he saw her, every six months …
Just how very much he still loved her.
‘I think you should think about it,’ she said. ‘It’s a huge decision.’
‘I’ll spend August here,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll hand it over to you in September. I’ll get my lawyer to sign it over to you.’
She put her hands up to her face. She was making a terrible choking sound. He tried to smile.
‘It was supposed to make you happy. Not cry.’
She screwed her eyes tight shut and nodded. ‘I know. But …’
He didn’t want her to say anything. If she did, he would cry too. And it was as if she knew that it was all getting too much for him, because she suddenly pulled herself together, looked at her watch, re-did her ponytail again.
‘I’d better go. I want to beat the weekend traffic …’ She moved away from him, looking for the things she needed. Her car keys. Her big wicker bag with the gingham lining. He knew without looking what was in it. Her battered Filofax because she still loved writing things down. A paperback – something thoughtful and thought-provoking. A tube of rose-scented hand cream because her hands were always dry. Her camera. A hair-brush with half a dozen hair ties wrapped around the handle. A bandana. A tiny rattan box full of worry dolls they’d bought in a museum in New York – he couldn’t remember which one now, but she’d loved them and kept them with her.
Would he ever know anyone else so well?
He kissed her goodbye, not quite letting his cheek brush hers. Moments later she was gone, and he watched her walk across the sand, carrying her flip-flops in one hand, her back straight, still walking with grace. He imagined she would still be graceful at full term. He imagined her in a year’s time, walking with the baby over one shoulder, confident and resplendent in her motherhood, talking to it gently while she did something, always so unflappable, always so mindful.
Stop it, Tim, he told himself.
He walked back inside the hut. There was still a dent in the sofa cushions where the two of them had been sitting. He patted them back into shape until there was no trace. Then he picked up his iPad and began to compile an invitation list from his email contacts. Including, he decided without hesitation, the cute girl who ran the deli up the road from him. She flirted with him when he bought his cheese on a Saturday morning. Not in an obvious way, but she always had something new for him to taste, and she’d wrap him up a tiny sliver in waxy brown paper for him to take away and try at home, and she recommended wine to drink with it. He didn’t have her email but he looked up the deli website and found the info address.
No one but him need know that this was to be a farewell party; the last one he would throw at the beach hut before it became Rachel’s for ever. He would make it a party never to be forgotten. The party to end all parties. He selected an icon of a palm tree from his Clip Art file and created a border, then began to fill in the words.
BEACH PARTY AT EVERDENE SANDS.
THE SUMMER STARTS HERE
My life, he thought, starts here.
KIKI
So prison, it turned out, wasn’t like it was on the telly: like an episode of Bad Girls or Orange is the New Black . No script or camera could ever capture the tedium, the boredom or the fear. Not so much the fear of what might happen inside – Kiki was used to being in care, after all, and prison wasn’t so different – but the fear that the experience might change you for good; that you would never be the same again. That you would lose hope, and that any good inside you might be snuffed out, and that you would be destined for a lifetime of recidivism, in and out of trouble and court and prison, in an endless, mind-numbing loop of utter uselessness, shunned by society, never able to get ahead and become respectable. Let alone respected.
So when she found herself surrounded by a cluster of people from the local council, the tourist board, the various
Just how very much he still loved her.
‘I think you should think about it,’ she said. ‘It’s a huge decision.’
‘I’ll spend August here,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll hand it over to you in September. I’ll get my lawyer to sign it over to you.’
She put her hands up to her face. She was making a terrible choking sound. He tried to smile.
‘It was supposed to make you happy. Not cry.’
She screwed her eyes tight shut and nodded. ‘I know. But …’
He didn’t want her to say anything. If she did, he would cry too. And it was as if she knew that it was all getting too much for him, because she suddenly pulled herself together, looked at her watch, re-did her ponytail again.
‘I’d better go. I want to beat the weekend traffic …’ She moved away from him, looking for the things she needed. Her car keys. Her big wicker bag with the gingham lining. He knew without looking what was in it. Her battered Filofax because she still loved writing things down. A paperback – something thoughtful and thought-provoking. A tube of rose-scented hand cream because her hands were always dry. Her camera. A hair-brush with half a dozen hair ties wrapped around the handle. A bandana. A tiny rattan box full of worry dolls they’d bought in a museum in New York – he couldn’t remember which one now, but she’d loved them and kept them with her.
Would he ever know anyone else so well?
He kissed her goodbye, not quite letting his cheek brush hers. Moments later she was gone, and he watched her walk across the sand, carrying her flip-flops in one hand, her back straight, still walking with grace. He imagined she would still be graceful at full term. He imagined her in a year’s time, walking with the baby over one shoulder, confident and resplendent in her motherhood, talking to it gently while she did something, always so unflappable, always so mindful.
Stop it, Tim, he told himself.
He walked back inside the hut. There was still a dent in the sofa cushions where the two of them had been sitting. He patted them back into shape until there was no trace. Then he picked up his iPad and began to compile an invitation list from his email contacts. Including, he decided without hesitation, the cute girl who ran the deli up the road from him. She flirted with him when he bought his cheese on a Saturday morning. Not in an obvious way, but she always had something new for him to taste, and she’d wrap him up a tiny sliver in waxy brown paper for him to take away and try at home, and she recommended wine to drink with it. He didn’t have her email but he looked up the deli website and found the info address.
No one but him need know that this was to be a farewell party; the last one he would throw at the beach hut before it became Rachel’s for ever. He would make it a party never to be forgotten. The party to end all parties. He selected an icon of a palm tree from his Clip Art file and created a border, then began to fill in the words.
BEACH PARTY AT EVERDENE SANDS.
THE SUMMER STARTS HERE
My life, he thought, starts here.
KIKI
So prison, it turned out, wasn’t like it was on the telly: like an episode of Bad Girls or Orange is the New Black . No script or camera could ever capture the tedium, the boredom or the fear. Not so much the fear of what might happen inside – Kiki was used to being in care, after all, and prison wasn’t so different – but the fear that the experience might change you for good; that you would never be the same again. That you would lose hope, and that any good inside you might be snuffed out, and that you would be destined for a lifetime of recidivism, in and out of trouble and court and prison, in an endless, mind-numbing loop of utter uselessness, shunned by society, never able to get ahead and become respectable. Let alone respected.
So when she found herself surrounded by a cluster of people from the local council, the tourist board, the various
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