A Season for Second Chances(24)

Paul laughed, a deep gravelly laugh, and Annie began to feel very hot inside her animal-themed nightwear. She wasn’t sure if it was the flirting or the menopause.

“Yes,” he said. “I always come on a Monday!”

The heat spread up her neck to her cheeks.

“Smashing!” she said.

Smashing? What kind of response was that?

“I’d be happy to show you the delights of Willow Bay if you need a welcome guide,” said Paul.

“I’ve been to the Sunken Willow,” said Annie.

“Okay,” said Paul. “In that case, why don’t I take you on a tour of the rest of Willow Bay on Saturday afternoon, and we’ll finish with a meal at the Captain’s Bounty?”

“Sounds good,” said Annie.

Wait, is this a date? Oh my God, it sounds like a date!

“I’ll pick you up at three o’clock?” Paul asked, breaking Annie’s inner monologue.

“Great! And then you’ll have come on a Saturday too!” said Annie, and she instantly wished she could be swept away by a large wave.

Paul laughed.

“Lucky me!” he said. “Well, I’d better finish off.”

Annie looked at him dumbly.

“The windows?” said Paul.

“Windows!” said Annie. “Finish off the windows, of course. Great. I’ll probably get dressed. Will get dressed. Obviously. I don’t just stay in pajamas all day; that would be weird. I’m going now. I’ll see you Saturday. I won’t have pajamas on then. I’m going, bye!”

Paul smiled. Annie turned and climbed back up the steps to the front door, her hedgehog slippers slapping and flapping on every stair.

“By the way,” Paul called, as Annie pushed open the door.

She turned.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Annie,” she said.

“Good to meet you, Annie,” said Paul, and he swaggered out through the gate, a damp cloth hanging out of the back pocket of his jeans.

Annie pushed the door closed and leaned against it. She was sweating. Every part of her, from the inside out. Even her eyebrows were sweating.

She called her beautician.

“Treena’s Beauty Parlor!” trilled Treena.

“Hi, Treena, it’s Annie Sharpe.”

“Annie!” said Treena. “Crikey, it’s been a while!”

“Yeah,” said Annie. “I’ve been remiss in the body hair department lately.”

“I thought you’d found another lady,” said Treena.

“Oh no,” said Annie. “I’ve just been au naturel for a while.”

“Word is you’ve left Max,” said Treena.

“As usual,” said Annie, “the word is right. Max and I have split up.”

“I’m not sorry to hear it,” said Treena.

Treena was privy to and chief keeper of all the secrets in the high street. If MI6 had had a mind to train her, she could have been the greatest spy the secret service had ever known. There was an intimacy between the woman—legs akimbo—on the bed and the beautician brushing hot wax onto her vulva that made one feel able to divulge one’s innermost worries and confidences. A good waxing lady was like a spatula-wielding counselor. Annie had burst into sobs many times on Treena’s table, and not just from the eye-watering pain of having her body hair ripped out by the roots.

“Can you book me in before Saturday?” asked Annie.

“?’Course I can, my love,” said Treena. “What needs doing?”

“Everything,” said Annie. “Tash to toes, please.”

“Date, is it?”

“Not exactly,” said Annie. “But I’d like to be prepared.”

“I’d better block out the whole afternoon,” said Treena.





Chapter 19



Annie spent the next few days familiarizing herself with her new environment. She began by heading right from Saltwater Nook, away from the direction of the hill. Here the promenade swept round for about a quarter mile until it ended abruptly in a set of iron railings. Beyond them were jagged rocks that led up to the grassy cliffs above. A little before the railings were steps down to the beach, and from the beach you could carry on round—tide permitting—to where the headland jutted out in a peninsula to form the bay. Mari had said that the tunnel, which supposedly led to the cellar at Saltwater Nook, began in a cave at the farthest point, before the cliff turned the corner and fell out of view. Even at low tide, Annie guessed you could expect to get your feet wet trying to reach it. On the other side of the peninsula, there was no beach to speak of for a mile or so, only rocks and towering cliffs like ancient sentries.

Curious, Annie headed down the beach toward the edge of the headland, wearing a pair of wellies and carrying a torch she had found hung on the back of the bedroom door. The pebbles crunched satisfyingly beneath her boots; empty mussel shells and lank brown seaweed littered the beach. The sky that morning was the color of lead and the water was a molten mirror image, darkly rippling and swollen with a promise of menace.

The tide was about as out as it was going to go, but she was still splashing through puddles. Deeper pools shimmered in hollows between the rocks, and here the seaweed was alive and waving beneath the surface of the water, its fronds brushing against the plump anemones—like round raspberry wine gums—that suctioned themselves to the pool-sides.