‘Nice to meet you.’ He holds out a gloved hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, I shake it. ‘I’m George.’
‘Jodie,’ I reciprocate.
He stretches and jogs on the spot a bit. ‘It’s been slow here this morning and I’m not
very good at standing still.’
That would seem to be a bit of a drawback for a living statue. I look up and down the seafront. There’s no one else about but me. ‘I’m sure you know your job better than me, but there doesn’t seem to be much passing trade. It seems like a quiet spot.’
‘That’s why I like it. I used to be a living statue in Covent Garden,’ he tells me. ‘It was a nightmare. People kept pinching my bum.’
That makes me laugh and he looks hurt. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘The abuse that living statues have to suffer isn’t widely appreciated. It’s different here. Everyone’s nice.’ He nods towards the sea. ‘The working conditions are better too. How many people can go to their office and enjoy that? You’d go a long way to beat this view.’
I follow his gaze. ‘No. I suppose not. You can’t earn much, though.’
He shrugs. ‘Life’s not all about money, is it?’
‘No.’ I can’t really argue with that. I go to walk on, but he’s not done with me yet.
‘A bit early for a holiday,’ he notes.
For goodness sake, even the statues are chatty here. ‘Yes. I suppose so.’
‘Well, better get back to statueing in case anyone catches me relaxing. It would blow my cover. I might see you again?’
‘You might,’ I agree.
George strikes another pose and I can’t help but smile as I walk away even though some of his bronze paint has rubbed off on my fingers.
I drop down the steps into the cove which is a small, perfect curve with a pleasingly sandy beach and a delightfully Mediterranean feel – even though it’s clearly not quite at its best at this time of year. There are more holiday homes and a few beach huts advertising deckchairs and kayaks to rent by the hour, but they’re all closed up for the winter. There’s a small jetty with fishing boats tied up next to it and lobster pots stacked alongside the sea wall.
There aren’t many people brave enough to be here today either, just a few ardent dog-walkers with their windswept pooches. A black and white cocker spaniel running about with its ears flapping wildly looks especially joyful. The wind is whipping up impressive waves and the cotton-wool clouds are scudding merrily across the sky. The sun is out in full force, but is not making one jot of difference to the temperature. Yet, it’s nice. I surrender myself to the elements, letting the wind fling my hair around. Chris and I used to head straight to the Caribbean for holidays, so I haven’t been on a beach in the UK in a very long time and I enjoy the forgotten feel of damp sand beneath my feet. Thankfully, I’d thought to throw some trainers into my bag, so at least I have suitable footwear if nothing else.
As I reach the other end of the beach, only a few minutes’ walk, there’s a couple ahead of me. They’re walking at the edge of the surf, the water lapping over the toes of their wellington boots. On the man’s shoulders is a child of about two years old. A little girl with blonde hair and cheeks rosy from the cold. The perfect family. I watch them even though I don’t want to. The couple look so happy, so in love. I feel a sucker punch to my stomach all over again and a rush of unwanted emotion threatens to overwhelm me. Will this ever pass, I wonder?
Thankfully, as I’m getting ready to turn on my heels and beat a hasty retreat back to the sanctuary of Sunny Days, I see the Beach Hut Café come into view at the end of the cove. This must be the place that Marilyn recommended. It’s a welcome beacon with its stripy blue and white paint and strings of bunting which are flapping wildly like the cocker spaniel’s ears in the stiff breeze. I make my way towards it, brushing the hot tears from my eyes.
Chapter Eight
The Beach Hut Café does what it says on the tin. It’s a large and brightly painted beach hut at the very end of the cove, right on the sea front. Outside, there are a few tables and chairs in pastel shades, some of them sheltered from the prevailing wind by a low white-washed wall. The only covered area is a plastic awning on the side and there are more tables and chairs in there plus a couple of patio heaters – currently not switched on. At the back of the awning there’s a bookcase with a good stock of well-thumbed paperbacks. There’s plenty of bunting in evidence here too and lots of chalkboard signs dotted about with cheery sayings such as ‘May your coffee be strong and your Monday short’, ‘Cake is always a good idea’, and ‘Congratulations! You made it out of bed’.
In the summer this place is probably rammed but, for now, it seems as if only the local die-hards are out and about. There are only a few other customers. Huddled at the back near the paperbacks is a man with a super-sized mug in his hands. At the front, two women in down jackets and bobble hats are deep in giggly conversation. I think of Della with a pang of guilt and how I should let her know where I am as soon as possible. I’m putting it off as I know she’ll be furious when she finds out what I’ve done. She’s been a big support to me recently and will see it as a personal failure that I’ve caved in.
I’m the only one brave or stupid enough to sit outside by the sea wall, but as I’m so foolhardy I can, at least, choose a table sheltered from the breeze. I peruse the menu and try not to let my eyes seek out the loved-up couple on the beach.
I’d had a few happy but ultimately failed relationships over the years. But none of them broke my heart and I knew that I’d never want to settle down permanently with any of them. I always went for high-maintenance men who weren’t the marrying kind. When I met Chris, it was totally different. In a chance twist of fate, we happened upon each other when we took the last two seats in a crowded coffee shop. We laughed as we dashed to the seats and sat down at the same moment. Ice broken, we started chatting, hardly able to hear each other above the noise. So, when we reached the bottom of our respective cups and the café was closing, we exchanged numbers. The next night, we went for dinner. Instantly, I knew he was The One. I fell quickly and hard. I literally trembled when he called me. He was funny and confident – in hindsight, perhaps a touch too much. It’s fair to say that Chris has never had a moment of self-doubt. His sense of self-belief is admirable. Unless, of course, you happen to disagree with him.
He’s a handsome man, too – tall, broad. If you saw him, you’d know why the attraction was instant. He spends more time than I do in the gym, looking after his body – which he then usually ruins with too many business dinners and a liking for good red wine. He has a strong face with an abundance of freckles that I used to love to trace with my fingers and his horn-rim glasses give him a slightly geeky, intellectual look. Now, ten years later, his auburn hair is beginning to fleck with grey. But it suits him and gives him an air of maturity that I like.
From the beginning, we fitted so together so well. We were both career-driven, so neither of us minded the hours that we put into our work. Chris was grinding away, steadily climbing the corporate ladder. I’d joined Bill in his company and was helping him to build it. Grabbing a few minutes with each other on a daily basis seemed to suit us both. Our weekends were spent playing hard with days out with friends, chic bars, boutique hotels, the best tickets at concerts. We were both happy. We laughed at our friends whose social lives ended when they started to have families and had sleepless nights to contend with, issues with babysitters, or the onslaught of unexpected fevers, tummy upsets, coughs and colds. We were smugness incarnate.