The Beach Hut (23 page)

She spent a year in turmoil. Trying to find an answer. And nothing gave her solace. The local vicar tried to help, but his words, his kindness, gave her no comfort. Even music provided no escape. She was only reminded of better times, happier times. In the end, she could only endure silence. The house that had once rung with music, debate, children’s voices, laughter, the chink of wine glasses, was as quiet as the grave.

Then one day, when she arrived at the home, the matron came hurrying out to intercept her. She knew immediately. It was another massive stroke. This time it had done its job properly. Their purgatory was over. Marisa sank down into the nearest chair and wept. Not tears of grief - she had wept enough of those already - but tears of relief that the decision had been taken out of her hands. She no longer had to spend the days searching for an answer and the nights sleepless with anxiety, or the few hours where sleep deigned to come upon her tortured by dreams sprinkled with grim reapers and harbingers of doom and vials of colourless liquid that bring oblivion . . .

 

And now, here she was, six months later, opening her case upon the very bed where she and Ludo had spent some of their happiest hours. They had always been at their most content in Everdene. They were always able to relax and unwind after a hectic schedule of summer music festivals and concerts. They would look back over what had happened in the past year, and then look to the future, decide what changes to make, what fresh challenges to set. It was a time to breathe and recharge, a time away from the telephone and the computer.

She threw open the window and breathed in the ozone. Her room overlooked the beach, and she could hear the reassuring pound of the surf. Sunlight twinkled on the waves, throwing off a metallic glitter. She longed for the feeling of sand between her toes, the cool of the water on her ankles. She felt if not happy, then at least at home.

It had been the right decision to come here. And now she had to get ready. She felt surprisingly calm. There were no tears. She ran a deep bath, pouring her own deliciously scented oil into the water, and washed away the dust and mire of the journey, then slipped into a white robe. She dialled room service, and ordered a meal. She was quite exacting, but the kitchen were compliant. They would, they assured her, do their best. They’d had their instructions.

Then she dressed, did her hair and her make-up. How many millions of times had she been through this ritual? Her look had barely changed since her twenties. The immaculate chignon at the nape of her neck. The sweep of dark eye-liner over her lids. The barely-there gloss that added a shimmer to her lips. The squirt of Jicky to her lips and cleavage. The silk underwear. The Balmain dress cut on the bias. The Chanel ballet pumps.

There was a knock on the door. She answered it to find a young waiter with her supper trolley. He wheeled it in and wished her ‘bon appétit’. She smiled her thanks, and pressed a five pound note into his hand. He thanked her effusively and left, and for a moment she debated the wisdom of her decision. Human contact always made her falter . . .

The meal was perfect. It was an imitation of the first meal she and Ludo had shared. A steak, well cooked, just as she liked it, and new potatoes and green beans. And a slice of peach pavlova to follow. And with it, a bottle of Chassagne Montrachet - Ludo’s favourite. She was surprised to be hungry.

When she had finished, she pushed the trolley outside the door for it to be taken away, and set about tidying the bedroom. She packed her travelling clothes back in her case, cosmetics and perfume and hairbrush. She took out a beach bag and checked inside that it had everything she wanted, then put it to one side and zipped up her case.

Then she tidied up the bathroom, hanging up all the towels. She smoothed down the bed, even though it was immaculate. She couldn’t bear to leave it in a mess.

She stood and looked at herself in the mirror. She had a critical eye when it came to her appearance, but she gave herself an approving nod. Then she picked up the bottle of wine and put it in her bag with a wine glass, and left the bedroom.

As she walked through the foyer, Steven came hurrying towards her, concern on his face.

‘Mrs Miller, was your dinner to your satisfaction? Is there anything we can get you? A liqueur, perhaps, on the terrace? It’s still warm - we have patio heaters.’

She touched his arm in a gesture of gratitude.

‘Thank you, Steven. I just want some fresh air. I’ll never sleep otherwise. I thought I’d go down to the beach hut . . .’

He hurried behind the reception desk and found her the key. He let her go without demur. He was good at his job. He knew when to push, and when to concede.

As she took the key, Marisa looked at him.

‘I just want to thank you for everything.’

He gave a shrug.

‘It’s my pleasure.’

‘No, honestly. This hotel has given me . . . us, a great deal of pleasure over the years. I’m very grateful.’

And she went. As she left, Steven watched after her, frowning slightly. She had seemed overly insistent in her thanks. Something didn’t quite ring true.

 

The walk along the front of the huts to the one the hotel owned was longer than Marisa remembered, and walking over the sand was arduous. In the end, she kicked off her shoes and carried them. The sand was cool beneath her toes. She hoped no one would recognise her. They’d made friends here over the years. Not friends you kept up with necessarily, but people you greeted with enthusiasm when you saw them again. She didn’t want company tonight.

She reached the hut finally, and struggled with the lock for a few moments before the door finally swung open. She flicked on the light. It was so familiar. The blue and white striped deckchairs. The way it smelt, slightly damp. The memories took her breath away. She put down her bag, her hands trembling, as all the years of happiness washed over her. At the time, she’d had no idea what the future held.

She opened the beach bag and drew out a small portable CD player. She plugged it into the wall. She opened one of the deckchairs and placed it in the doorway, then sat down. The susurration of the sea and the cool night air soothed her. The moon glowed silver, just as it had that night in the square, when they had shared their first kiss.

She took out the bottle of Chassagne Montrachet, and poured herself a glass. Then she took out her tablets. She’d been saving them, ever since the doctor had prescribed them. She told him she couldn’t sleep, after Ludo died, and why would he not have believed her? Then she pretended she had lost the bottle, left them on the bedside table when visiting a friend, and she’d been given a repeat prescription.

It would be so easy . . .

She pressed the start button. Puccini’s
Crisantemi
drifted out of the speakers. The piece he had been conducting when she first set eyes upon him. That was how he was going to be when she met him again. The brilliant young maestro. And she would be the elegant, poised young woman who had dared to ask him out to dinner. The perfect couple.

She took a few more sips of wine, savouring its richness. She relished the cold night air on her cheeks. She revelled in the exquisite notes of the music. There was still beauty, even though he had gone. She could still feel.

She put down her glass and went to her bag, extracting one last item. Then she began to walk towards the water. The tide was a long way out. The dry sand became wet and cold, smooth beneath her ballerina feet. She walked without looking back, Puccini trailing after her on the breeze.

 

Steven decided to go and check on Mrs Miller’s room before he went off duty. He didn’t trust the chamber-maids to do their job properly. They were all too eager to go rushing off to the pub. He slipped into the room with his master key. It was immaculate, and he felt a tiny bit of remorse that he had underestimated his staff. The pillows were plump and stood to attention, there were fresh towels. Then he paused. It was a little too immaculate. There were no belongings scattered anywhere. Usually there would be some clothing in evidence, toiletries on the dressing table, a book on the bedside. But there was nothing. Just Mrs Miller’s suitcase, resting on the stand.

He checked the bathroom, and the bedroom again. Everything seemed to be put away. He stood over the case, hesitated for a moment, then snapped it open. Everything was in there, neatly packed.

He looked out of the window at the beach in the near distance, and felt unease prickling at his neck. What did this mean? She had packed everything away, gone down to the beach . . .

He closed the case again, snapping the locks shut, then hurried out of the room, down the stairs - the lift took too long - and out of the revolving door, casting a glance at the clock on his way out. A quarter past ten. Surely she would be back by now? With the best will in the world it would be chilly on the beach at this time.

He scuttled along the sand, realising it had been years since he had set foot here. Like living in New York and never seeing the Empire State Building. He passed along the line of huts, head down. Some people were still outside, enjoying the night air, smoking the last cigarette of the day. Others were inside, and he could see their shadowy figures through the glass, eating, drinking wine, reading a novel, playing cards.

He arrived at the hut at last. The door was wide open, the lights blazing. A mournful piece of music was playing on a portable CD player. A bottle of wine, nearly empty, sat on the table - he recognised it as one they served in the restaurant. He saw a medicine bottle on the table next to the glass and his blood ran cold. He picked it up. Shook it. There was a reassuring rattle and he felt a sweet momentary relief, but he was still concerned.

He turned to look at the sea. Everything was in shades of dark blue and grey, edged with silver. The tide was as far out as it could go, and it was difficult to see, but he could just make out a figure, standing still at the water’s edge.

He swallowed, uncertain as to how to proceed. Should he intervene? What would be worse, to interrupt someone’s privacy, or to wake up tomorrow and discover the worst, realise that you should have stepped in? As he pondered his dilemma, the music came to an end, then went back to the start. It stirred something deep within him, brought tears to his eyes. He had never felt emotions like this for another human. His life so far had been dull, prosaic, without passion or true meaning. He determined he would do something to change that, as soon as he could. He didn’t know what, exactly, but surely he deserved something better than the humdrum, the workaday, the monotonous . . .

But he didn’t have time to wallow. He set out across the beach, huddling himself against the late-evening breeze. When he was ten feet away from the shore, he halted.

She was standing barefoot in the shallow waters. In her hands, there was a small container. She was staring over the horizon, the navy sky above her peppered with silver shot. The faintest trace of music could still be heard. And in that moment, Steven realised what it was she had come here to do. He stood still, silent with respect. Even from here he could feel her love as she carried out the final task, the act that represented the end of a perfect marriage, at least on this earth.

Eventually she turned to walk back up the beach, carrying the urn, now empty. As she passed Steven, she smiled.

‘It’s where he would have wanted to be,’ she told him. The ashes glittered on the surface of the water as the waves carried Ludo Miller gently out to sea.

I
t was always a given that Dan and Kirsty would get married at Everdene. After all, they’d met on Everdene beach; they spent every free weekend they could down here, jumping in the car on a Friday night and driving hell for leather down the motorway. They were the archetypal surfer dude and chick, with their almost matching tousled blond hair - hers
slightly
longer than his - their year-round golden tans, their lean strong limbs. The wedding was going to be held at the Everdene Sands Hotel, and when Jenna discovered the hotel owned a pair of beach huts it had seemed only natural to use one for the honeymoon night. So here she was, as the wedding day dawned pink and hopeful, putting the finishing touches to a setting that was already perfect.

As chief bridesmaid, she’d had plenty of practice making things perfect. After all, this was the fifth time she had been given the honour. She supposed she should feel lucky she had so many friends who valued her so highly, but now it was getting beyond a joke. If she heard anyone else say, ‘Always the bridesmaid, never the bride’, she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions.

Jenna had long faced up to the fact that she wasn’t the sort of girl men fell in love with. Not like Kirsty. Kirsty was the reason why Tiffany made diamond rings, why Bollinger made champagne, a girl who’d had more than her fair share of proposals. She’d certainly had Jenna’s share.

It wasn’t that men didn’t like Jenna. They adored her. They flocked round her. They gawped down her cleavage, fondled her arse, dragged her into bed. They just didn’t ask her to marry them. Ever.

Where, she wondered, was she going wrong? She was bright, solvent, attractive, gregarious. She didn’t think she was particularly needy or demanding. What could she change about herself to make her a potential bride? What was it about Kirsty that meant she had been spoilt for choice, and was now heading up the aisle with her chosen one? Jenna supposed there was an element of mystery to Kirsty - she was cool, slightly aloof, didn’t over-share - while Jenna, by contrast, was open and extrovert, but she was never going to change. Did she deserve to be punished just because she was happy to tell a story against herself and make everyone laugh, because she was always the first on the dance floor with her arms in the air, because she liked a drink or six?