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His brow tugs together and he responds with a sharp, "No. Wait. Okay."
As the guy turns and walks back to his car, my heart rate picks up. Why the sudden shift in attitude? Shit. Maybe he's a drug dealer. Or he has a body in the car and has a gun—and plans to shoot me before I discover the truth.
Or maybe I watch too much CSI. Whatever. Time to leave.
I attempt to memorise his car registration as I jump back into the driver's seat. Jamming the car into gear, I speed away as fast as my not very fast car will move. Through my rearview mirror, six feet plus of muscled, tattooed, blue-eyed hotness—possibly with a gun—watches me drive away.
* * *
The cottageby the sea never changes, inside or out—or in my mind it doesn't. The whitewashed building belongs to my grandmother and my family owned the place for years. The cottage 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 and things will change once I walk into my happy place.
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. How odd that 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 a spare key under a plant pot doesn'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 and sneaking to the nearby shop to buy ice creams. The house is a few hundred metres from the beach, and the dunes I rolled down until my knickers were full of sand lie between the house and the shore.
Early June and heading into summer holiday season means Broadbeach is quiet, and it appears nobody rented the cold, clean house recently. Still, I’m lucky the place is free, especially as I phoned and asked to stay here at short notice. A week’s solace should help with the break-up from Grant.
Grant who took me for granted. The guy I changed for, morphing into someone I didn't recognise. I arrived home earlier this week and found him with someone else. Such a fucking cliché—Grant knew I was due home, so he either decided to live dangerously or didn't give a shit. He could’ve told me the relationship is over, so that I didn’t walk into my bedroom to see a girl wrapped around my 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 'find me' again time. Then? I face the consequences of losing my boyfriend, home, and probably my source of income.
I head upstairs with my stuffed blue rucksack and dump the bag on the bed. The seashell patterned bedding matches the curtains, and a local painting of the coast hangs on the eggshell blue wall. In a fit of glee, I tip the contents of my rucksack on the bed. Picking up underwear, I drop items around the room, and then scrunch back the sheets. Grant hated my mess, and a little voice in my head whispers: "Fuck you, arsehole."
The view from the window barely changed either. Unspoiled after all these years, the sandy beach stretches to the sea. Closing my eyes, I imagine I can hear the waves. Strangely, the absence of sound is somehow louder than the traffic noise from my house in Bristol. Myex-house.
One disadvantage from being the first guest of the season is there's nothing left behind in the fridge or freezer. I once stayed at the end of the summer and the assortment of items in the cupboards and fridge kept me fed 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.
Huffing at my stupidity, I open the plastic bag I packed my lunch in. Pulling out the banana peel left from my emergency refuelling as I drove down, I discover the bottle of juice leaked all over my cheese sandwiches.
I don't want to drive anywhere again in a hurry, but I can’t avoid a trip to the new out of town supermarket. I’m too tired to face twenty questions from Mrs Hughes in the grocery store or see the weird guy at the newsagents who never speaks, so I guiltily head to the large supermarket on the edge of town. I'll visit and spend my money at local shops tomorrow. But tonight, I need bulk amounts of chocolate, crisps, ice cream, and wine. So the shiny new store is my go-to. Sorry, Mrs Hughes.
