Mum and Dad are flying kites. Their voices are distorted and delayed by distance and wind, laughing and whooping like children. Still in love, it seems to me. From the shelter of the beach hut, I point the camera at my parents. Zooming in through the viewfinder, I can see Mum’s lips moving but can’t make out the words. Her eyes have been better, she tells me, but she is wearing large dark sunglasses nevertheless.
Yesterday, on the drive down, I cried and sang to the radio and talked to myself. I debated whether or not to tell my parents about the diamond ring that’s a little too tight for my finger, but not so much I can’t force it. At one point my eyes were so blurred with tears I had to pull into a layby before I regained my composure.
Alex was going to propose to me.
And what would I have said when he did? I would have wanted to say no, of that much I’m certain. But whether or not I could have . . . the answer is less clear. Whatever answer I might have given to Alex, it was never going to end well. But it’s over now, and there’s nothing to be gained from dwelling on the mights and the maybes.
But Mum isn’t the only one with tell-tale eyes, and last night she asked if I was okay. Was something wrong? I told Mum I was nervous, that I was sad about Alex. All of which is true. Mum asked, caution in her voice, if I would like to see Dr Samuels before driving back to London. Depression is a big enough word that it didn’t need saying out loud. I don’t know if it applies to me or not, but I don’t feel as happy as I should this close to my big adventure. I told Mum no, but promised I would call them if I changed my mind. Dr Samuels is a family friend, they reminded me, and will talk to me on the phone if the need arises. I drew a small fingertip X across my heart.
We sat around the kitchen table, cooking, eating drinking, talking. I found myself laughing at Dad’s jokes as the night wore on, and Mum has recovered her competitive streak at Scrabble, which I’m taking as a positive sign all round. Dad tried again to give me money; but he understood when I refused. They’re disappointed not to have seen Henry again – particularly as he was recently promoted from friend to boyfriend and travelling companion – but I lied and told them he had a work emergency. A white lie, really, and I don’t feel at all bad about it. Besides, he is working, covering my shifts for me at the Duck. This whole thing has knocked the wind out of me for sure – kicked and stamped it out of me – but it must be pretty shitty for him, too. We haven’t talked much, haven’t broached the big Undiscussed. And whatever happens next, I love him for being quietly by my side. Holding me, putting plates of food in front of me and clearing them, eaten or otherwise, away. No daddying, no neediness, no inquisition. But after two days, even that became claustrophobic. Henry gave me the keys to his car, helped me load my boxes and kissed me goodbye. A sad goodbye, like something had ended.
From across the beach Mum shouts my name, beckoning me to join them on the sand.
I pull the bank statement from my back pocket. The mundane alongside the heartbreaking: Pret, the Underground, the deli and the florist. He spent forty-five pounds in a wine shop, about enough for a bottle of champagne; and over three thousand pounds in a Hatton Garden jeweller’s. The champagne I drank alone in the bath before cutting my hair with a pair of blunt scissors. Alex’s furtive attitude in the days leading up to his death, the intimate way he made love that morning, breakfast in bed (intended), a bunch of roses (scattered), a ring beneath the floorboards (hidden). In the last email he wrote to his mother, Alex told her he’d been a ‘pillock’, but that he would make it up to me at Christmas. And now I know how.
I wore the ring in bed last night, but it’s the last time I’ll place it on my finger. The thing that never happened is over now. Not everyone can have the neat happy ending that the storybooks promise us. The duckling that becomes a swan, the prince that gets the girl. I must have read a thousand stories this summer, but in the end, I never found one that worked; one I could believe in. Maybe the new Zoe will find it when she returns from a faraway land.
I point the camera at my parents and fire off shots until I reach the end of the roll. The camera is too heavy, in all respects. I remove the roll of film and slip it into my pocket. The beach hut is full of junk: snorkels, body boards, a windbreak and a picnic blanket. Beach toys and games, bats, balls, quoits. I wrap the Leica inside two plastic bags, twist and knot them closed and stuff it into the bottom of an old backpack. Maybe one day, it will be discovered by my children.