The wonderful thing about wearing sunglasses is that people can't tell when you're watching them. Especially if, to all outward appearances, you seem to be doing something quite different. Like reading a book.
I adjusted the rolled-up sweater behind my neck and settled back down, my head supported by a beautifully-rounded, conveniently-located rock. The sun on my almost naked body was fierce, the soft sand beneath my burrowing toes warm. When I'd found this spot an hour ago, it'd felt pretty close to paradise, the beach deserted save for the couple with a toddler paddling at the water's edge and the occasional walker with accompanying sodden dog.
But that was the joy of a Cornish beach in early May. In August, it would be virtually impossible to move for sun-blotched bodies; the pervasive, sickly blend of more than a dozen varieties of sun tan lotion heavy in the air. So although a group of guys had arrived in the interim, immediately commencing a loud and boisterous game of football in the space between me and the ever-rolling waves, it hadn't really mattered at first. In fact, it had provided a welcome distraction from my novel. God only knew what had possessed me to bring a work of sappy romantic fiction along on this trip.
There were six of them playing three against three, their bags and discarded clothing acting as make-shift goalposts. And though they clearly weren't teenagers--at a guess, their average age was at least thirty years old--they were behaving as though they were, their constant banter and ribbing of each other audible on the breeze. But then even I could deduce that the tall, skinny bloke they called Tim wasn't exactly what you'd call a natural sportsman.
"Oh fucking hell, mate!" one of them cried as Tim fluffed yet another pass, sending the ball skimming down towards the water. "I hope to God you don't have this much trouble finding the goal on your wedding night."
"Fuck off!" Tim retaliated, attempting--yet failing, I thought with an inward smirk--to look unconcerned as he loped down to the shore to retrieve the ball. "When did you last have a shag, anyway?"
Another of the guys took up the call. "Yeah, Foster, when did you last have a shag?"
All eyes, mine included, turned on the stocky, broad-chested male wearing bright red board-shorts. "Ah, well now," he said, tapping his nose knowingly. "That's between me and the extremely satisfied woman I shagged." He snatched the ball from Tim amidst groans of disbelief, kicking it straight back into play. "Game on, you losers. We're here to party, remember? Show our boy here what he's giving up to marry his bird."
Wincing, I let my gaze drop back to my book. Just my luck. A group of blokes on a stag weekend. When exactly had it become
de rigeur
to have a stag weekend instead of a stag night anyway? Though of course Daniel had felt it necessary to have a stag
week
in Corfu. In all probability, if he'd chosen merely to have a stag night, I wouldn't be sitting there. A sobering thought indeed.
I closed my eyes, filtering out the sound of their voices and focussing instead on the crashing waves, wriggling downwards until my head was on the towel beneath me. Those who'd doubted the wisdom of my venturing to Cornwall at this time of year had made grim predictions of wind and rain but it was hot--gloriously hot. So some kind of justice had been handed me, even if only in the poetic sense. I knew I'd been right to pack my bikini.
This
had
been a good idea.
And lulled by the sound of the sea, the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun, I finally allowed my thoughts to drift away. I hadn't slept in days.
So when something hard, wet and cold thudded down on to my tummy, minutes, maybe even hours later, it came as a particularly nasty surprise...
"Jesus!" I screamed, my sunglasses sliding off my face as I scrambled upright. "What the hell--?"
By the time I'd found the offending weapon, a soggy brown leather football coated in sand, the stocky guy in the red shorts was looming over me, blocking the sun. "Whoops," he said with what he obviously hoped was a winning smile. "Sorry about that."
I glared at him, my midriff still stinging from the impact. "Well that's okay then, isn't it?"
"Whoa." Fixing me with a stare from astonishingly blue eyes, he tucked the ball under his arm and held up a hand. "I said I was sorry. There's no need to get your knickers in a twist."
"Oh great," I muttered, hearing the jeers of his mates as he jogged back to join them. "Brilliantly handled, Rebecca." I gazed down in dismay at my sand-covered belly, realising that nothing short of a shower or a dip in the sea was going to get rid of all of it. But I already knew the sea wasn't warm enough for that and it was much too early to go back to the hotel. With a sigh, I brushed off the worst, retrieved and re-donned my sunglasses and lay down again.
But it wasn't so easy to phase out the guys' voices now. They seemed louder somehow. Nearer. And after a few moments, I lifted myself up on my elbows to see exactly where they were. Big mistake.
This time, I was too stunned to swear...
"Oh shit!" I heard one of them shout as the rest of them dissolved into raucous laughter. "Whoops!"
I couldn't speak. My nose was throbbing, my mouth full of sand. It felt as though my sunglasses had been rammed into my skull.
"Hey, are you okay?" It was the bloke in red shorts again, crouching at my side. "I'm really sorry. Bloody Tim--he can't kick a ball for--"
"Just leave me alone," I gulped, gingerly wiping sand away from my face with the back of my hand. God, it hurt. So much so I wanted to cry--and that really wasn't an option with him sitting just there. "Please!"
"I promise we didn't do it on purpose," he said with what sounded like a genuine note of apology in his tone, though the others were still laughing. "Look, we'll move further down the beach--somewhere where we can't--"
"Don't bother," I murmured, longing to spit out the sand--to spit it all over him. "I'm going." With all the dignity I could manage, I shoved my book in my beach bag and snatched up my towel, sweater and flip flops. And knowing he was watching me--knowing they were
all
watching me, I padded away, horribly conscious of the fact I was wearing only a skimpy red bikini, the matching sarong tucked out of reach in the bag.
There was a narrow strip of sand between the sea and the rocks at the furthermost edge of the beach. Sensing a chance to escape without having to face the humiliation of passing them again, I headed towards it and rounded the bottom of the cliff. To my relief, there was another sandy cove, albeit a much smaller one--less than fifty feet across. Even better, it was completely deserted.
Dumping my things on a patch of dry sand, I went down to the shore and knelt in the surf, washing my face and tummy, the cold water making me shudder. Bastards. So much for thinking my luck had changed.
But then again, why
shouldn't
those guys have fun? As I trudged back up the beach, the wind further chilling my dripping body, I had to concede that getting married ought to be cause for celebration. Just because it hadn't exactly turned out to be a celebration for me was no reason to resent the joy of others.
I dried off the worst and shook out the towel so I could sit on it. Then reaching for my beach bag, I dug around inside for my mobile phone and checked the display. No messages. But then I hadn't seriously expected there would be.
It was just after four thirty. As I'd already guessed, too early to go back to the hotel. I'd never before appreciated what lonely places hotel rooms could be, even with the television switched on. Sighing, I stretched out full length on the towel, my mobile phone still in my hand. In another hour or so I'd go back, have a good long shower before going down to dinner. Then perhaps I'd order a bottle of wine and sit out on the terrace to read my book. Or pretend to read my book. People watching was much more fun.
Daniel was one of the few men I knew who liked people watching too. "Aye, aye," he'd murmur, nudging me as we sat in the garden of a pub somewhere. "There's trouble in paradise there." And he was usually right. Observing an English married couple trying not to argue in public was always entertaining. Far too much stiff upper lip going on, the words polite, the venom with which they were spoken the clue to their real intent. Not at all like the passionate screaming of their European counterparts in Spain or Italy--though that too was fascinating to watch.
I brought the mobile phone back in front of my face and stared at it. I'd changed the background on the display immediately. I couldn't bear to see his grinning face there. But there were other photos...
Biting my lip, I pressed the menu key and opened the images file. There he was. Tall. Blond. Fit. God, I'd thought I was so lucky. That he'd noticed me--that he'd wanted me--when he could have had any girl he liked. But then I'd played hard to get. I think he'd enjoyed the thrill of the chase. That I hadn't immediately succumbed to his many charms like all the rest appealed to his competitive nature. And even when I'd surrendered, I still didn't make it easy for him. I guess, deep down, I'd always known that keeping him would be the really tricky part. Though he'd been the one to suggest marriage.
I clicked the back button and returned to the menu. Messages. Inbox.
Sarah...Rachel...Mum...Sarah...Sarah...Jayne...Mum
... All variations on a theme of 'hi becky. r u ok?'. I had to scroll down about twenty messages before I reached the last one I'd received from Daniel. It contained just one word.
'Sorry'.
Grimacing, I pressed the scroll down key once more--then squeezed my eyes tightly shut. What the hell was I doing? Did I really want to re-read the text beneath that one? Torture myself--all over again? With a loud groan, I felt for my bag and stuffed the phone back inside, pulling out the bottle of suntan lotion instead.
I was here to party too, I told myself, slathering myself liberally with cream, though I doubted that the spring sunshine was strong enough to do much damage to my skin at this time of day. I was here to celebrate my lucky escape. And though there was no one to party with--Mum had offered to come but I'd refused her generous offer--that's what I was going to do. Have some me time, re-charge my batteries, generate some new priorities.
Yes, I decided as I lay down again, this had been a good idea. To come here on my own had been a really good idea...
The breeze felt wonderful on my newly-warmed skin, the fresh, tangy aroma of the sea filling my nostrils, making it easier to breathe somehow. And still the waves continued to turn against the shore, rhythmical and relentless, soothing me, displacing my thoughts, growing louder and louder until my mind was filled with the sound, as though I was becoming one with the ocean...
"O-o-oh!" I gasped, waking up with a start as chilly water swirled around me, leaving a dragging sensation in its wake as it receded. Struggling to sit up, the wet sand holding my outstretched hands and feet under suction, I saw that the narrow strip of sand at the edge of the cove had vanished, along with most of the rocks I'd walked around. Both were now submerged beneath the heaving swell of the incoming tide, my sweater and beach bag floating away.
"Oh God! Oh
fuck
!" As I scrambled to my feet, I realised there were perhaps a few feet of sand behind me that the tide had yet to reach, behind that a wall of sheer granite. "No. No, no,
no
..." I dashed forward, plunging into the waves, my gaze fixed on one thing and one thing alone. My bag... I had to get my bag...
It was freezing. And deep--I hadn't appreciated how steeply the sand shelved. Already the water was up to my knees, my bag still several feet away. By the time I reached it, I was up to my waist, each wave threatening to knock me flying. I staggered back to the shallows and rummaged inside, frantically searching for my mobile phone. Who the hell were you supposed to contact in a situation like this? The coastguard, wasn't it? What number did you have to use? I had no idea--calling the coastguard was something I'd never thought I'd need to do.
