Wedding Night: A Novel

21

LOTTIE

I don’t quite know how to react. Here we are. Back at the guest house. And it’s just as it was. Kind of.

As soon as we descended from the water taxi, Ben took a call from Lorcan, which really annoyed me. I mean, this is our big, romantic, meaningful moment—and he takes a call. That’s like Humphrey Bogart saying, “We’ll always have— Sorry, love, just got to take this.”

Anyway. Be positive, Lottie. Relish the moment. I’ve been thinking about this place for fifteen years. And here I am.

I’m standing on the wooden jetty, waiting for waves of nostalgia and enlightenment to engulf me. I’m waiting to cry and maybe think of something poignant to say to Ben. But the weird thing is, I don’t really want to cry. I feel a bit blank.

I can just glimpse the guest house, far above, from where I’m standing. I can see the familiar dusty ochre stone and a couple of windows. It’s smaller than I remember, and one of the shutters is drooping. My gaze lowers to the cliff. There are the steps cut into the rock, forking halfway down. One set leads to the jetty where we’re standing and the other leads to the main beach. They’ve put in metal barriers, which kind of ruin the look. And a railing across the top of the cliff. And there’s a safety sign. A safety sign? We never had a safety sign. Anyway. Be positive.

Ben rejoins me, and I take his hand. The beach is round a jutting outcrop of rock, so I can’t see yet if that’s changed. But how can a beach change? A beach is a beach.

“What shall we do first?” I ask softly. “Guest house? Beach? Or secret cove?”

Ben squeezes my hand back. “Secret cove.”

And now, at last, I start to feel ripples of excitement. The secret cove. The place we first undressed each other, shaking with hot, insatiable, teenage desire. The place where we did it three, four, five times in a day. The idea of revisiting it—in all senses—is so exciting that I shiver.

“We’ll need to hire a boat.”

He’ll sail me round to the cove like he always used to, my feet up on the side of the boat. And we’ll drag the boat up onto the sand and find that sheltered patch of sand, and …

“Let’s get a boat.” Ben’s voice is thick, and I can tell he’s as excited as I am.

“D’you think they still hire them out at the beach?”

“Only one way to find out.”

With a sudden lightness of heart, I take hold of his hand and pull him toward the steps. We’ll go straight to the beach, we’ll get a boat; it’s all going to happen.

“Come on!” I’m leaping up the rocky steps, my heart thumping with excitement. We’re nearly at the fork in the steps. We’ll see that familiar stretch of beautiful golden sand at any moment, waiting for us after all this time—

Oh my God.

I’m staring down onto the beach in shock. What’s happened to it? Who are all these people?

When we were staying at the guest house, the beach seemed a massive, empty space. There were about twenty of us at the guest house, tops, and we used to spread ourselves over the sand so no one was crowded.

What I’m staring at now looks like an occupation. Or the morning after a festival. There are about seventy people filling the sand in disheveled groups, some still cocooned in sleeping bags. I can see the remains of a fire. There are a couple of tents. Most of them are students, I guess, appraising them. Or eternal students, maybe.

As we’re standing there uncertainly, a young guy with a goatee comes partway up the steps and greets us in a South African accent.

“Hi. You look lost.”

I feel lost, I want to retort, but instead I muster a smile. “Just … looking.”

“We’re visiting,” says Ben easily. “We came here years ago. It’s changed.”

“Oh.” The light in the guy’s face changes. “You’re one of those. From the golden age.”

“The golden age?”

“That’s what we call it.” He laughs. “We get so many people your age coming back, telling us how it used to be before they built the hostel. Most of them spend the whole time whinging about how it’s been ruined. You coming down?”

As we follow him, I’m prickling a little at his words. “Whinging” is a bit aggressive. And “your age”? What does that mean? I mean, obviously we’re a little older than he is, but we’re still, broadly speaking, young. I’m still in the same category.

“What hostel?” asks Ben as we arrive on the beach. “Don’t you stay at the guest house?”

“A few do.” The guy shrugs. “Not many. It’s a fairly ropy outfit. I think the old guy’s just sold it. No, we’re at the hostel. A few hundred yards behind. It was built maybe … ten years ago? They had a big advertising campaign. Really worked. This place is so amazing,” he adds as he walks away. “The sunsets are unbelievable. Take care now.”

Ben smiles back, but I feel like exploding with fury. I can’t believe they’ve built a hostel. I feel livid. This was our place. How dare they advertise it?

And just look at the way they treat it. There’s rubbish everywhere. I can see cans and empty crisp packets and even a couple of used condoms. At the sight of them, my stomach turns. They’ve been having sex all over the place. That’s so gross.

I mean, I know we used to have sex on the beach, but that was different. That was romantic.

“Where’s the boat guy?” I say, looking around. There used to be a lizard-like man who hired out his two boats every day, but I can’t see him anywhere. There’s a tall strapping guy pushing a boat out into the water, and I hurry over the sand to the sea.

“Hi! Excuse me! Hold on a minute.” He turns, his smile white in his tanned face, and I plant a hand on his dinghy.

“Could you tell me, do they still hire out boats here? Is this a hire boat?”

“Yes.” He nods. “But you have to get in early. They’re all gone. You could try tomorrow? The list is at the hostel.”

“I see.” I pause, then add plaintively, “The trouble is, we’re here only today. My husband and I. It’s our honeymoon. And we really did want a boat.”

I’m silently willing him to be gallant and offer us his boat. But he doesn’t. He just keeps pushing it out into the water and says pleasantly, “That’s tough.”

“The thing is, this is very special to us,” I explain, splashing after him. “We really, really wanted to go sailing. We wanted to visit this tiny secret cove we used to know.”

“The little cove that way?” He gestures round the headland.

“Yes!” I say. “Do you know it?”

“You don’t need to sail there.” He looks surprised. “You can get to it via the walkway.”

“The walkway?”

“It’s farther inland.” He points. “A big wooden walkway. They built it a few years ago. Opened up the whole area.”

I stare at him in horror. They built a walkway to the secret cove? This is desecration. It’s a travesty. I’m going to write a furious letter to … someone. It was our secret. It was supposed to stay secret. How are we supposed to have sex there now?

“Everyone goes there?”

“Oh yeah. It’s quite popular.” He grins. “Between you and me, it’s where people go to skin up.”

Skin up? I stare at him in even greater horror. Our perfect, romantic, idyllic cove is now Drug Central?

I rub my face, trying to adjust to this new, grim picture.

“So … there’ll be people there now?”

“Oh yeah. There was a party there last night. They’ll all be asleep now, though. See you.” He pushes off and unfurls his sail.

That’s it, then. Our whole plan, ruined. I paddle back through the shallows to where Ben is standing.

“It was so perfect,” I say in despair. “And now they’ve ruined it. I can’t bear it. I mean, look.” I gesture wildly. “It’s hideous! It’s a hellhole!”

“For God’s sake, Lottie!” says Ben, a little impatiently. “You’re overreacting. We used to party on the beach, remember? We used to leave rubbish around. Arthur was always complaining.”

“Not used condoms.”

“We probably did.” He shrugs.

“No, we didn’t!” I retort indignantly. “I was on the pill!”

“Oh.” He shrugs again. “I forgot.”

He forgot? How could you forget whether you used condoms or not with the love of your life?

I want to say, If you really loved me, you’d remember we didn’t use condoms, but I bite my tongue. An argument about condom use is not what you want on your honeymoon. Instead, I hunch my shoulders and stare mournfully out to sea.

I’m so disappointed, I want to cry. This is so absolutely not what I imagined. I suppose, to be honest, I didn’t imagine anyone on the beach at all. I imagined that we’d have it totally to ourselves. We would run over the deserted sand and leap through the foamy surf, landing in a perfect embrace while violins played. So maybe that was a tad unrealistic. But this is the opposite extreme.

“Well, what shall we do?” I say at last.

“We can still enjoy ourselves.” Ben pulls me close and gives me a kiss. “It’s good to be back, anyway, isn’t it? Still the same sand. Still the same sea.”

“Yes.” I gratefully sink into his kiss.

“Still the same Lottie. Same sexy shorts.” His hands cup my bum, and I feel a sudden urge to reclaim at least some of my fantasy.

“Remember this?” I give him my bag to hold. I take a deep breath, preparing myself, then give a light hop and a skip and launch into what is supposed to be a flawless series of cartwheels down the beach.

Ow. Oof.

Argh. Shit. My head.

I don’t know what happened, except my arms buckled beneath my weight, and there were a few shouts of alarm around me, and I landed hard on my head. Now I’m sprawled in an ungainly position on the sand, my breath coming short in shock.

My arm is throbbing in pain and my mind is throbbing in humiliation. I can’t do cartwheels anymore? When did that happen?

“Sweets.” Ben approaches, looking embarrassed. “Don’t do yourself an injury.” His gaze shifts to my shorts. “Slight accident, I think?”

I follow his gaze and feel a fresh jolt of dismay. There’s a rip in my tie-dye shorts. I’ve split them, in the worst possible place. I want to die.

Ben hauls me to my feet, and I rub my arm, wincing. I must have twisted it or something.

“You OK?” says a nearby girl in denim shorts and a bikini top, who looks about fifteen. “You need to take off with a bit more spring. Like this.” She throws herself lightly over and performs a perfect cartwheel, followed by a roundoff.

Bitch.

“Thanks,” I mutter. “I’ll bear that in mind.” I take my bag back from Ben and there’s an awkward silence. “So … what shall we do?” I say at last. “Check out the cove?”

“I need some coffee,” says Ben firmly. “And I want to see the guest house, don’t you?”

“Of course!” I feel a last flicker of hope. Even if the beach is ruined, the guest house may not be. “Only, you go first up the steps,” I add.

If my shorts are split, I’m not having him behind me.

I don’t know if it’s the cartwheel fiasco or maybe my heart monitor at the gym has been lying to me, but I’m not as fit as I thought I was. And 113 steps is a lot of steps. I find myself grabbing on to the handrail and using it to haul myself upward, and I’m glad Ben can’t see me. I’m hot in the face, and my hair has escaped from its elastic, and I’m puffing in a deeply non-sexy way. The sun is starting to glare down, so I’m avoiding looking upward, but as we near the top I glance up and blink in surprise. There’s a figure silhouetted against the top of the cliff. A girl.

“Hello there!” she calls down in an English accent. “Are you guests?”

She’s a stunning girl, I realize as I get higher. With quite an extraordinary chest. All the clichés are springing to my mind. Her boobs look like two brown moons straining against her strappy white tank top. No, two brown lively puppies. Even I’m so fascinated I want to touch them. She’s leaning over to greet us as we stumble upward, and I can see right into the cavernous depths of her cleavage.

Which means Ben can too.

“Well done!” she laughs as we eventually reach the top. I’m panting so hard I can’t speak. Nor can Ben, but he looks as if he’s trying to convey something to me—or is it to the extraordinarily shaped girl?

It’s to the extraordinarily shaped girl.

“Fucking hell!” he manages at last—and he sounds absolutely stunned. “Sarah!”