* * *
The hotel is not that bad. If you like broom cupboards with no view. There only seems to be one elderly man working here, and the only other guest I’ve seen is a man I passed in the corridor with an easel under one arm, making me think I wasn’t far wrong about artists painting such a picturesque village.
And I suppose I was lucky to get a room here at such short notice, in June, in a gorgeous little seaside village, and it doesn’t matter how small my room is or how uncomfortable and stained the bed looks, because I’m here, and I’ve done something unusual for me; I’ve ‘put myself out there’ as Daphne would say, and now I’m walking up the other fork of the cobbled road, towards the cottages, and hopefully the carousel on the beach.
At the peak of the hill, I stop and take in the view. From here, to my left, are the green hills of the cliffs overlooking the beach, and they’re spotted with little cottages, all with pretty gardens stretching out behind them. In front of me is the most perfect beach I’ve ever seen. Miles of unblemished sand stretches out into the ocean. The tide is out and the waves are lapping in the distance.
To the right is the seafront, and my reason for coming here. I walk down the lower road towards what is obviously the promenade. A blue-painted iron railing springs up along the grassy edge as I head towards a row of colourful beach huts along one side of the road, opposite a wide set of steps and a long ramp leading down to the beach. Just beyond them, is the tip of a marquee tent. It must be the carousel. It’s exactly where the newspaper man described.
The road has changed from cobblestone to smooth tarmac now, which I notice because my knees are shaking as I walk, and while I could convince myself it was because of the cobbles before, now I have to admit that it’s nerves. What the hell am I doing here? Coming halfway across the country to meet a man I smiled at on a train a few times? He’s going to think I’m a nutter. Maybe I am a nutter.
If I left now, I could probably make it back to London by tonight. I could at least stay somewhere near the station and get the first train out tomorrow morning. He would never know I was here. We could meet like normal, sensible, sane people in a neutral place in London where I can hand his phone over like a normal, sensible, sane person, and not stalk him two hundred and fifty miles across the country. In six weeks’ time. When he gets back … Six weeks is a hell of a long time. And I’m here now, aren’t I? I can just drop by the carousel and hand over his phone like it’s not a big deal … Maybe I could tell him I’m visiting family in the area? That’s a reasonable excuse, right?
My legs have carried on walking without me realising, and I’m suddenly on the liveliest part of the promenade, right next to one of the sets of steps leading onto the sand, and mere metres from the marquee surrounding the carousel. He must be in there. It’s too near, this is too weird, everything about it from the train to the phone to the article … and the lovely-sounding guy who phoned me, who I talked to unreservedly the night before last, who voluntarily rang again last night and then texted when I didn’t answer, and I still haven’t responded to.
I examine the row of beach huts on the opposite side of the promenade to delay having to approach the carousel and somehow make myself sound rational while explaining that I’ve stalked him halfway across the country.
They’re all painted in bright colours, each one different from orange to purple, graduated so they form a rainbow along the street. All have signs above their doors and sandwich boards outside advertising their goods. There’s the fish and chip shop I’ve already heard about, an old-fashioned arcade, an art shop showcasing paintings by local artists, a shop selling all kinds of beach goods from dinghies, windbreakers, and inflatable whales to buckets and spades and snorkels, and there’s an ice cream parlour … Oh, now there’s an idea.
The sign outside advertises a 99 cone that still costs 99p, something that’s probably as rare in Britain nowadays as when a Freddo used to cost 10p, and I can’t remember the last time I had one. I go into the little red hut and buy two. Turning up with ice cream makes this much less weird, right?
There are four rows of wide concrete steps leading down to the beach and sandy ramps side on, so I walk down one of them, holding an ice cream in each hand.
A wooden walkway has been installed in the sand surrounding the carousel, and a temporary metal fence about six-foot high has been put up around it, stopping anyone getting any closer.
As I cross the sand towards it, I try to work out what on earth I’m going to say. Shall I knock? If I can even get in, how do you knock on a tent? Rattle the fence? Call his name?
Just as I’m thinking the best thing to do would be to run away and eat both the 99s as I go, he steps out from around the side of the tent and I freeze because it’s suddenly real. He’s actually here. I’m actually here. I actually did something so completely out of character for me, and maybe that’s not an entirely bad thing, even if it is about to go down in flames.
He’s wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of dungarees, which are covered in paint and oil stains and ripped at the knees, and he’s rubbing a manky-looking cloth over something, looking out towards the sea. He looks completely entranced by the ocean and hasn’t even glanced in my direction, and I wonder how long I could stand here admiring him if these ice creams weren’t melting.
‘Nathan?’ I finally pluck up the courage to speak and it comes out barely above a whisper. I’m sure he won’t have heard but he jumps at the sound of something other than the squawking of seagulls and swivels towards me.
‘Ness?’ He physically does a double take and squints in the sunlight.
At least he recognises me. That’s something.
‘Ness!’ he says again, his voice going high. ‘You actually came?’
Suddenly he’s moving, pushing aside one of the metal fence panels and striding towards me, his mouth turning into a grin that lights up his whole face and makes the laughter lines around his eyes crinkle up. He doesn’t look like someone who thinks I’m a deranged stalker.
What’s weird is that as soon as I see him, the moment I see that smile spread across his face and the dimples I haven’t been able to get out of my head since the first time I saw him, all of my nerves melt away.
He looks … overjoyed. No, it can’t be overjoyed. Maybe constipation? I don’t think anyone has ever looked that happy to see me before.
‘You made it sound so perfect.’ I have to wet my lips and swallow a couple of times to make my voice sound stable.
‘I can’t believe you came!’
‘And I brought ice cream.’ I hold one of the cones out towards him.
He goes to take it but his hand stops in midair and we both look at it because he’s covered in black grease. He pulls it back quickly and tries to wipe it on the cloth he was using to clean the thing he’s just shoved into the pocket of his dungarees. ‘Look at the state of me. I don’t usually get into this much of a mess.’
He plunges a hand into the dungaree pocket again and pulls out a mini packet of wet wipes, covering it in the black grime as he struggles to open it and pull one out, and I stand there with two ice creams melting in my hands, wondering when dungarees became so sexy. I’ve always thought of them as a work uniform for builders, but on Nathan, they look like something from a Calvin Klein aftershave advert. Even with the rips and stains, one rip in particular shows a delicious sliver of thigh, and …
I’ve been here for all of two minutes and I already can’t stop perving on the man. I can’t remember the last time I looked at a guy and fancied him this much, no matter how much Daphne tries to make me. Fancying men and how sexy they might or might not be hasn’t been on my priority list for a long time now, and yet I already want to slide a finger into that tear in the faded denim and … I force myself to think of something else.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Nathan’s