The Last Resort (23 page)

Tam was laughing indulgently. “You’ve obviously never been on holiday on the Scottish coast,” he tutted.

I started to protest that I’d been to Yorkshire, which was close enough—but he was already strutting confidently into the gently lapping waves.

“FUUCK!” he bellowed, immediately charging out in the opposite direction. “Why’s it so COLD?!”

We looked at each other with stricken faces for a split-second. Then, somehow, the sun broke through the clouds, and we were grinning like morons at each other. Everything was going to be OK. Yes, my marriage was a fraud, and life as I knew it was over, but I could smile at a nice, handsome man on a beautiful beach on the edge of the world, and feel like things could get better. All was not lost.

The sun suffused Tam with that golden, wholesome glow of a Baywatch lifeguard or an American soap-opera star.

He was absurdly attractive.

“Come on,” he said, still smiling. “We’re British, we’re not supposed to be scared of cold water.” He stuck his hand out, and I took it without thinking, and we ran into the waves.

By the time we were in the water again, I had let go, but not after getting that same feeling I’d had when he pulled me up off the Persian carpet all those moons ago—that surge of heat that shot through my veins.

However, once we were in the water, I could no longer fathom so much as the
concept
of heat, let alone think that I may once have felt it.

It was farcically cold. We wheezed with shock, looking around incredulously at the scores of children who were happily playing in the waves: clearly South Africans were made of sterner stuff. It would have been warmer to go for a dip at Grimsby in February. Although less sunny, of course.

Knowing that speaking would only make it worse, in silence we waded further and further, valiantly ignoring the ice-cream-headache throb that overtook every limb as it was submerged. Tam was visibly gritting his teeth, his tanned face white with determination.

Then, without warning, I realised the sand had given way underfoot. The last thing I saw, from the corner of my eye, was Tam plunging down into the water alongside me.

We surfaced just as a freakishly big wave barrelled in to shore, dunking us under again and sending my hair spinning around my head, tight as a bandage. I came up blinded, coughing and spluttering, only to find myself being dragged off forcibly all over again. I desperately tore at my hair, trying to get a look at what was going on.

Tam had got hold of me and was dragging me out of the water.

“What’s going on?” I demanded, shocked, my lungs still aching with cold.

I realised he was laughing breathlessly. He grabbed hold of me by the waist and gave me one last pull, and we were in shallow water again. “Look,” he rasped, breathing heavily, as he pointed out to sea. A mini-tsunami of waves had suddenly popped out of the glassy blue surface of the bay—the wind must have changed out at sea—and they were crashing into the very spot we’d been in moments before.

“You were going to get dragged under again,” he grinned, “and I didn’t think you’d be able to see where you were going with all that hair in your face.”

“Th-thank you,” I managed, realising I’d actually had quite a fright, images of being bondservant to my lifesaver for the rest of my days rushing in front of my eyes. Or was that only applicable with genies?

“Oh, don’t mention it,” he insisted, laughing, puzzled by my earnestness. “I just didn’t want you to get a scare, that’s all.”

“Well, thanks anyway,” I said again.

There it was again. That look—how our eyes met, with neither of us wanting to drop the gaze. And then, finally, dropping our eyes when both our hearts started beating too quickly.

Uh-oh
.

“It was quite nice once we were in, wasn’t it?” he said heartily, demonstrating his short memory. Then he looked back to me. “D’you know how to body-surf?”

I gave the weird laugh of someone who doesn’t understand an inside joke, then I realised he wasn’t joking. “What’s that?” I asked, embarrassed by my ignorance.

“I’ll show you. The waves are just the right size. Come on.”

I thought the waves looked huge, but I followed him back out into the surf, only a little bit tentative.

Turned out Tam was just the thing to make me forget the cold altogether.

He taught me to dive under the waves if they were too big, and to bypass the washing-machine part of them that tried to tear my bikini bottoms off. Then he taught me how to jump into their path at just the right moment, so they propelled me forward with a thrilling speed, and deposited me gently on the shoreline, flushed with happiness and ready to do it all over again.

Only I didn’t get it right the first few times—I kept getting dumped violently onto the seafloor, although luckily it wasn’t too deep. So Tam had the bright idea of wrapping one arm around my waist and letting me swim against him through one of the waves, so I could get a feel for it.

“Like fairy wheels on a bike,” he explained.

“Okay,” I breathed while my stomach flip-flopped, and he took me firmly in his arms as the roar of the next wave built up behind us. While we stood waiting for it to break, our wet bodies skin-to-skin, a little flame burst into life in the deep pit of my stomach.

After that, I got the hang of it instantly, although I toyed with the idea of pretending I hadn’t. And oh! what seven-year-olds we were after that. We caught every wave we could, laughing, running back out, knees high, over the breakers after each wave rolled to shore. After an hour, I was trembling with delight and adrenalin, not sure whether it was the visceral thrill of the wave, or the adolescent thrill of his touch every time we brushed against each other in the water.

Did it matter? I didn’t think so. It felt good to be happy in the midst of all this chaos.

I realised something when we finally decided the cold was getting too much and dragged ourselves back to the gang to beg for towels,
I haven’t felt this good since Paris.

Then I thought,
I’ve been miserable since the day I got married. If that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is.

The whole gaggle of us, Tam included, fell back into the Hideaway close to midday, sun-weary and happy. Except for Sharon, who was pissed off that Declan had left early, leaving her to frolic all alone on the pearl-white sands.

We were also starving, especially after our bracing cold-water swimming session. “What’s that delicious smell?” Tam asked, sniffing the air.

“It does smell nice,” I agreed, feeling an inexplicable stab of jealousy.

“Gosh,” said Randy, breathless with excitement. “Is that—is that Indian Ocean crab? No! Prawns. Lightly infused with lemongrass and spices? In coconut milk?”

“He’s a specific bastard, isn’t he?” Sharon remarked as she poured the sand out of her shoes and onto Peter’s lovely, freshly-swept hallway floor.

We made our way into the kitchen. There was an awkward moment when Tam tried to stand back for me to go through the doorway first. I tried to stand back for him, and then nearly tripped him as he stepped backwards, then we did a lovely little to-and-fro dance as we tried to decide who had right of way.

Eventually I solved the problem by bumping straight into him, rebounding, knocking the side of my head on the doorframe, and then pretending I’d done nothing of the sort.

The kitchen looked like the site of a nuclear testing programme. Poor Peter, just catching up with us after dutifully sweeping up Sharon’s gift of sand, visibly reeled with shock as he came around the corner. Every available inch of counter space was groaning with soiled chopping boards, half-full colanders, burnt-out pots, sieves with bits of green stuff stuck in them, festering tea-towels and knives made dull by layers of food particles. In the centre of this hellish scene stood Declan, smiling broadly.

“Babe,” Sharon was squealing at a visibly puffed-up-with-pride Declan, “this is amazing! I can’t believe you cooked for us! I thought you were just being miserable, leaving so early!”

“I was bein’ miserable,” he said proudly, “so I decided to make it up to you all.”

Randy stood up against the glass of the double oven, peering in excitedly, doing a flabby little jig of anticipation.

“Oh gosh,” Peter breathed as he surveyed the cataclysmic scene. He found a chair and started fanning his face. “I feel sick.”

“You’re alright,” Declan muttered, patting him athletically on the shoulder. “Table’s set on the patio! Anyone for a drink?”

I admit, I was amazed. Declan really didn’t seem the type to be so good in the kitchen. I thought wistfully of Jack; he would have been so impressed if I’d whipped up a spread like this. Then I pushed the thoughts from my mind. I wasn’t going to let myself obsess about him.

But I can’t help it,
I blubbered internally.
I love him.

No you don’t,
replied a voice, sharply.
If you do, you’re going to have to learn not to.

I gulped at the thought. The spectre of Jack, and our abortive marriage, loomed over me, threatening me with desolation. I’d felt happy today on the beach, with Tam paying me the kind of respectful, non-judgemental attention I craved—but how long could I hold out for? How long till I ran out of temporary happiness and came crashing into permanent misery?

Thankfully I had Sharon around to distract me. And Tam. Lovely Tam, pulling my chair out for me, smiling at me, asking me what I wanted to drink. It was so comforting to have him there.

“Nectarine, goat’s cheese and walnut salad, with raspberry vinaigrette, to start,” Declan barked. “And to the health and happiness of you all,” he concluded gravely, proffering his whisky to the sky before gulping it down in one shot.

“Happiness,” Sharon repeated meaningfully, holding my gaze for a second too long. Absurdly, I felt a stab of sorrow.

Thankfully, the salad was gorgeous—just the kind of thing I’d never think of ordering at a restaurant, instead wanting something rich and cheesy, only to be disgusted with myself later. “This is delicious, Declan,” Randy enthused, shovelling the tender leaves into his mouth. “What’s that on the walnuts? A spice of some kind?”

“Caramelised chilli powder,” he belched, getting started on his lager chaser. “Found a brûlée torch at the back of the cupboard.”

We demolished the salad with besotted greed. It was so hot, and we were so hungry, and the beers were so cold.

“Right!” Declan was back on his feet. “Time for the main event!”

He reappeared moments later, bearing a massive pot that wafted with the smell of heaven. I took care not to swoon. “Giant prawns. Indonesian-style.”

He lifted the lid and the most gorgeously scented steam poured out. Randy was right: lemongrass, red curry, garlic, and coconut. The salad had been nothing but an aperitif, designed to whet our appetites. We were salivating.

One by one, we passed round our plates. Gingerly, so as not to burn himself, Declan dished for each of us. Of course, although we each insisted that everyone else start eating immediately—“It’s only going to get cold!”—we sat transfixed until the last plate was full, delirious with anticipation.

“Go on,” Declan cajoled. “Go on, you muppets!”

It was as if the starting gate had been opened. We fell on the prawns. Randy slurped them down whole, shell and all, as did Declan and Sharon. Sairi and Michelle peeled theirs hurriedly, rushing desperately through it, wanting to get them all out of their shells before starting to eat. Peter and Tam peeled and ate theirs one at a time, mopping up the delicious coconutty sauce as they went, their eyes rolling back in pleasure every so often.

I sat with my knife and fork in my hands, frozen. I tried to remember how many calories there were in a prawn.

“Ava,” Sharon was hissing, angrily, trying to get me to look at her. “
Ava!
”

“Are you alright?” Tam said innocently, nudging me with his elbow between mouthfuls. “You’ve gone all pale.”

“Fine,” I said stiffly. What was wrong with me? Was I really so afraid of eating this beautiful meal?

Prawns are swimming in fat. So’s coconut milk.

He looked worried. “Are you allergic to shellfish?”

Declan heard that, and his face fell immediately. “Oh NOOO,” he roared, “Don’t TELL ME you’re ALLERGIC.”

“No, I . . .” I began. But I didn’t know how to continue. “Umm—” I could see from the corner of my eye that Tam was looking at me very carefully.

Then, suddenly, he interrupted my umming and aahing. “Don’t worry, Dec, she’s just never had to peel them before.”

I looked at him in confusion. What was he talking about? “That’s not—”

“Here,” he said, briskly, interrupting me again, “I’ll show you how.”

Sharon was looking on in interest. As was everyone else. “Take hold of one like that,” he said patiently, showing me the edge of the cut-open shell, “and then you sort of peel it like a banana. See?”

“Y-yes,” I stammered, feeling a fool.

“Then you dunk it in the sauce,”—he took hold of my hand and guided it back towards the plate—“and there you have it.”