As I’m moving on, I notice Diane, our next-door beach hut neighbour, standing on her deck. Despite the warmth of the day, a navy fleece is zipped to her chin. She stands with her hands planted on her hips, staring out into the bay where her husband, Neil, is boarding his boat.
‘Neil going fishing?’ I ask.
She looks at me for a long moment. ‘The boat’s been dinged. He’s checking the damage.’
‘Oh, what happened?’
‘No idea.’
Neil will be on the warpath, then. The boat is his pride and joy. He spends more time tinkering with it than fishing from it.
Although Diane and Neil have owned the hut next door for over ten years, I’ve always found it disappointing that we’ve never grown close. Nick and Neil sink the odd beer around the barbecue – but I just can’t imagine sitting out late on the deck sharing a bottle of wine with Diane. I honestly don’t know what we’d talk about.
I ask, ‘You haven’t seen Jacob this morning, have you?’
Diane looks at me through the corners of her eyes. ‘Jacob? Why? Is something wrong?’
‘He didn’t come home last night,’ I say with a loose wave of my fingers, as if it is no big deal.
There’s something odd about the way her gaze travels searchingly over my face. ‘No. I’ve not seen him.’
‘He’s probably at his girlfriend’s.’
Her gaze still doesn’t leave me. ‘I do hope so.’
It’s an odd remark – although perhaps not in the context of Diane. As I move on, I think that, if Diane were one of my other friends with teenagers, I’d already be turning this into an anecdote: Jacob stayed out all night on his birthday. He didn’t bother to text, didn’t answer his mobile the next morning – nothing! I was in a total panic. I found him eventually – with his girlfriend, of course! I can picture the other mums doing that reassuring little roll of their eyes, which means: teenagers.
I’m a good sharer among friends; I trade just the right balance of lamentable parenting tales, with the occasional golden highlight thrown in for good measure: Jacob cooked for us all yesterday. Spaghetti bolognese. Without being asked. I had to stop myself demanding to know what he’d done.
But I am careful not to share everything. For example, it’s only Nick and I who know that Jacob’s head of sixth form called us in halfway through the term to talk about Jacob’s poor attendance. My hands trembled as I left the office. ‘Truancy? Where’s he been going? Do you think something is wrong?’
Nick had slung his arm around my shoulder, just like he used to do when we were younger, and said with a grin, ‘I seem to remember you and Isla bunking off your drama classes.’
‘That was different. It wasn’t school.’
Nick only grinned more.
I also didn’t tell my friends how Jacob broke two toes in the spring. He didn’t injure them in a skateboarding accident, but because he’d kicked the skirting board in our hallway when I’d told him he was too young to go to Glastonbury with his friends.
Just before I reach Caz’s hut, I become aware of Isaac at the periphery of my vision. He’s crossing the beach, his gaze fixed on me. I keep my eyes lowered, pretending not to notice him.
‘Sarah!’ he calls.
I flinch at the sound of my name from his mouth – but I don’t turn.
I can hear his footsteps hurrying through the sand. Heat suffuses my skin as I march on.
‘Sarah! Wait!’ he calls when he is almost at my shoulder.
I have no choice but to turn. ‘Oh, Isaac! I was miles away.’ I keep pace as I say, ‘Sorry, I can’t stop. Meeting Jacob. Already late!’
It’s a lie, of course, but at least Isaac doesn’t say anything further. From the corner of my eye, I see him hesitate. He looks anxious, his hands fluttering at his sides. Then thankfully he nods his head and lets me go.
Caz and Robert’s hut, painted a fresh sky blue, is raised slightly above the neighbouring ones. I scan the harbour to see if I can spot Robert’s boat – a large grey RIB with an oversized engine (which, to me, screams Penis extension!). I can’t see it moored up today, which most likely means he isn’t on the sandbank.
I call out as I climb the wooden steps leading on to the deck, not wishing to surprise Caz and Jacob if they’re together. I find Caz curled into the sofa with her headphones on, eyes closed. Her clear skin is deeply tanned, and her hair, bleached to a white-blonde, looks wild and mussed. I glance beyond her, looking for traces that my son is here. I suppose he could have left by now, deciding to see one of his friends, or to take a walk up on the headland. I am turning to leave when Caz’s eyes suddenly flick open. She sits up, startled, yanking off her headphones. There’s a red mark across her cheek from where she’s been lying, and I notice a slight glassiness to her eyes.
‘Sorry, I just came to see if—’
‘I was just … going out.’
‘Out?’
‘To catch up with a friend.’ Caz puts a hand to her head and ruffles her hair around her face.
I hover in the doorway, giving no indication of leaving.
‘I’ve got a minute though.’
I move into the hut, lowering myself on to the sofa opposite her. I take in the cream tongue-and-groove panelling, the expensive striped navy blinds, the antique barometer fixed above the sink. Caz’s mother decorated the hut before she left Robert to live in Spain with the manager of the timeshare she owned. I’ve not been in the hut since she left and I’m reminded how serene the view of the harbour is on a still day; only sailing boats and sea birds dot the water, the fishing quay visible in the distance. I do enjoy crossing to the harbour side of the sandbank to watch the sun go down in the evenings, yet it’s the sea view that I love; it’s wilder, more exposed.
‘Want a drink?’ Caz offers half-heartedly.
‘Thank you, but no. I was just passing and wanted to catch Jacob. But obviously he’s not here.’
‘No.’
‘He stayed last night, didn’t he?’
She shakes her head. ‘No.’
The word is clear and firm. It drops like a pebble into my chest, causing a ripple of panic. Then, where did he stay?
I look closely at Caz, wondering whether she is telling me the truth. She is perched on the edge of the sofa, as if she’s about to spring up – disappear. Perhaps she thinks I’d be cross if she admitted that Jacob spent the night. She reaches a hand to her left ear lobe, toying with a silver earring she wears in the shape of a seahorse. I watch as she turns it lightly through her fingers, over and over, like a rosary bead, and then removes it. She does the same with the second earring, placing them both on top of a pile of Coast magazines that are stacked neatly on the rustic coffee table between us.
I have the strongest desire to reach out for the earrings, feel the warm weight of the silver in my palm. I keep my focus on Caz though, asking, ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No. No, I don’t.’
‘But you saw him at the party last night?’
‘Yeah, for a bit.’
‘I