She is out early, walking, taking the air, looking for shells, enjoying the sunshine which has been all but absent on the mainland. She had an early night, and her head is amazingly clear. She very deliberately did not go down to the pub last night. She is determined to prove to him that she’s turned over a new leaf. Beatrice cannot recall a time on the island when she has felt so positively perky at this hour.
‘Primrose. Don’t be a beast. Come here. Come to Mummy!’
The dog is savaging the remains of a sea bird.
Technically the animal should be on the lead, but there’s no one around. If anyone challenges her, Beatrice will tell them, I lost my husband recently. Seventeen months ago – does that count as recently? Surely she still has a pass as a grieving widow. Silently rehearsing this imaginary confrontation, she huffs, I am allowed to grieve for as long as I choose!
A sensation washes over her – she is being observed. 343
She wheels around to find … nothing and no one, just a beautiful bay straight out of a holiday brochure.
This is why she can no longer drink – these jolts of paranoia. Well, a glass or two of wine with dinner if out with friends, just to be sociable, but she simply can’t indulge to the degree she used to.
She turns towards the breeze to blow away the bad thoughts and shakes out her hair. It needs a trim.
Her friends supported this off-season getaway; her acupuncturist positively encouraged it. A return to her lovely holiday home on this lovely island is part of her healing process.
Primrose trots back to her, bringing a small piece of driftwood as a gift, and as Beatrice bends to stroke the animal she spots a cowrie shell. A symbol of wealth!
As she crouches to pick it up the feeling washes over her again. She shudders. There’s a wave of dizziness as she stands, as if she is bobbing out to sea.
She looks round again, and this time she spots Kit heading towards her from the far side of the beach.