She came to, in chunks of sensory processing: first she heard the rhythmic crash of the waves, then occasional voices passing by the huts, a distant shout. Opening one eye, through the gauzy haze of a tented mosquito net, she saw sunlight slanting through the cracks, striping the room. It was morning, then? She’d actually slept?
She sighed and reached for her phone. 11.09.
Eleven? She felt a wave of relief that she had slept through the night; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so long, or so deeply. It made her feel strangely . . . well.
She stretched, feeling her muscles engage, sliding her legs across the sheet, looking for Rory . . .
She turned her head. The bed was empty.
She looked towards the bathroom: the door was ajar, no sounds coming from within. She pushed herself onto her elbows, leaning back with a general feeling of befuddlement. Sleep was still a shroud upon her and she let her gaze absorb – properly this time – the little red hut, her home for the next week. One of Rory’s shirts was hanging from a hook, his bag zipped up and standing on its end on the floor. A towel dangled over the bathroom door. He would be swimming, she knew.
With a sudden desire to join him, to start her day – her holiday! – by plunging herself into the Pacific, she threw the sheets back and got up, catching sight of her own outline sketchily drawn by sweatmarks through the night. The humidity was oppressive, making the air feel almost solid, and her skin was clammy. She walked naked through to the bathroom, catching sight of herself passing by the mirror. Had she lost weight? She stopped to examine herself more closely. Never as skinny as Holly, she was nonetheless a slim build, albeit soft and unathletic – her hours never left time for the gym, much less the energy. But now the nub of her shoulders looked polished and shiny, the upper curve of her hipbone pressing lightly against the skin as though trying to break through. Her face was definitely thinner, a newly sharp angle of her cheekbone throwing a shadow over the hollow of her cheek. But her eyes were puffy and almost slitted as sleep lay settled upon her still, like a little storm cloud. She sighed at her reflection, as she so often did. Usually she had bags from too little sleep but now it was puffiness from too much. Her face appeared to be a finely tuned instrument that had to be held in balance.
She still had her headache – obviously – but it was a dim, glowing pain this morning, rather than the usual full-wattage glare. The power of sleep, she supposed.
And to eat – that was the next wellness challenge to conquer. When had she last had a decent meal? She tried to think back, but everything felt woolly and indistinct. Too much travel, too many time zones.
She would eat first, then swim. If that didn’t clear her headache, nothing would.
She found an olive bikini in her bag, twisted her dark hair into a rough bun and stepped into a pair of denim cutoffs. She opened the door and blinked. It always took a moment to register that the sight before her was actually real – the charcoal black sand, cerulean sea, green macaws sitting in the palm trees, the sun-bleached striped hammocks slung between slanted trees. If it looked like a stock screensaver image, it was because in fact it was her screensaver image. If she was having a bad shift or a rough day, it always gave her a lift to be reassured that this place was real, to know that she could actually come here and escape. Like now.
She could see a couple of surfers sitting on their boards on the water. They appeared more interested in chatting than catching waves, legs astride as they bobbed on the surface. No sign of Rory though, that she could see. The doors to the other huts were closed and although she was tempted to knock, she didn’t. Everyone needed to recover from the journey.
She stepped onto the sand, feeling it crush between her toes as she began to walk slowly along the beach. The sunlight was dazzling, the sky unremittingly clear, and she kept to the shade, the sand already too hot for bare feet at this time of day. She watched the surfers bob, not a care between them. This wasn’t the main surfing beach; that was a little further down the shore, two bays away. Here, the cove was too small to really travel any distance, but some of the locals liked to come here for an easy ride before or after work and she liked that it was quieter.
Jed’s beach shack was only a couple of hundred metres away and she found him unpacking crates of rum and beer as she walked up. He had his back to her, a triangular sweat patch on the t-shirt between his shoulder blades as he worked, but she knew he’d seen her. The coloured huts were in eyeline from here and she knew he surreptitiously ‘kept an eye’ on them. Always had, always would.
‘Morning, Jed.’ She placed her forearms on the bar. It was just old gangplanks nailed together, but they had long ago been worn marble-smooth by generations of people doing exactly the same.
He turned, his eyes meeting hers with a smile. ‘Morning, T-t. Sleep well?’
T-t. One of her childhood nicknames, rarely used these days. His voice had a skip to it, as though both a joke and a song lay curled within its folds.
‘Like a log,’ she smiled, perching on the bar stool. ‘I didn’t realize how tired I was.’
‘Yes,’ he nodded deeply. ‘The others said you’ve been working hard.’
‘Are they still asleep?’ She twisted on the seat, looking back to the water. The surfers were on their tummies and paddling out to deeper waters now.
‘No. Miles and Zac and Rory have gone on a bike ride. The others are on a walk to the big beach. Little Jimmy was keen to see the surfers doing their thing.’
She turned back again with a pout. ‘They’re all up? Oh, I wish they’d woken me! I’d have liked to have gone with them too.’
He chuckled. ‘Oh, they tried. A few times. You were fast off, they said.’
She sighed. ‘Oh dear. I guess I was pretty tired.’ She closed her eyes, feeling the ocean breeze ruffle the baby hairs that escaped her bun, tickling her neck. It was good to be out of clothes, to feel the wind and the sun on her skin.
‘And hungry now too?’
As if on cue, her tummy grumbled. ‘Funny you should mention that . . .’ She leaned in closer on the counter. ‘What have you got by way of scoff?’
‘Scoff.’ He repeated the word as though trying it out for size, softening her vowels so that the word became different but the same. Scaff. ‘I can do you some Gallo Pinto.’
She smiled gratefully, knowing perfectly well he would. Gallo Pinto – beans and rice, with plantains and egg – was to the Costa Ricans what eggs and bacon were to the English. Jed and his father had been cooking it for her since she was little; it was instant comfort in a bowl. ‘Great,’ she sighed, feeling cared for, her needs already met. She was well rested, she was warm . . . This was going to be a good day. She could feel it.
‘You want some coconut water?’ He held up a coconut questioningly.
‘Oh my God, yes.’
Reaching down to below the counter, he pulled out a machete and with one practised swipe, took off the top. It was still as exciting as when she’d been a kid. He stuck a straw in it and handed it to her, watching as she drank.
‘Oh. My. God,’ she said as she came up for air. ‘That is literally better than saline.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Saline?’
‘What we doctors use for a rapid recovery.’
‘Ah.’ He chuckled as he walked off towards the kitchen area at the far end of the bar and began slicing up some plantains.
‘So, tell me your news,’ she said to his back, finding comfort just in watching his familiar routines. ‘What’s been going on over here?’
There was a short pause as he put a pan on the heat. ‘Well, they gone built the new school at last,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘Finally!’
‘Yeah. Only took eight years in the end.’
Only eight? He wasn’t joking, and she felt a shot of anger. How many children had grown up here without a formal education in the meantime? Her father had given the money in a lump sum years ago, so it wasn’t funding that had been the issue. It wasn’t even that corruption was rife; she just knew that when it came to the Indigenas – the native people – their needs were at the very bottom of a long governmental to-do list.
‘And ol’ Sam finally perished.’
‘Oh no, I’m so sorry. Was it his heart?’ She quickly calculated that he must have been in his late eighties by now. He had been on statins for years. She was the one who had diagnosed his symptoms on her last trip out here, when she was a first-year in med school. The summer before she’d met Alex.
‘Yes. He died happy though, Bertha said.’
Bertha was a kindly, larger-than-life figure in town, who sat on her stool making baskets by day and was the town prostitute by night. She had to be in her mid-sixties. ‘Well, that’s . . . nice to think he . . . had a smile on his face.’
Jed laughed, his muscular arm stirring the rice and beans as the plantains sizzled and softly charred. ‘He had that all right,’ he chuckled.
She watched him move, so loose-limbed and easy in his bones. He looked like there wasn’t a knot of tension in his entire body.
‘And how about you? What’s happening in your life?’ she asked, as he cracked two eggs and spilled them into a clearing in the pan, leaning back as the fat began to spit.
He didn’t look back. ‘I’ve got four little ones now. They’re six, five, two and eight months.’
‘Wow, Jed! I didn’t know! . . . Your wife must be very busy.’ And Tara had thought she was tired!
He gave an easy shrug. ‘They’re good kids.’
‘How could they not be? What’s your wife’s name?’ She had heard he had married several years back but she’d not heard about their growing family. Or perhaps she had just never asked. She had covered her ears and averted her eyes so that she never had to think about or remember Alex Carter, who had made this place his home now too.
‘Sarita.’
‘That’s so pretty. I’d love to meet her while I’m here.’
He glanced back with a smile. ‘You will.’
‘And is your dad around?’
‘No. He’s up at the Lodge.’
The Lodge was the large plantation-style house her father had built high up in the hills, several hours from here – or so she was told. She herself had never visited it; it had been built during her self-imposed exile, but she had seen the plans and photographs, heard it lauded over family dinners . . . The official handing-over ceremony of the park, back to the Costa Rican people, was going to happen on Friday in the nearest town to the Lodge, and a small fiesta had been planned.
‘He’s getting the last bits ready for the launch,’ Jed continued.
‘Ah yes, of course. The launch.’ She rolled her eyes, her fingers tapping lightly against the glass as the spectre of coming face to face with her past ran an icy chill down her spine. ‘How could I have forgotten about that?’ she muttered.
Jed chuckled and shook his head, prodding the eggs with a spatula and watching as they whitened before his eyes. ‘Now that I don’t know.’
The plan was for her and Miles and their group to fly up there on Thursday evening in time for the handover on Friday, and do their duty hobnobbing with the government bigwigs; there would be press and much pressing of the flesh for the Tremain family members. For Miles that was the worst of it, but she had a far more dreadful fate to contemplate – Alex Carter would be on that stage, by her father’s side, and for those few hours there would be no avoiding him. But there was no question of ducking out. This wasn’t just their father’s project, it was his legacy, and for his sake, they had to be there. Besides, she wouldn’t need to speak to Alex. Miles, Holly and (unwittingly) Rory were going to be her defensive wall, she had privately decided, and once the ceremonies were over, their happy group could then spend the rest of the weekend relaxing at the Lodge before they flew home on the Monday. It was far from ideal, but it would be absolutely fine.
She watched as he spooned several large dollops of chilled rice and beans into the pan to warm it through and mix with the egg. He gave the pan a final shake, then slid the contents into a shallow yellow-painted ceramic bowl.
So quick, so good.
He set it down before her and the aroma hit her like a slap. She closed her eyes, feeling her mouth instantly water. ‘Oh my God,’ she moaned. ‘That smells so good. I’m absolutely starving. I’ve not had a proper meal in days.’
‘Why not?’
She shrugged. ‘Work.’
His eyebrows raised to a single point. ‘T-t, if you haven’t got time to eat, then you’re working too hard.’
‘Yeah, probably,’ she said, taking the fork he was holding out for her and beginning to eat. And once she began . . . she felt a sort of desperation wash through her, as though she couldn’t get the food into her body fast enough. She hadn’t realized how much she had neglected herself. It felt so normal back home to – literally – run on empty. No sleep, no food.
He watched in bemused silence as she chased the last grain of rice around the bowl, pushing it onto the fork with her finger, before finally setting down her cutlery and sitting back with a satisfied smile. His gaze went from her face to the licked-clean bowl to her face again. ‘Seriously. Maybe don’t work so hard?’ he repeated, an eyebrow arched.
She laughed and nodded, looking back with affection at that kind face with quietly wise brown eyes and a mouth that knew when to stay shut. It had always been easy talking to Jed. ‘Oh, I’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve missed you, T-t. Why did you stay away so long? Surely they give doctors holidays back in England?’
‘Yeah, they do,’ she sighed, looking away and desperately not wanting to bring up Alex’s name. She had never brought him out here, so unless Miles had blabbed, Jed wouldn’t know about her relationship history with the conservation project’s big boss. What was his title – technical director? Something like that. To bring it all up now, to try to explain how devastating his betrayal had been . . . How could she explain that Alex’s presence here had contaminated this place for her? That her place of childhood refuge had become inextricably linked with the man who had destroyed her life? ‘Time just . . . slips past, I guess, when you’re not looking. I’ve been pretty focused on my career.’
Jed nodded. ‘So, the boyfriend . . .’ He picked up a crate of glasses and one by one, began pulling them out and stacking them on the shelves.
‘Rory.’
‘Yes. Rory.’
His guarded tone reminded her of their run-in last night. ‘He’s a good man,’ she said reassuringly. ‘A doctor too.’
Jed nodded, not making eye contact. ‘You been together long?’
‘About a year?’ She didn’t know why she said it as a question. Jed wouldn’t know how long it had been. She ought to know, she just wasn’t big on marking dates. Her hand went to the gold locket at her neck – his gift to her for their first anniversary together. ‘Just over.’
‘It must be serious, then.’
‘I guess. We’re both . . . settled, very happy together. It works well, us both being doctors. He’s a good man.’
‘Yeah, you said that.’ He winked, teasing her lightly. ‘You thinking marriage? Babies?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Definitely not. My focus is my career for the moment.’
Jed glanced at her, but said nothing. But she knew what lay in that silence; he knew she was thirty years old; he assumed her biological clock was ticking . . .
‘You want a coffee?’
She smiled. She had always loved the way he said it. Kaffee. ‘I’d love one, thank you. You always look after me so well.’
‘Somebody got to look after the doctor doing all the looking after.’
‘Ha!’
She turned in her seat to watch the surfers catching the waves now, their shouts carrying to her ear as they carved over the water’s surface in meandering arcs, like musical notes on a manuscript.
‘Mean rip out there yesterday,’ Jed said warningly.
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s better now but be careful if you’re going in.’
‘Don’t worry, I remember – swim perpendicular to the current. You taught me well.’
He nodded, pleased. ‘We’ll need to keep an eye on little Jimmy, though.’
‘For sure. He’s my godson.’
‘He’s fast. Does he like football?’
‘Do you know a boy who doesn’t?’ she quipped.
They watched as the surfers tipped backwards into the water, their run already over, the waves closing over their heads.
‘How long ago did they all leave?’
‘An hour and a half ago. ’Bout that.’
‘Gosh. An early start, then.’ Jet lag, she supposed. Plus kids. Poor Holly. There was no rest at all, ever, for her. It wasn’t a problem Tara suffered from.
The surfers were walking out of the water now, their boards tucked under their arms, exhilaration infusing their strides. She could see the droplets of water falling off their bodies like crystals, hear the cadence of their laughter over the waves. That was what it was to be happy. To be rooted. To be here.
Pura Vida, the locals called it.
She watched on with emotions she couldn’t quite describe, an ache deep inside her she couldn’t understand. She had a nagging feeling she was doing this Life thing all wrong.
‘You’re awake!’
Holly ran over the sand towards her, already touched by the first kisses of a tan. Her freckles were blooming, her hairline damp. Brightly coloured net shopping bags bulged in her hands. It had clearly been a morning well spent, in every sense.
‘Only just.’ Tara watched her lazily from the old striped hammock, one leg dangling idly over the side. She’d been trying to read a book for the best part of an hour now but she’d yet to turn the page. Lying about made her an easy target for her thoughts, it seemed.
‘Right?’ Holly laughed. ‘We kept going in and checking on you. I actually checked your pulse at one point.’
‘Told you I was tired.’ She nodded towards the shopping. ‘Find any treasures?’
Holly’s smile widened. Twelve hours in and she was already a different animal from the pale, exhausted medic living off sugar in the hospital canteen. ‘Sure did. Got me some—’ She reached into the bag and pulled out a long string and shell necklace; it was all bleached colours and intricate knots, and would jangle when she walked.
‘Nice,’ Tara smiled. She had bought an almost identical one when she was fifteen. It was an intrinsic part of the boho beach look, the Blue Lagoon fantasy everyone ended up chasing out here.
‘Plus, some of these babies,’ Holly said, presenting a pair of faded red leather thong sandals.
‘Love those,’ Tara nodded, knowing she would get blisters from them. ‘Let me guess, did you get a basket?’
‘Not yet, but I’m gonna! How did I not know that I needed baskets? They’ve got so many!’
‘So many baskets,’ Tara concurred. ‘My mother bought one once that was just big enough to carry a single egg.’
‘A single egg?’ Holly’s jaw dropped open.
‘A single egg. It was beautiful, don’t get me wrong. Exquisitely crafted. But a single egg.’
‘Wow.’ Holly said wistfully, lapsing into silence for a moment and musing on the whimsy of a basket woven by hand for such a singular task. She seemed to be tapping into the Tremains’ obscure definitions of luxury – ramshackle huts on a pristine beach, fresh coconut water, single-egg baskets.
‘Did Jimmy like watching the surfers?’ Tara asked, watching as he and Dev, silhouetted, ran straight down to the water’s edge, the hot sand burning their feet.
‘We had to drag him away. Somehow he’s managed to come back with a new Liverpool kit, I mean, how . . .?’ She shook her head wearily.
‘Have you seen the others? What’s their route?’
‘Dunno, they said they were going to go inland.’
‘Oh dear. That means mountains. Did anyone tell Rory that?’
Holly shrugged. ‘They said they’d be back sometime after lunch.’
‘Right.’ Tara felt a twitch of irritation. Okay, so she’d slept late – but did he really have to take himself off for a half day?
‘Don’t look like that!’ Holly warned her, knowing the nuances of her tone only too well. ‘You’re the one who overslept. Anyway, he’s bonding with your brother. You should be pleased.’
Bonding. How she hated that word.
‘Well, we should do something too, make the most of our time while we can,’ Tara said, kicking her leg and beginning to rock. ‘I’m keen to get over to the clinic today and give them the supplies we brought over.’
Holly gave a sigh that suggested she wasn’t quite so keen to return to a medical setting so soon. ‘Sure, whatever you want.’
‘But I can go on my own if you want to hang out here, it’s really no problem.’
‘Listen, you’re the expert on this place; we’ll do whatever you want, but don’t feel you need an itinerary. We’re cool just hanging out here.’ Holly sighed happily, looking out over the water and watching her family frolic in the shallows. ‘Jed’s so amazing. He’s going to teach Jimmy to surf.’
‘I know. He taught me. He’s the best.’ She watched the look of contentment on her best friend’s face. A family beach holiday. Simple pleasures. She felt an unexpected stab of pain again and looked away. ‘And your hut’s okay?’
‘I want to live there forever. What more do we need? Beds, beach. Outdoor shower. And there’s just something so . . . romantic about a mosquito net, isn’t there?’
Tara smiled, hearing her falling for the illusion of the simple life. She had followed the same curve herself over the years. It was easy to fall for the paradise sell, but this stripped-back aesthetic was an illusion. What was charming on day one could be wearying by day thirty. Not to mention the realities of the wet season, when the rain fell like glass spears and the humidity meant nothing – not clothes, hair nor skin – could ever quite dry . . . And the second Holly ran out of anti-mozzie spray, shit would get real, real quick.
For the first time, Tara noticed a large coconut poised among the palm fronds above her head. She tried to remember the statistic for the number of people killed by falling coconuts each year. Was it a hundred and fifty? Something like that.
She sank into her thoughts. One hundred and fifty people killed every year by a falling coconut. It was such a . . . random way to die. Ridiculous, really. Like the two killed per annum by vending machines falling on top of them. Or the two and a half thousand left-handers who died from using right-handed products. The medical world was littered with anecdotes about inane deaths and oversights. They were taught in med school that more than seven hundred patients every year (an average of two per week) were sewn back up after surgery with some part of surgical waste left inside them – a swab, a forceps; one time she’d heard of a pair of pliers. Maybe even that would have been better than a teeny-tiny samurai-sharp scalpel blade. Less lethal.
‘. . . waterfall!’
Tara was torn from her thoughts. ‘Huh?’
‘Jed mentioned a waterfall yesterday. We could go there, after the clinic?’
‘Yes, that sounds fun.’ She swung her leg out of the hammock and struggled up to standing, feeling a sudden urge to move and escape her thoughts. ‘I’ll go and speak to him about it if you want to tell the boys?’
Holly looked surprised. ‘Okay. I hadn’t meant right this second, but sure.’ She got up – her bottom all sandy – and ran down to the water’s edge.
Tara turned towards the bar, towards Jed’s comforting shape in the shadows, when she heard a heavy thud behind her that vibrated through the ground. She turned and looked back. The hammock was now twisted on its strings so that it bellied out upside down, a coconut in the sand beside it. It was the coconut that had been right above her head a moment earlier.
She stared at it in shock. One hundred and fifty people in a global population of seven billion.
Suddenly she wasn’t sure she liked those odds.