take me for? First you think I’m not coming back, now you think I’m going away again.’ There’s no answer to that. ‘I’ll call for you at one tomorrow.’
‘Isn’t that a bit early?’
‘Not if we’re walking.’ His grin just got wider. ‘Don’t forget to bring your beach shoes.’
As for me imagining the view of his back in a towel rather than jeans as he walks out.
Please tell me I didn’t just think that.
Chapter 18
Friday, the next day.
On St Aidan beach.
Raspberry ripples and vanilla skies.
Over the last seven years, as Phoebe has wound up the height of my heels, my leg muscles have shortened and my height to width ratio has improved. It’s just another reason why I owe her – I used to be short and she gifted me an extra five inches. On the best days, teamed with my high courts, I kid myself my check wool cigarette pants and cashmere high neck give me a sleek outline. But marching along the tideline in the three-quid emergency Chelsea boots I grabbed earlier from the Cats’ Protection charity shop, my calves screaming in protest at the flats, I’m seeing the world from a much lower perspective and feeling extra dumpy too. Not that I have much natural glamour or pride at the best of times underneath the sharp clothes Phoebe chose for me, but today I’ve left every last bit of both up in the attic.
Thanks to a sugar-fix stop at the Surf Shack beachside cafe to get us as far as the castle, I’m also waving a soft scoop ninety-nine cone with two flakes, raspberry sauce, and nut topping. Kicking the sand, and trying my best to cover the half mile around the bay without falling over my feet or getting my wildly blowing hair tangled in my ice cream.
As I’m the woman whose partner left her for someone else, I’d be the last person in the world to ever look at anyone who was spoken-for. I know there was that – ahem – incident where my mouth collided with Nic’s on Valentine’s night. But that was totally unrelated, and I swear I’ve buried that so deep in my memory files it’s not even available to pull out and shudder at. Even less to remember the way the heat surged through my body like an incoming tropical tidal wave. And I know along the way I’ve had some misplaced shivers, but however strong they’ve been, even if I’ve acknowledged that they were there, they were probably just what every other woman in St Aidan was feeling in reaction to the hot guy from Snow Goose. I’m very uncomfortable admitting it and I’d never ever act on it. In any case, in real life if I was open to a guy, Nic would be leagues ahead of me.
So, bearing all that in mind, I’m watching Nic running ahead of me across the wavy ribs where the sea breeze has dried the sand into patterns. As he dips down and skims pebbles across the shallows it’s typical that he can manage six skips of the stone on the water and hold an ice cream at the same time too. As he turns and shouts for approval he’s got the kind of dream-boyfriend veneer you only ever find on the pages of Vogue fashion shoots and Mrs Hinch’s Insta shots. I know it’s all down to the stylists and the contouring, I’m totally not taken in.
That’s the thing. In real life, boyfriends don’t have curly hair ruffled by the on-shore wind. They don’t stand silhouetted with the silver shine of the sea behind them looking so amazing your heart stands still. In the same way, how often do you get deep blue skies with fluffy clouds racing across them like they are today? When I think back to the years with Ben, I can’t remember ever looking at the sky much at all. On the weekends when I didn’t have wedding fairs, we’d spend most of our time at the flat clearing up my mayhem from the previous week. In other words, I’d rush through the place from top to bottom clearing up all my crap and then Ben would follow on behind me re-cleaning because I hadn’t done it well enough. Obviously, he never made any mess at all because he was a tidy freak. When he wasn’t at the gym, he’d spend his spare hours re-configuring his tie collection or tidying his cufflinks. So, believe me, I know how to