it dangerous on the beach at night?’
‘I can look after myself.’ She gives him another penetrating glance. ‘And we’ve only just met, so I’m not sure if I should trust you to get me home safe.’
‘Of course. Sorry. I didn’t mean …’
She softens. ‘I live here. I can handle myself.’
‘Yeah.’ He puts his hands in his pockets.
‘Goodnight then.’ She begins to walk away.
‘Wait!’ His hands are out of his pockets, his voice rising to a squeak, all pretence of cool gone. ‘Where do you work?’ He clears his throat. ‘So I can meet you?’
She frowns as if it’s a difficult question. ‘Just find me on the beach,’ she says after a pause. ‘Where you first saw me. Around five thirty.’
‘Great,’ he repeats. He can compose rhymes on the spot, but this girl has reduced him to monosyllables. Before she can turn away, he says quickly, ‘You never told me your name.’
She looks wary, as if it’s another trick question, and then nods. ‘Catrin Goforth.’ She pushes her hair behind her ear. ‘Some people call me Cat.’
He waits, watching her disappear into the shadows. Above him, the screams and clatter of the boardwalk are like noises from a nightmare; flashing lights illuminate slices of sand and then cast them into blackness. He doesn’t like the idea of her walking alone under the pier. But she must know what she’s doing, he reassures himself. She’s nearly as tall as him, and moves with long, firm strides. Remembering her words, the way she faced him with her chin up, ready for confrontation, even though she was scared, implied she was confident. It was just something in her face that made him think she was vulnerable – a bit wary; as if she was hiding a hurt.
Catrin Goforth. Like the name of a heroine in a play, something historical and witty. An Oscar Wilde, maybe. Some people call me Cat, she said. People. It strikes him as odd now that she didn’t say friends, or family. There’s nothing feline about her. She doesn’t have a button nose or slanting eyes. She has strong, straight features, a wide mouth with white American teeth, just the gap between the front two lending a little necessary imperfection, and that steady blue-yellow gaze, unnerving in its openness.
As he turns back to the boardwalk, the simple joy of getting her to agree to meet him is dissipating. He shouldn’t have pursued her. He’s not in a position to begin any kind of relationship – not when he’s got a girlfriend at home. He can’t cancel; he doesn’t have her telephone number. He’ll have to meet her on the beach. A vague arrangement, it occurs to him now; perhaps she won’t turn up. If she does, they can have a coffee and go their separate ways, no big deal.
Except the thing is, it feels like a big deal. Over the last months, despite his intention to avoid meeting anyone, out of necessity he’s come across a lot of strangers on the road, good people who gave him advice or directions, people who shared their life stories, who gave him lifts, even donated their lunches; but he hasn’t met one person that made him feel like this. He tries to work out what ‘this’ is, and decides that the nearest he can describe is an unexplained familiarity and at the same time an exhilarating sense of standing at the top of a mountain looking down into a spinning abyss.
He thinks of her response when he offered to walk her home, as if he’d insulted her; perhaps he came across as controlling, too macho. Whereas of course he was just trying to do the right thing. Walking a girl home safely to her front door is one of many rules instilled in him by his upbringing. But the world that taught him those rules lies in ruins. He hears his father’s voice in his head urging him to be a man, to do the right thing, to behave with honour. ‘Fuck off, Dad,’ he hisses under his breath.
Sometimes a whiff of scent will send him back, quickly and unexpectedly, as if he’s fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole. Even all these years later. Whoosh. Straight to hell. There are several components to that particular perfume. Chalk. Silver polish. The stink of hormones leaking from armpits, skin raging with acne, sweating palms. Fear. He’d never realised before that fear had a smell, but his first day at boarding school, he understood.