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‘Oh.’
‘Here seems much more real.’ He propped himself up on his elbows. ‘Though not this. This is unreal. Maybe I could bring the boat round and moor it out there and we could live here all summer.’
Nikki felt a thrill rush through her. We. She pictured his boat out in the bay, the two of them on deck as the sun set, then snuggled up in a wooden bed in the cabin, falling asleep in each other’s arms.
‘I’m not sure if you’d be allowed to moor out there all summer,’ she said.
‘I was only kidding,’ he said, batting her leg with the back of his hand.
Her heart fell, and she felt embarrassed she’d taken him seriously. What an idiot. And now she didn’t know what to say, so she bundled up her jacket as a pillow and lay down beside him. They stayed silent for a few minutes, basking in the afternoon sun, then she looked over and realised he was fast asleep.
She stared at him, his dirty-blond hair spread out on the rock, his long lashes resting on his cheek, his perfect mouth. It was as if an angel had fallen from the sky and landed next to her. When he woke, they went for another swim, then shared an orange, dividing the segments between them.
Just before sunset they walked up the steps and back into town, sun-kissed and sleepy. The harbour was always magical at night. Moonlight lit up the cobbles and outlined the houses, while a cool breeze fluttered, setting the halyards clanking their plangent, atonal symphony. The water shimmered between the boats, lapping the harbour wall in a soothing rhythm.
‘Thank you for a perfect afternoon,’ he said.
Perfect. Nikki felt her very bones fill with syrupy pleasure.
He nodded his head towards his boat, and lifted up the shopping bag.
‘I can do you a coffee, if you want. With custard creams.’
Nikki hesitated. She really wasn’t sure what was behind his invitation. If he meant more than coffee, or if he was just being polite. She didn’t think she could take the pressure of wondering whether he’d make a move. And if he did, and one thing led to another, she would then have the agony of the whole of Speedwell seeing her coming off his boat tomorrow morning. And then she would spend the next day wondering what it had meant, and if it would go any further, or if he would move on to someone else. She wasn’t certain enough or confident enough to put herself through the torture.
You’re a coward, she told herself. Jess would be up the pontoon before you could say one-night stand. And if it was just a one-night stand, she wouldn’t care. But they were very different.
Besides, she really needed to get to bed because they had a big scheduling meeting at North Property Management first thing tomorrow and she needed her wits about her.
‘I’d better not,’ she said. ‘School day tomorrow.’
He clicked his fingers and pointed at her. ‘You’re right. I’ve got to get up early and get the bus to Tawcombe. Let’s be sensible. Another time.’
Her stomach flipped at the thought of another time. Of not being sensible.
‘Night, then.’
He stepped forward for a hug. His sweatshirt was soft around her. He smelled of salt and the orange they’d eaten. She wanted to turn her face to his and taste that orange on his lips. She wasn’t sure if she could bear another moment of the bliss of being in his arms, so after a few seconds she stepped away, then suddenly felt cold.
‘See you soon,’ he murmured, and turned away.
She watched him head back along the pontoon, swinging the shopping bag. Then he jumped on board his boat and disappeared from view. She felt overwhelmed by the memory of the afternoon, how he had opened up to her, how close they had felt, even though nothing had happened. She wanted to run after him, jump on board the boat and fall into his arms.
But instead she turned away and walked back home to Mariners.
8
Now
Early on Sunday morning, Helen North sat in the quiet of the kitchen. She’d already put the pork in the Aga – it was a six-hour Jamie Oliver recipe, a family favourite – and was about to make a lemon meringue pie. But first she was going to sit down with tea and a croissant and mull over the realisation that had crept up on her over the past few months.
It was time to find someone to share her life.
She sat in her husband’s chair, a comfy, worn old wheelback made of oak, and looked over at the photo of him that stood on the third shelf of the dresser: William outside the Neptune in his big navy jumper with the roll neck, clutching the handle of a pint glass, the harbour wall behind him and the glittering water beyond. She wondered how he would look now. His beard would be all white, probably, because the last time she had seen him there had been glints of silver. He would still be fit, because he never stood still – there would be no unsightly paunch. Perhaps he would wear glasses? He’d still be working, she knew that. Retirement would bore him. Which would drive their son Graham nuts, probably! She smiled at the thought of them squabbling, over what Graham would call interference and William would consider helping. Though maybe she would have been able to persuade him to take a back seat and go and see a bit of the world? They’d rarely had time for holidays, with the family and the business and the lifeboat. William always said who needs a holiday when you live in Speedwell, and Helen had mostly agreed, but sometimes she’d felt a pang of longing for a different sun, a different view, a different language.
And now, at the age of sixty-seven, she had come to the realisation that she was longing for something even more. It had crept up on her gradually, this urge, and it took her a while to identify what it was she craved. It was companionship.
Widowhood had been tough, but it had never been lonely. There had been too many people around for that. People who needed her as much as she needed them, for she was not the only one to lose a husband that day, and her children had lost a father. They had clung together, bewildered and bereft, and moments alone had been rare.
