let’s not talk about that,’ I said, fanning my hand about. ‘Tell me about you.’
As Julie launched into the details of her problems with sore nipples, I slid my sunglasses back up to hide the fact I wasn’t really listening, my mind drifting off to the plot of my latest novel.
A harsh winter. A lost girl. A savage man. A world away from here.
Oh God, yes please.
‘Selma!’ A voice pierced my thoughts. I looked up, annoyed, as a red-faced woman in a bright pink top wove her way through the tables to get to me, waving her hands erratically, her sullen son following her.
It was Monica from work, the office manager who considered everyone her best friend, spilling the intimate details of her life to anyone who’d listen. Her husband’s breakdown. Her sister-in-law’s affair. The dose of thrush she’d been suffering from the past two years. I did my best to avoid her most days, unable to deal with her perpetually sunny disposition, especially on Monday mornings. But it was hard in such a compact office, just ten of us crammed into the top floor of a small barn conversion as we scribbled out copy for various clients. Thank God I only had to endure it three days a week.
‘Hello, Monica,’ I said with a tight smile.
Her son let out a bored sigh and crossed his arms, staring out to sea. He was ten, just a couple of years older than Becky but the same size, which always came a surprise to anyone who knew Monica, who was a tall, wide-hipped, big-breasted woman. I suppose that was one thing she and I did have in common: our curves – a contrast to the stick-thin women that seemed to grace the town.
‘Oh, hasn’t Becky grown!’ Monica exclaimed, gazing across to Becky on the beach. Her forehead was sunburnt, freckles smattering her tiny nose, her golden hair long and tangled in the sand, ice cream smeared on her face. My heart clenched at the sight of her, my beautiful happy daughter. They tell you about the love you feel for your children and at first, for some, it doesn’t come as quickly in the madness of those early newborn days. But when it does, it has a quality that supersedes all other types of love. Even I, as a writer, find it hard to describe.
I beckoned my daughter over, suddenly desperate to cuddle her. She jumped up, weaving around the tables to get to me. She smashed into my arms, putting her cheek against my neck, and I felt utterly overwhelmed with my love for her.
‘She has grown,’ I replied, leaning down to kiss Becky’s head. ‘Seems to every day.’
‘I wish Nathan would,’ Monica said with a sigh as she looked at her son. ‘Amazing the amount of food he puts away and yet still, look at him!’
‘Shut up, Mum,’ her son hissed under his breath. Monica’s face flickered with hurt and I couldn’t help it, I felt sorry for the poor woman. Monica had told me – and anyone else who’d listen – of the trouble she’d had with Nathan at school, the fights he’d got into, the back-chatting too. Becky had mentioned it occasionally too.
I looked down at my own daughter and stroked her soft hair, thinking how lucky I was to have her. A challenge sometimes, yes, like many children. But she was a good girl really.
‘How are the book sales going?’ Monica asked, face alight with excitement.
‘Fine,’ I replied airily. I took a quick sip of gin, the ice clinking against my teeth. ‘You don’t really get told much about sales.’
‘Not even two years after it’s published?’ Greg suddenly piped up.
I tensed. ‘Nope,’ I replied, taking another urgent sip of gin.
‘So when’s the next one out?’ he asked.
All eyes turned to me and I felt my face flush. I usually loved the attention, but not when it came to talk of sales. ‘Winging its way to my publisher very soon,’ I replied in as cheerful a voice as I could muster.
Mike frowned. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really, darling,’ I said.
‘How exciting!’ Monica exclaimed. ‘Give it time and you’ll be the next Danielle Steel!’
Mike snorted to himself and I shot him a look. ‘One day, maybe,’ I said, forcing a smile. If my husband were more bloody optimistic about my chances anyway, I wanted to add.
‘Mum, come on,’ Nathan moaned impatiently. ‘It’s going to get dark soon.’
We all peered towards the sun, which was now low in the sky and would soon be dipping beneath the horizon.
‘Right, better go,’ Monica said. ‘Nathan’s insisting on an ice cream. See you at work next week!’ She gave a nervous wave then wandered off, stopping again to talk to someone else as her son clenched his fists in frustration.
Becky jumped off my lap and ran to the beach to join her friend again. I took the chance to close my eyes behind my sunglasses, trying to return to that momentary period of peace I’d felt earlier. But then I felt an elbow poke me. I opened my eyes, irritated by the disturbance, and watched as Julie leaned down to get a muslin that had fallen to the ground, her baby squeezed against her blue-veined breasts.
‘Here, let me,’ I said, bending down to grab the cloth for her. As I handed it back I paused, catching sight of a man standing by the chalk stacks. He was tall, over six foot, long-limbed and deeply tanned, blond hair to his shoulders, a golden beard. On his arm was a thick row of tweed bracelets, his blue shorts ripped at the pocket. He was holding a large rucksack with a sewn-in patch showing one unblinking eye.
The man turned, as though sensing me looking at him. He held my gaze and I felt my breath stutter.
Then a scream pierced the air.
Selma
Kent, UK
18 July 1991
Mike stopped talking, Greg and Julie too as another scream rang out. Other people started rising from their tables, shading their eyes to look out to sea.
I followed their gazes to see a woman running to the edge of the water, bright pink top blowing about in the breeze as she flapped her sunburnt arms about.
It was Monica.
‘My son!’ she shouted. ‘He’s drowning. Someone help, I can’t swim!’
I looked in the direction she was pointing to see the top of a small head poking up from the waves, before being submerged again.
‘Jesus, he’s in the sea,’ I said.
Greg jumped up, kicking his shoes off. ‘I’m going in.’
Julie grabbed at his hand. ‘Be careful.’
Greg glanced over towards me then back to his wife. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he
