The Beach Hut by Veronica Henry Page B

when they were having a day at the seaside in Everdene two years ago. She had ‘done the maths’. If they used it for two weeks of the year, and rented it out for the rest, it would ‘wash its face’. Not least because they wouldn’t have to fork out for a fortnight in Portugal or Antigua or wherever the hot destination of the moment was. The girls far preferred mucking about on the beach and going for fish and chips to shacking up at some chichi hotel. And Sarah hated, hated , flying.
    Ian hadn’t been sure at first. Largely, she suspected, because it hadn’t been his idea, but in the end he hadn’t been able to argue with the figures. And now Sarah was secretly gleeful that it was the only one of their properties which, if it hadn’t gone up in price, was certainly holding it. And they had no trouble renting it out, whereas one of their flats had been empty for nearly four months, which had eaten into their reserve fund.
    Which was why she was heading to Everdene to get ready for the season.
    And Oliver Bishop.
     
    They met at a drinks party. A drinks party at a grand house in Race Course Lane - rather mystifyingly named, because as far as Sarah could see there was no race course, but it was the poshest address locally and Ian had been thrilled to be asked to the Johnsons, who were top dog in the area.
    By ten o’clock, everyone was half cut and was either in the massive conservatory (‘Amdega!’ Ian told her in an awed tone) or the adjoining kitchen (‘Smallbone!’ The same tone), Sarah had gone back into the garden to have a cigarette. A roll-up. It was a habit she had never broken, an art-school affectation that made her something of a social pariah. Anyone else with any common sense had stopped smoking years ago, usually when they got pregnant. But Sarah enjoyed her illicit roll-ups. Only one or two a day, hardly worth bothering to stop. It was her little rebellion. The thing that was hers and no one else’s.
    A figure stepped out of the back door. She hoped it wasn’t Ian coming to tell her off. She wasn’t going to shrink into the shadows. She drew on her roll-up, defiant.
    It wasn’t Ian. It was one of the other guests.
    ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘Another smoker.’ And lit up a Camel with a Zippo.
    He looked about twelve. Tufty, sticky-up hair. Ceaselessly roaming eyes that slid from her eyes to her cleavage to her bottom then back to her mouth without apology. A demonically charming smile. He even smelt dangerous - a musky cologne that made Sarah’s endorphins stand to attention at once. He had trouble written all over him.
    He sucked in the smoke as if it held the elixir of life.
    ‘Goodness,’ she commented. ‘You look as if you needed that.’
    ‘After talking to that lot? Yapping on about where they’re going skiing?’ He threw his eyes up to heaven in a gesture that was slightly camp, but there was no doubting his sexuality. She looked at him with interest. Did he feel the same way she did, bored to death with the conversations? Listening to them compare the merits of the Trois Vallées versus Austria. Debating how they were going to get there - by car or air or snow train. The women spent hours discussing ski boots and salopettes and what colour was in this year. Sarah couldn’t care less, as long as she was warm and dry. She had worn the same outfit four years running, and there was still plenty of wear in it. Nobody had actually said anything but she could tell they all noticed.
    Personally, she wasn’t bothered about going skiing - the girls enjoyed it for about two days and then got exhausted, and she was never going to be a daredevil on the slopes - but Ian had looked utterly panic-stricken when she had suggested giving it a miss this year. Then she’d asked if they could go on their own and he had been irritated by the suggestion. The social life was a big part of the holiday for him. Sarah would have liked to snuggle up in their own chalet, happy to spend the evening in