The Endless Beach Read online

  And now that place—the place he thought he’d found, where the endless, self-doubting torment, the desperate running and fleeing wasn’t necessary—now was that still there for him? Colton was about to change it irrevocably. Was he even still welcome there? He had no idea, truly, what was going on in Flora’s head; he felt merely that he had been locked out of paradise, that Flora’s careful, noncommittal chats echoed precisely the language he had been used to all his life, when a well-meaning but nonetheless determined social worker had explained, yet again, why he wasn’t welcome at this place, that they would try and find somewhere else for him.

  He went to the balcony. The heat and noise of the city rose up to meet him. Christ, he hated it here. He hated it. He wanted to be cool, and quiet, and walking a long beach, and smelling the freshest of sea wind, just letting the air blow out every cobweb in his head. No. They weren’t cobwebs. They were more like twisted snakes, coiled around the inside of his brain, squeezing tighter and tighter, and if Flora knew . . . If she only knew, if she got close enough, if she suspected what was beneath the carapace of him; what it contained . . . It was a writhing, choking mass of slithering monsters that tightened every synapse, the great coiling insides of him that he could conceal with a smart suit; with a charming manner; with a fit body; with spending money; with everything like that. For as long as that worked.

  He couldn’t risk letting her get closer. But if he didn’t, he would lose everything. And Colton was taking a sledgehammer to it all.

  Joel’s head hurt, as if the monsters in there were trying to burst out, trying to escape. He couldn’t . . . If he ever let them out, if he ever did, he worried that he would start to scream and never, ever be able to stop.

  He staggered along the balcony, peered over the top and stared down to the ground. The suite wasn’t on the street side; it simply led down to the roof of another building.

  Why was it so fucking hot? Hot everywhere. He’d turned on the air-conditioning, but then he’d started to shiver uncontrollably. He didn’t know how long he’d been in this room, in this hotel. His brain was cloudy. None of his clothes fit; he didn’t know what the hell was wrong with everyone. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He blinked; sweat was dripping down his forehead. He staggered forward again.

  * * *

  Flora was closing the Café by the Sea and had dismissed the girls and was making Lorna a cappuccino. “This we can afford,” she said. “Well done today.”

  “Thanks,” said Lorna, blushing. “Was he pleased? He was hard to read. I think he was pleased.”

  “I can’t believe you studied Arabic for a month.”

  Lorna blushed more. “It’s a beautiful language.”

  “You’re a dark horse.”

  “You’re not. God, but those boys are tiny.” Lorna sighed. “He’s going to need a lot of help.”

  Flora gave her a look. “Sexy help?”

  “Oh Christ, of course not,” Lorna said. “Trust me, I’ve given up in that department. Can you imagine? Not in a million years.”

  “Things that shouldn’t happen in a million years do actually happen, you know,” said Flora, licking the foam off her cappuccino. “I mean, look at this place.”

  They looked around at the lovely painted homely café.

  Lorna smiled. “True. But I think he has quite enough on his plate, and I’m hardly going to impinge upon his image of his missing and perfect wife, am I? Anyway, it’s inappropriate. I’m going to be looking after his boys. Christ. That’s a job ahead. Poor wee mites, they looked miserable. It would be disgusting weather this morning.”

  “I know. Want me to send up some buns tomorrow?”

  “Nothing in the budget,” said Lorna gloomily.

  “Nothing in the charity fund,” said Flora equally gloomily. “Jan takes it all.”

  “Any news from Joel?”

  “Um, I’m playing it cool.”

  “You?”

  Flora went pink. “I know, I know. Shut up.”

  “You literally pursued him for four years . . .”

  Flora ran her finger round the rim of her cup. “Seriously, I’m desperate enough to try anything.”

  Lorna nodded.

  “And, by the way, you’re learning Arabic . . .”

  “To help the children,” said Lorna piously. “So, you’re giving him the cold shoulder . . .”

  “Nothing . . .” Flora shook her head. “Not a thing. I haven’t heard from him at all.”

  Lorna grimaced. That didn’t sound good. “I mean,” she said. “You know what those friends of his told you in New York.”

  “Yes,” said Flora, “but they didn’t say, ‘Keep on making a fool out of yourself. For ages and ages and ages.’”

  Lorna looked sympathetic but glanced at her watch. “Sorry,” she said. “I have to go. I have nine miles of grading.”

  “I know,” said Flora. “I’ve got accounts.”

  “Isn’t it great, being awesome women completely in control of our lives and destinies?” said Lorna, getting up and giving Flora a hug. “Look,” she said. “You love him. Put your cards on the table. If you want him, I don’t think waiting is going to do it.”

  “Me either,” said Flora. “But what if he brushes me off and says he’s too busy?”

  Then she sat, staring at the telephone, pondering and weighing what to do, without the faintest idea, not the slightest, about the tumult that was taking place thousands of miles away. She had a romantic notion, or had done in the past, that if you were with the person you truly loved, you would pick up on how they were feeling, “tune in” to their vibes; even if they were far away, you could pick out a star or sense from a passing cloud how they were or when they were thinking of you.

  There was every possibility, she now realized, that this was total and utter crap.

  On the other hand, as she stared at it, her phone started to ring . . .

  * * *

  Flora grabbed the phone and picked it up.

  “Hello?” she said, registering with some disappointment as she did so that it was Fintan, not Joel.

  “YAYYYYYY!” came a noisy roaring sound down the phone. It sounded battered and windy.

  “Fintan? Where are you? Are you drunk?”

  “No!” came the ecstatic voice. “Actually, now you mention it, that sounds like a totally fabulous, fantastic idea. Let’s go and get drunk!”

  “Yes, doing my accounts always goes better when I’m drunk,” said Flora. “What’s up?”

  “Tell her,” came Colton’s unmistakably growly voice behind him.

  “What?” said Flora.

  “We’re getting married!” screamed Fintan joyously down the phone.

  Flora paused, only for the very briefest of milliseconds, before she screamed “Yay!” down the phone too.

  It wasn’t fair, it really wasn’t at all fair to be jealous of her brother for getting married first. She was fine about it. Great, in fact. She loved Fintan; she loved Colton; this was all brilliant. Brilliant. And she would be happy, she told herself. Plus, it really was a good excuse for not doing the accounts.

  “That’s wonderful!” she said. “Who proposed?”

  “The one with the gray hair,” said Colton. The phone was now obviously on speaker. “Obviously. Come join us up at the Rock for some fizz.”

  “What did Dad say?”

  “He’s the next call,” said Fintan. Flora bit her lip. He’d called her first. Without Mum, he’d called her first. That meant so much.

  “He’ll be . . .” She thought for a moment. “Well. He’ll handle it.”

  “Do you think he’ll walk me down the aisle?”

  They both burst into fits of hysterical laughter.

  “Oh, Fint,” said Flora suddenly. “Oh, Mum would have loved it.”

  The boys fell silent on the other end of the phone.

  “Aye,” said Fintan. “Reckon.”

  “Oh my God,” said Flora. “Who’s going to break it to Agot
? She’d better be flower girl.”

  “Oh yes,” said Fintan. “Come on, come on. I’ll pick up some food from home. We’ll get the fires lit up at the Rock. Come on.”

  And that is how Flora didn’t get around to phoning Joel until much, much later.

  * * *

  Joel hadn’t realized he’d emptied the minibar: it just suddenly was empty, and he was staring at it, slightly dumbfounded. Everything seemed very off. He tried to remember when he’d last eaten, then realized he couldn’t. He eyed a wobbly Toblerone but decided he couldn’t face it. He looked at his phone. Nothing. Nobody to call, nobody to . . . He looked at his computer. The words swam in front of his eyes. Christ, he was tired. He was just so damn tired. Of holding it together. Of doing well. Of needing nothing, and nobody.

  And he didn’t. He didn’t need anybody. He got up, staggered to the terrace again, fell down. Perhaps he should go out. Perhaps he should see if they had any whisky downstairs. They had to have whisky, didn’t they? In Mure they served the best whisky in the world . . . What was it called again? Something weird and Gaelic and unpronounceable and you sat round the fire and got cozy and mixed it with a tiny bit of water and the first time Flora had bought some for him he’d mentioned ice and she’d looked utterly horrified and . . .

  The next thing Joel knew, he was back on the balcony. Perhaps he’d blacked out for a second. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know what was happening. Only that everything was too much.

  * * *

  The champagne cork popped and everyone cheered, their faces bright in the evening light after the sun had made its late appearance. A huge fire still crackled in the grate—you could always do with a bit of insurance on Mure. Everyone was laughing and Fintan was sitting on Colton’s knee, occasionally glancing up at him as if in wonder that all of this had come to pass.

  “Have you got a ring?”

  Fintan nodded and leaned over. Flora gasped. It was exquisite: two bands of silver, between which was a carved metal design of little cogs slotted together. “Like a butter churn,” said Fintan.

  Flora shook her head. It was utterly beautiful, unique, and absolutely them. “It’s lovely.”

  “What did Joel say?” asked Colton lazily, who was not really listening to the MacKenzies’ chatter. When they all were yapping en masse, he found the accent got thicker and became difficult to follow, but he rather liked this. He simply leaned back and let it all wash over him like birdsong—sipping whisky rather than champagne, the man he loved on his lap, the fire flickering in the fireplace, still light past nine o’clock—and felt that a happy life had nothing much more to offer.

  Flora froze. You would have to have known her rather less well than her brothers not to notice. “Um, I haven’t . . .”

  Innes frowned. “Are you two . . . ?”

  “Shh,” said Fintan quickly.

  “No,” said Flora. This was ridiculous. Of course she would phone him. They were normal people. If he was out in a bar or too busy to talk to her or . . .

  Suddenly her heart started to race. This. This was a reckoning. She would call him. She would tell him the loveliest, happiest news that had happened to the MacKenzies in a long time. And if he was truly her boyfriend—a part of her family, her community—he would be delighted, thrilled, interested.

  And if he was too busy, if he passed over it . . . Well. Then she would know.

  She felt cold inside. But after the disastrous trip . . . There had to be limits. There did. She didn’t need a perfectly designed engagement ring that cost a fortune. She didn’t need a big wedding or a fancy declaration. But she needed to know where she stood. She needed to know she meant something.

  She stood up, excused herself from the table, knowing full well the boys would watch her go then gossip about them. She couldn’t think about that just now.

  Outside it was colder than it looked. The sun was making a full high arc of the sky, the wide light the palest yellow, almost leached of all color; the sea, unusually, as still as a millpond as far as the eye could see, a perfect flat calm. It was an utterly ravishing evening, and up here at the Rock, with its manicured gardens and walled terraces—with its red carpet leading down to the jetty where guests would arrive by boat—the fiery torches were lit, a merry path although it was not dark at all.

  The air was heavy with the scent of the last of the spring bluebells, neatly serried in rows by the Rock’s army of gardeners, the very last of the daffodils fading away.

  Flora looked around, took in the beauty of the evening, terrified that everything was about to change so much and spoil and leave her. She thought of Joel, his beauty, his set face, his unexpected flashes of humor which, she now suspected, he had used all along to keep her from getting close. The sex.

  Maybe. Maybe she could live like this. Maybe she could handle it. Being ignored. Undervalued. Left on her own for months on end. Waiting around for some crumbs from her lover’s table. Or maybe she couldn’t.

  * * *

  Joel was sitting down on the terrace when the phone rang, although he wasn’t quite sure how. He’d been standing up, hadn’t he? Trying to get cool? Or had he? Everything was quite jumbled in his brain.

  At first, he didn’t realize what was making the sound; his head was full of noises and everything sounded like the scream of a phone, but it persisted and persisted then it stopped—did it? Or did he pass out?—and then it started again and then it stopped.

  * * *

  Flora stared out at the sea, furious. She wouldn’t leave a message. This was too important. He would see it was her on the caller display, even if he was out. He was never more than two feet from his phone, not even at night when he used it as an alarm clock. He walked about with his life in the palm of his hand, wrapped in plastic. The phone was important to him. Whether she was was a different matter.

  She hung up and phoned again, hung up and phoned again, realizing this was bordering on craziness but so wound up and anxious and angry she no longer cared how she seemed or came across. If he thought she was some kind of disposable, cool, noninterested girl, well . . . she wasn’t, and that was how it was.

  She glanced back at the beautiful building of the Rock, tranquil in the evening light: the gray stone so comforting; the glories of the garden just beginning to come to fruition; the small group inside laughing convivially in the soft light. It looked so happy. She felt so on the outside looking in.

  She dialed again. Dialed again. Last time, she promised herself. She would dial one last time.

  * * *

  Joel half-opened an eye. He felt like a shipwrecked man, clinging to a world that turned round and round and tipped him up and down again until he no longer knew which way was up. And still that persistent sound in his ears. He had to make it stop. He had to make it stop.

  He grabbed the phone, which had skittered nearly to the very edge of the balcony. There was a gap between the glass protective wall and the floor. He was tempted to kick the phone over. See how it fell, first. See how it soared and twirled through the air; see if it was the right . . .

  He squinted at it, realizing he was seeing double, that he couldn’t make sense anymore of the words that were there. F . . . l . . .

  “What?”

  “Joel!”

  “What is it?”

  Flora was taken aback. “Um. Does there have to be a reason?”

  “No, of course not. Tell me . . . Is it nice there? Not too hot? Christ, it’s fucking hot here . . .”

  “Joel . . . I just wanted to call you with the news. Colton and Fintan got engaged! They’re getting married.”

  Flora waited anxiously for his reaction. There was a long pause, over thousands of miles. Then she heard a massive exhalation of breath.

  “Of course they fucking are,” said Joel. And he hung up.

  * * *

  Flora slowly put down the phone. Enough. She stared out over the sea. Enough was enough now. She turned to go. She wouldn’t say good-bye to the boys; their
evident happiness was a little much for her right at the moment. She knew they’d be all right. In fact, better, she’d pop in on her dad in the morning and try and do some good. He hadn’t wanted to come out that evening—he slept in the farmer’s way, always had: 8 P.M. to bed, 4 A.M. rising. Not that she’d get much sleep tonight.

  Bertie, who ran a boat around when they were at the Rock, was waiting at the jetty. He jumped up.

  “Hello, Flores!” he said, going bright pink as always.

  “Can you take me home, Bertie?”

  “Aye, of course! Love to! Boat or car? Come on, take the boat. It’s a lovely night!”

  Why not? thought Flora. It was hardly like it mattered and the fresh air might help her get some sleep at least. So she nodded and followed him to the jetty.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Joel realized he was in a mess. But he didn’t know how to get out of it. Everything had come to a head suddenly, and he didn’t know how to cope. He couldn’t control his breathing.

  Gulping, he felt a sudden skip in his heartbeat—a massive electrical jolt. He grabbed the phone like a lifeline. Before he knew what he’d done, he’d pressed the callback button, although in his confused, twirling state he wasn’t sure why, or even whom he was calling. His breath came in great shuddering gasps.

  * * *

  There was no signal out at sea, and Flora found a queer sort of quiet and contentment staring out over the wide ocean, feeling alone and facing the world by herself. Whatever happened, she knew, she wasn’t the same girl she’d been a year ago: timid, scared, upset to the point of paralysis by the death of her mother; angry at having to come back to the island.

  Now, this was home, and despite its many inconveniences she loved it. She had a little business—well, okay, they were pretty much running on empty at the moment, but it was her business and she could manage. She was doing all right. She’d never be rich, but then she’d spent some time with rich people. She wasn’t sure it made them remotely happy. And there wasn’t that much point in having fancy dresses on Mure.