How I now hate Past Us.
Out of habit, I check my phone. A dozen more messages from Chris that all say exactly the same thing in increasingly desperate language.
As I was always so busy, he had a colleague, Meg, who he called his ‘work wife’. How we laughed about that too. She’d be the one to accompany him to all the dinners and events that I couldn’t make because I was at important ones of my own. I was really grateful that he liked her so much and that it let me off the hook. I don’t think I find that so funny now either.
Meg’s much younger than me – than Chris too. He’s forty-two, like me. Meg is only twenty-eight. She has flowing blonde curls and legs like a colt. Even then, I didn’t even see a threat in her. There was no doubt that she hero-worshipped my husband, but what would she see in him as potential boyfriend material? He was an older, married man. Perhaps I was naive, but I suspected nothing. Chris and I were solid, happy. We had the same life goals. It was work that kept him late at the office, work that took him on regular overnight trips, work that took him to the theatre entertaining clients. It’s no good looking at me like that, I believed him. He was my husband, he told me he loved me on a regular basis, nothing he did made me doubt that. I loved him in return. I was a fool.
‘What can I get for you?’ The woman who comes to take my order is all smiles and wacky clothes. She’s wearing a denim jacket lined with sheepskin, a Nepalese knitted hat with ear flaps and pom-poms, multi-coloured patchwork, hippy trousers and Doc Martens hand-painted with red roses. She’s strikingly pretty, with olive skin and long, dark hair threaded with multicoloured ribbons sticking out from beneath her hat. Another splash of colour. Again, I feel so drab in my grey, designer coat as if I’m blending into the background, a shadow. Which is fine. ‘The soup of the day is roasted red pepper and tomato. Free refills on tea if you ask nicely.’
‘Thanks, but I think I’ll have a cappuccino and a bacon roll, please.’
‘A very wise choice,’ she says. ‘Coming up in five.’
‘Thanks.’
The family on the beach seem to have gone now, so I stare out at the sea until my bacon roll is delivered within the promised five minutes. Despite the vague feeling of nausea that seems to be my constant companion, I enjoy it much more than I’d anticipated. The bacon is crispy, smoky and on bread that’s obviously freshly baked. The coffee is strong and creamy and that hits the spot too.
As I’m finishing, licking the last taste of bacon from my fingertips, the owner comes out again to wipe down the tables.
‘It’s certainly blowy today. Everything’s covered in a film of sand,’ she says as she stops at the table next to me. ‘There are few downsides to having a café by the beach, but this is one of them. That and the gulls pinching customers’ sandwiches.’
It’s clear that she’s not in a hurry to move on and I’m reluctant to be rude.
‘Here on holiday?’ she tries. ‘It’s a bit early in the season. I usual only see the locals at this time of year.’
‘Not exactly holiday,’ I admit. ‘More of an extended escape from the rat race.’
‘I empathise,’ she says. ‘That’s kind of what brought me here too. I could have gone to art college in London, but I came over here instead and never left. Lucky me.’ There’s a certain amount of irony in her voice. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘At a houseboat in the next harbour.’ I point towards it, unnecessarily. ‘Sunny Days.’
‘Ah. That’s been an on-going project for some time. Finally finished?’
‘It’s my brother’s boat, not mine. But, yes, he’s finished it now.’
‘And you’re trying it out for size?’
‘Yes. It’s beautiful. He’s done a very good job.’
‘Your next-door-neighbour is a good mate of mine. Ned Haddon. I haven’t seen him for a few days, but I think he’s around at the mo. He’s an artist, flaky as hell, obvs, but I love him to bits.’
‘There were lights on last night, so it looks as if someone is there.’ Just what I need, a flaky artist as a neighbour. Still, it explains the eclectic decor of the houseboat he lives on. It does look very arty. Hopefully, he won’t be around much while I’m in residence.
‘I’m Ida Ray. Maybe I’ll see some more of you if you’re here for a while.’
‘I should think so. Marilyn said hi, by the way.’
She laughs. ‘Is Marilyn cleaning for you?’
‘Yes.’
‘She can talk the hind leg off a donkey, but I love her to bits,’ Ida says. ‘She’ll make sure you’re OK.’ She reaches into the pocket of her denim jacket. ‘Here, I’ll give you a loyalty card. I don’t give these out lightly, you know. Only to people that I want to see again.’
‘I’m honoured.’
‘See you then.’ Ida flashes me a broad smile as she moves on to the next table.
The sun hides behind a cloud for a bit and it gets really quite chilly. The appeal of stoking up Bill’s wood burner is calling. I wonder whether Marilyn will have finished yet and if it’s safe to me to go back to the boat.
Chapter Nine
Instead of heading straight back to Sunny Days, I decide to explore the rest of Cockleshell Bay. I don’t think it will take all that long. There’s only one main street by the look of it and that rises up with a gentle incline away from the harbour. It’s lined with a row of neat terraced houses and a handful of pastel-painted bed and breakfast places, most of which have their no vacancy signs out. That says to me that they’re shut up for the winter and their owners have buggered off for a well-earned break in Gran Canaria. It seems unlikely that they’re actually full as there seem to be very few people around.
Further up the street, there are a couple of interesting-looking cafés that must be serious competition for the Beach Hut in season. It looks to have a decent butchers and greengrocers too. There’s a hairdressers and, of course, it has its share of estate agents. The rest of the shops are mostly filled with touristy fare – stuff that seems like a good idea until you get it home. I travelled a bit when I was younger, fresh out of uni, and eventually, stopped buying souvenirs altogether. What looks good in Peru should stay in Peru. Islington is no place for a replica terracotta soldier either. Cockleshell Bay is a pretty place though and I don’t know why it should, but that surprises me. In a time when British seaside resorts are generally seen to be suffering, this town looks fresh, upmarket and as if it’s more than holding its own.
I don’t need any more food thanks to Marilyn but, after browsing what’s on offer, I do pop into one of the two clothes shops to buy a wool hat with a ridiculously large pom-pom and matching scarf. If I’m going to be doing some walking on the beach while I’m here then I at least need to be warm.
Clearly seeing Marilyn and Ida with their cheerful style has influenced me as I go for bright red instead of my usual grey or black. I pick up some scarlet felted wool gloves to match. The backs are embroidered with butterflies and I’m not sure they’re really me, but I’m prepared to give it a go. I’d like to think that I’m still erring on the side of tasteful. I can’t see me wearing them in London though. If I ever go back.