Part 126 (1/2)
The house by the sea never changes, inside or out. Or in my mind it doesn't. The whitewashed building belongs to my grandmother, and has been in the family for years. The house nestles between the sand dunes and the town, isolated from the neighbours but close to the track running up the hill to Broadbeach.
My heart rate won't slow following my accident and encounter with the other driver. Why is my day going from bad to worse? I push the incident out of my mind; I'm here now, things will change.
I park my poor, mistreated car on the side of the track and climb out, inhaling until my lungs are full of the sea air. Odd how somewhere I resented so much is now a symbol of sanctuary. The sandy front garden is overgrown, weeds now resident in the huge terracotta plant pots full of geraniums. I tip the largest to one side and pull out the spare key. Gran needs to learn spare keys under plant pots don't equal good security, but I suppose security isn't as big a concern in Broadbeach as in Bristol.
A musty, familiar smell greets me as I push open the front door. Old books, lavender perfume and the seaweed smell of the sea. The mix of scents transports me back to summer days playing in the sand dunes and getting into trouble for sneaking off to the nearby shop for ice creams. The house is a few hundred metres from the beach. A small path and the dunes I rolled down until my knickers were full of sand, lies between the house and the sh.o.r.e.
n.o.body has rented recently, and the house is cold and clean. I'm lucky to be able to stay here, especially as I phoned and asked to stay at short notice. Early June and heading into summer holiday season, Broadbeach is quiet. A week's solace should help with the break-up from Grant.
Grant who took me for granted; who I changed for, morphing into someone I didn't recognise. I came home one day last week and found him with someone else. Such a f.u.c.king cliche, Grant knew I was due home, so he either decided to live dangerously or didn't give a s.h.i.+t. Personally, I think being told the relations.h.i.+p is over beats coming home to find a girl wrapped around your boyfriend of five years.
I left him (and attached girl), and slept at my best friend Tara's for a couple of nights. But this wasn't far enough away from Grant. So I walked away from my job at his parents' finance company and headed to Broadbeach for some 'me' time. Some 'find me' again time. I've left behind the consequences of losing my boyfriend and probably my source of income.
I head upstairs with my stuffed blue rucksack and dump the bag on the bed. The duvet cover is seash.e.l.l patterned, and the curtains match, the same bedding has been used for years. A local painting of the coast hangs on the cornflower blue wall. In a fit of glee, I tip the contents of my rucksack on the bed. Clothes go everywhere. I giggle. Grant hated my mess. Picking up underwear, I drop items around the room, and then scrunch back the bed covers. Now, the place is lived in. Imperfect. A little voice in my head whispers: ”f.u.c.k you, Grant.”
The view from the window is what I dreamt of in the traffic jams on the way down. Unspoilt after all these years, the sandy beach stretches to the sea. Closing my eyes, I imagine I can hear the waves but I'm too far. The absence of sound is somehow louder than the traffic noise from my house back in Bristol. My ex-house.
One disadvantage of being the first guest of the season is there's nothing in the fridge or freezer. Zilch. Nada. I once came at the end of the season and the a.s.sortment of items in the cupboards and fridge kept me going for days. Unopened packets of cold meats, frozen bread and UHT milk conveniently located next to the teabags in the cupboard. One year someone left frozen pizza and two bottles of expensive wine. Win. This time? Big lose.
Pouting, I open the plastic bag I packed my lunch in. Pulling out the banana peel left from my emergency refuelling as I was driving, I discover the bottle of juice I packed has leaked all over my cheese sandwiches.
I don't want to drive anywhere again in a hurry, but a trip to the new out of town supermarket is needed. I need supplies. Lots of unhealthy, relations.h.i.+p break-up goodies. Guilt follows me out of the seaside town, away from the local shops in need of my money. However, I'm too tired to face twenty questions from Mrs Hughes or see the weird guy at the newsagents who never speaks. I'll spend money there too, of course; I'm here for a week. But tonight, I need bulk amounts of chocolate, crisps, ice cream and wine. So Asda is the place to go. Sorry, Mrs Hughes.
Evening encroaches as I return to the house; I spent more time and money than I expected at Asda because choosing the right wine for wallowing is important. And don't get me started on the number of ice cream flavours to choose from. I bought the hottest pre-packaged curry I could find because I couldn't eat curry around Grant. He didn't like the smell. Add wine and a juicy new book for an awesome evening ahead.
When I get back, the lights are on, s.h.i.+ning through the downstairs window at the front of the house. I halt, the plastic carrier bags digging into my hands. What the? I push open the creaking front door and peer inside, aware the isolation I craved is not so good at this point. Unable to detect anything strange, I step inside and close the door, hand on my phone. Just in case. In case of what, I don't know. A projectile weapon? Setting the bags on the table, I listen. Nothing. Maybe I left the lights on before I left.
First things first: wine. I open a bottle of red, and rummage around for the biggest gla.s.s I can find. After a satisfying gulp or three, I pull my curry out of the pre-packed box and shove the container in the microwave. After only a minute, the smell pervades the house.
The sense of relief and freedom from being here, away from someone else's scrutiny or criticism, engulfs as I slump on the sofa. The wine gla.s.s empties quicker than the curry cooks, and I close my eyes, soaking in the moment.
”Is this your underwear?”
I snap my eyes open, spilling my wine as I jump to my feet. Psycho-s.e.xy driver stands at the bottom of the stairs with a pair of my knickers hanging off his long fingers. Not even nice underwear. The sort reserved for uns.e.xy times of the month.
The mortifying sight of a stranger holding my flowery underwear is joined by the eye-popping sight of him standing s.h.i.+rtless in the house with damp hair. My look travels from the knickers to his low-slung jeans and the tightest six-pack I've ever seen, in real life anyway. At least he's not spoilt his sculptured chest and abs with the ugly tattoos on his arms. Um. What the h.e.l.l? Calm down, Sky.
This man has broken into my sanctuary and stolen my knickers. I s.n.a.t.c.h the offending item from him, mind scrambling to form a coherent sentence. ”Get out of my house before I call the police!”
”Your house?”
I clear my throat, not impressed with the squeaky tone I'm favouring. ”Where the h.e.l.l did you come from? Did you follow me?”
”How is this your house? This place is a holiday rental.”
”Well, my Gran's house but I'm staying here,” I say, unsure why I'm justifying myself to a knicker thief.
The tired, ocean blue eyes fix on mine. ”That's a problem then.”
”Why?”
”Because I'm renting the place for a month. I arrived about an hour ago and thought the last guests must've forgotten some items of clothing.” He points at my knickers. ”Then I get out of the shower and find you here.”
”Gran never said when I asked to stay...”
I vaguely remember Gran's distraction when I asked. She was shouting at her dog - I bet she wasn't listening.
c.r.a.p.
”Well, I was here first! You have to leave!” I retort.
He raises an eyebrow. ”I have to leave? I've paid for the place. Have you?”
He already knows the answer judging by his growing smirk. Fine. I change tack.
”You can't kick me out!”
”Stay then. But I'm having the main bedroom, and you'll have to remove all your clothes and underwear.” He pauses, fixing me with the look he tried when we were in the country lane. ”From the bed I mean.”
d.a.m.n my blus.h.i.+ng cheeks. ”I'm not staying with you; you could be a psychopath or something.”
”Or something? What's worse than a psychopath?”
An arrogant but disarmingly attractive bare-chested man stirring things that should remain unstirred, that's what.
”You have to go,” I repeat.
”Where?”
”I don't know. Get in your p.e.n.i.s extension of a car and find somewhere expensive.”
The man laughs. Really laughs, not just a chuckle. He looks at me as if I'm the weirdest thing he's seen; but with a genuine, open, and 'non-frowny' expression for once.
”I got a taxi,” he says. ”Didn't you notice my ah...p.e.n.i.s extension wasn't parked outside?”
”Why get a taxi?”
”I didn't want to park my car here.”
”Why?”
”Why do you think?” His smile leaves.
”If I had an idea, I wouldn't ask.” The microwave beeps and I glance over, stomach reminding me drinking red wine when it's empty isn't smart. ”If you could get your T-s.h.i.+rt on and go now, please. I want to eat my dinner.”
I stalk over to the microwave and pull out the carton. Underestimating the heat of the plastic, I drop the container and watch in disappointment as my beef madras decorates the linoleum.
”f.u.c.k.”