The girl at the counter was ringing up a purchase from a red-faced teenage boy.
“Miss Wycliffe? How much are these bumper packs of Ribbed Ticklers?” she called as the boy flushed scarlet. After what seemed an age, a woman of about eighty shuffled out from a small door behind the counter. Almost bent double, she hooked her specs from a chain onto her nose and squinted at the packet.
“Nine pounds forty, if I remember right,” said Miss Wycliffe.
The red-faced teenager looked as if he was going to self-combust as Miss Wycliffe peered at him disapprovingly over her specs.
“You do know, dear, that the Ribbed Super Sensitive are BOGO? Much better value. Shall I get Calendula to fetch you two of those instead?”
The boy made a strangled sound, threw a tenner on the counter, snatched up the box, and fled.
“Oh dear,” said Miss Wycliffe as Calendula giggled. “I’ve frightened him away. Now, what can I do for you, dear? Any Ribbed Ticklers?”
Lucy handed over the glasses and the cash. “No, thanks. Just these, please.”
Miss Wycliffe took the glasses and tutted. “Young people these days. They don’t know how to appreciate a bargain.” She squinted at the bar code on the label. “On vacation, are you, my lover?”
“Yes,” said Lucy, gritting her teeth.
“On your own?”
No one in London made small talk at the checkout which suddenly seemed like a cast iron reason for going back there. “With a friend,” she said.
Miss Wycliffe turned to her assistant. “Calendula, can you come and read this bar code for me? I need a new prescription for my spectacles.”
“Boyfriend?” said Miss Wycliffe as Calendula punched the bar code into the till.
“No, a girlfriend,” said Lucy politely, almost hopping from one foot to the other in her haste to get out of the shop.
“Oh, so you’re a lesbian, then? Well, you’ll love Porthstow. We’ve got a hot gay scene here, you know. Calendula, get me one of those little pink gay networking cards from the drawer for this lady. My arthritis is playing me up something terrible.”
Lucy almost choked. “It’s OK, really. Fiona is just my friend, not a partner.”
Calendula handed Lucy a paper bag and a sympathetic look.
“No need to hide it here, dear. Porthstow’s a very liberal place. No one has any secrets,” said Miss Wycliffe, patting Lucy’s arm.
“I’ve put the card in the bag,” smirked Calendula.
“Thanks,” muttered Lucy, realizing resistance was futile. And besides, she thought as she hurried out of the shop and down the cobbled street to the harbor, she had the last laugh. It was obvious, to her enormous relief, that neither Miss Wycliffe, nor even Calendula, had the faintest clue who she was.
***
A few days later, Lucy decided to venture further afield. Hengist had been dragged to the vet’s by Fiona, who’d found him limping with a thorn in his paw and Lucy had a bizarre feeling of nakedness without his lead in her hand. Walking the dog gave you an excuse to wander about all over the place without anyone thinking you were a pervert or a burglar.
Her route took her down the green lane and along the creek as usual, but this time she turned in the opposite direction, farther along the shore toward the mouth of the estuary. It was farther than she’d ever ventured before. The sun was a white ball in a powder-blue sky; almost bikini weather, she thought, as she wandered along the estuary, the sea glittering in the distance. Lucy felt more at peace than she had done for days. Out here, a speck against a huge ocean, she felt insignificant, unnoticed, and that was comforting. As she rounded a spit of land, masts came into view, pointing upward toward the sky. Then she saw a stone building, a line of flags fluttering in the breeze from its roof.
Tresco Sailing Club was situated on a low bluff, slightly elevated from the beach, a broad expanse of sand and shingle. Catamarans, dinghies, and sailboards lay in rows on the shingle. The clubhouse surprised her; it was larger than she’d expected, a two-story building with a terrace overlooking the beach. In front of it, a couple of girls were dragging windsurf boards down to the water. A gaggle of small sailboats were bobbing about at the edge of the shore, manned by kids who couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven. Lucy heard the chugging of a tractor as it towed a trailer down the slipway into the estuary.
She found a spot on the wall in front of the clubhouse and sat down, reveling in the sensation of warm stone beneath her and hot sun on her face. A sudden gust whipped her hair across her eyes and she tucked it behind her ear. She licked her lips and tasted salt.
On the water, a lone windsurfer was bouncing across the whitecaps, leaning back in what looked like a harness, his arms straining.
“Fucking awesome, eh?”
Interesting way of opening a conversation, thought Lucy. She twisted her head to find a stocky, dark-haired guy in a wetsuit standing next to her.
“Damn nuisance I have to get back to work, but what can you do? Companies don’t run themselves. Are you going out today?”
Lucy laughed politely. “No. I don’t sail.”
The man’s expression was even more horrified than Sara’s when Fiona had claimed she couldn’t swim. “
You
don’t sail?
Are you out of your mind? With all this on your doorstep?”
“I don’t live here. I’m from London.”
“So? That’s no excuse. I’m from Wimbledon and it doesn’t stop me spending every spare weekend and vacation down here. Just tank down the M4 to my apartment, whip off the kit, pull on the neoprene, and I’m in ecstasy.”
“I get sick on a cross-Channel ferry,” said Lucy, which wasn’t strictly true. Or even slightly true. She had crewed once on a small catamaran. She’d been on vacation in Formentera and some local boys had invited her on a trip to an uninhabited island. However, sailing instruction had not been the main aim of the trip and she certainly didn’t want to let this guy know the details.
He snorted. “You won’t feel sick, believe me. In the right hands, sailing can be positively orgasmic. I’m Gideon Southall, by the way.”
He held out a hairy hand and Lucy took it limply. “Lucy um… Hyde,” she said, and then winced. Gideon had one of those “phallic substitute” handshakes. He obviously thought that by crushing her fingers to a pulp, he was telling her he had a big dick. Lucy managed to wriggle her hand free before she got permanent tendon damage.
“It does look exhilarating,” she said, imagining the salt water on her face, skipping over the waves.
“You have absolutely no idea,” he said, deepening his voice in a slightly worrying way. “You just need experienced instruction.” Gideon shifted so that he was silhouetted against the sun. Lucy had to shade her eyes to make him out and even then his face was a dark blob. “So what’s a gorgeous girl like you doing here, all alone, if you’re not going out on the water? Maybe I can try and persuade you into a wetsuit? Or out of it. Haw!” He gave a low growling sound that reminded her of Hengist after a curry.
She jumped to her feet. “Oh, look! I think I’ve seen someone I know,” she cried, waving a hand in the vague direction of the shore.
Gideon whipped round and squinted. “Who? I got the impression you were new round here.” Then his face fell. “Oh. Him.”
Emerging from the knot of junior sailors by the shore was Josh, and Lucy could honestly say she had never been happier to see him; in fact, she’d never been happy to see him before. However, today her heart did a little skip which she put down to relief at being rescued from Gideon and not to the fact that Josh also had a wetsuit on. Well, he almost had a wetsuit on because it was peeled down, the arms and top half hanging down in front of his waist. Rivulets of water were trickling down his chest and over the hollows of a genuine
Men’s Health
–style six-pack.
She had no idea how Josh felt about finding her chatting to Gideon because he was wearing mirror sunglasses. All she could see was her own reflection, distorted into someone resembling a Teletubby. Which was unfair seeing as how she was only a size eight.
“You finally decided to join us, then?” he said.
Gideon snorted again. “No chance, mate! I’ve been trying to persuade her but there’s no moving the lady. She’s allergic to water.”
“I’m not so sure. I’ve seen her when she’s wet,” said Josh. Lucy had to stop her mouth from dropping open.
“Gideon, Mack Harris has been asking if you still want to get rid of your Osprey. He’s over in the changing rooms right now if you want to talk to him.”
“Right. Yes. Suppose I’d better catch him while I can, then. Strike while the iron’s hot and all that. Good-bye, Miss Hyde. Hope we get to see your wilder side at the barbecue, eh? Haw.”
For a moment, Lucy thought he was going to dig her in the ribs and chortle but he just swaggered off, still laughing at his own joke.
“Actually, I did crew a catamaran once. I’m not allergic to water,” she said, eager to show Josh she wasn’t a total wimp.
“Only to Gideon?”
Josh pushed back his shades. His eyes were teasing and this time, when Lucy’s stomach flipped, she had no excuse beyond pure lust. “I thought you seemed to be getting on pretty well.”
“No. I mean, he’s probably very nice, but…”
He raised his eyebrows and his eyes sparkled. In that moment, she realized that since Josh was perfectly capable of teasing her about Gideon, he was also capable of outrageous innuendo. She crossed her arms over her breasts, alarmed that, through her thin T-shirt, he’d notice the effect he was having on her.
“So now you’ve checked out the club and the locals, I guess you won’t be coming to the barbecue?”
He was definitely testing her out and she wasn’t about to give him what he wanted. “On the contrary, I’m really looking forward to meeting everyone. If Gideon is anything to go by, it will be a very entertaining evening. Besides, Sara says you’re getting in some special BBQ food just for me so how could I not come along?”
“Then I’m glad you’re coming, Lucy.”
That was it? No sarcastic remark? No dour comment? “I’m looking forward to it,” she murmured. “Really.”
He covered his eyes with his shades again. “Good. That’s… good. I’m sure Sara’s looking forward to it too.”
Lucy felt he’d just turned the hose on her again. He turned away slightly so that he was facing the clubhouse. Sara was standing on the terrace watching them. She lifted a hand in a wave and Lucy raised hers back.
“I’ve got to go. I’m late for a committee meeting,” he said, rolling his eyes.
Lucy smiled and nodded. “I’m going to Porthstow Library to help Fiona do some research into public hangings.”
“Enjoy.”
Then he was gone, his bare feet crunching on the shingle as he made his way up the beach to the clubhouse. Wasting no time, Lucy turned round and headed back in the direction of Tresco Creek. At the last moment, as she reached the corner of the headland, she couldn’t resist a glance behind. On the terrace she could just make out the twin figures of Josh and Sara, although they were so closely entwined, they might as well have been one.
The evening of the barbecue was gorgeous. Even at eight o’clock, the sun was still bright in the evening sky. Tresco Creek had also heated up considerably in the past few days and Lucy had taken the chance to catch some sun on the beach. Even Fiona had been lured out a few times. At least, reasoned Lucy, if she had to go back to London, she decided she was going to take a tan with her. She felt the sun’s warmth even now on her bare shoulders, tempering the cool breeze blowing in from the sea.
“You’re very quiet,” said Fiona, as they made their way along the estuary toward the sailing club. “Aren’t you looking forward to your special treats from Sara?”
“Oh, absolutely. Can’t wait.”
“Really?”
“Not quite true. There’s still a slim chance of being recognized I suppose, especially if I’m feeling ‘tired and emotional’ and let something slip.”
“You’ll have to stick to water, then,” said Fiona grimly, picking her way over a discarded bikini top.
“Of course,” said Lucy. “I’ll be as blameless as a saint.”
What she didn’t tell Fiona was the way her stomach fluttered; she might have been a teenager again, heading off to a party knowing—hoping—that one particular guy would be there. Even though he probably wouldn’t notice her, even though he was with another girl, she couldn’t stop the bubble of excitement rising in her throat at the thought of him. Which was why she was going to do her very best to keep out of his way.
The flags on the sailing club came into view. Figures were milling about on the terrace. The breeze carried snatches of laughter, the thud of a bass line, and the smell of herbs and charcoal.
“Smells promising,” said Fiona, sniffing the air.
“Definitely scallops and canapés,” replied Lucy firmly as they reached the concrete slipway that led from the parking lot to the sea. “Shall we get into our heels?”
Dropping her straw beach bag on the slipway, she delved inside and hooked her shoes: a pair of black wedges with ties that crisscrossed her calves. Back in the cottage, the wedges had seemed the perfect partner to the halter-neck maxi dress she’d picked up on a trip to the Greek Isles almost exactly twelve months before.