– Love, can you take your towel off the lounger if you’re heading off? You can’t just reserve spots from the morning round here.
A woman in a flowery kaftan blocked Natalie’s path to the beach exit. “People come and there’s nowhere to sit, but your flip-flops have been lying there for three hours.”
Natalie silently pulled the faded cloth from under the mattress and rolled it into a tight bundle. Fine sand trickled through her fingers, leaving grey dusty streaks on her skin. The promenade of a small seaside town, squeezed between cliffs and water, buzzed with midday chaos.
The loudspeaker on the lifeguard tower crackled, advertising an evening boat trip, and a queue had formed at the drinking fountain—screaming kids and exhausted mums.
Natalie walked back to the guesthouse along a narrow tarmac path, past endless stalls selling inflatable rings and seashells. Her phone buzzed in her shorts pocket—the landlady, Mrs. Patricia, reminding her to pick up the clean bedding from the laundry.
This holiday, bought with savings from eighteen months of overtime, was supposed to be a time of peace. So far it had only brought hassle and the exhaustion of being around strangers.
She’d bought a seaside break, and instead she’d met an old shame.
At the gate of the guesthouse, under a sprawling old oak, stood a man in light linen trousers and a loose shirt. He was smoking, flicking ash into the hydrangea bushes, and watching the passers-by. Grey at the temples, deep lines on his forehead, but that sharp jawline, the way he held his chin, the habit of twisting a silver ring—
Natalie recognised him immediately. Eighteen years ago, this man had left a note on the back of an electricity bill on the kitchen counter and disappeared from town two days before their wedding.
In the small room on the first floor that Natalie had rented for two weeks, it smelled of dried herbs and cheap plastic furniture. An old fan on the low bedside table hummed, stirring hot air around the room. Her things were neatly placed: a folded sundress over the chair back, a row of creams on the mirror, an open crime novel on the bed. That predictability of daily life always gave her a sense of control over the existence she’d had to piece back together, like a broken soup tureen.
In the evening, when the heat gave way to a cool sea breeze, there was a quiet knock at the wooden door of the shared veranda. Natalie, pouring water into a glass, froze. She set her hand down on the table.
“Natalie, it’s me, open up,” came the familiar baritone from outside, a little hoarser and lower now. “I asked the landlady which room you were in. Brought her a little gift, and she told me.”
She walked over and slid the flimsy bolt. James stood on the doorstep, holding a wicker basket full of ripe strawberries and a bottle of wine. The neighbour from the next room, a young bleached blonde, was coming out to smoke on the shared terrace and slowed down, eyeing the visitor.
“Well, hello,” James stepped inside, put the basket on the edge of the table, and sat down on a plastic chair. “So many years. You haven’t changed much, just your look’s become stern—hard to get close.”
“Why are you here?” She stepped back to the window, pressing her back against the sill. Her gaze swept over his face, noting small signs of age: a slight fullness in his shoulders, a receding hairline, bags under his eyes.
“We need to talk, Nat. So much time has passed. We were stupid, proud,” he leaned forward, hands on his knees. “I’ve remembered all these years. I looked for you, honestly. But mutual friends said you’d moved to Scotland, and here you are holidaying on the south coast. I’m staying at the spa resort three buildings down—spotted you by chance on the beach, in the crowd.”
“Looked for me?” She gave a dry smile, her face calm. “For eighteen years, James? In the neighbouring county? Or a three-hour bus ride away?”
“I had problems back then, you see?” He sighed, spreading his hands. “My business was just starting—debts, dealings with serious people. They had me cornered, Nat. Wanted to take the company, threatened me. How could I drag you into that? I left to protect you from the fallout. I was young, stupid, thought it was for the best. I wanted to save you from that nightmare.”
Through the open window came the loud wail of a child—someone had fallen off a scooter on the playground. On the ground floor kitchen, pots clattered, a knife thudded against a chopping board—the landlady was making dinner. The ordinary bustling life of the holiday house flowed on, turning the man’s words into empty noise.
Morning sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, painting long yellow stripes on the linoleum. Natalie sat in the shared kitchen, waiting for the enamel kettle to boil. Two elderly women from Manchester, her floor neighbours, were whispering at the sink, washing a plastic container.
“Hey, Nat, your gentleman caller was asking Patricia yesterday—how long are you here for, and are you alone,” the younger one, with bright pedicure, turned to her. “Serious man, you can tell. His car’s at the gate—expensive, black. Ever so polite, brought Patricia a box of chocolates. Don’t you let that one slip, love. Men like that don’t fall into your lap at our age.”
“Don’t fall into your lap,” Natalie repeated quietly, watching the water boil.
James caught her near the pier around midday, when a light drizzle started, instantly driving people under shelters and into cafés. He appeared beside her, holding a big black umbrella over her, and took her elbow. He smelled of tobacco and cologne.
“Let’s go for dinner somewhere proper tonight, Nat? There’s a great restaurant five kilometres away, right on the cliff. We’ll sit, remember the old days. I’m free now—split with my wife three years ago, no kids. I’ve got it all: a firm in London, a country house, a big flat. But there’s no soul in any of it. I miss you—that honesty we had.”
Natalie stopped, freeing her arm. She turned to face him. She looked into his eyes, trying to find even a shadow of the nineteen-year-old boy she’d once loved, for whom she’d been ready to drop out of uni and move away. But in front of her stood a stranger—an overconfident forty-year-old man trying to buy her favour with dinner in a restaurant.
“I’ve got other plans for tonight, James.”
“Oh come on, what plans could you have in this backwater?” He grimaced, waving a hand at the grey low-rise blocks of the town. “How much did you pay for this package? A pittance. I could give you more in one day—just move over to my spa resort, they’ve got a free suite. This isn’t your level, squeezing into a B&B, clattering pans in a shared kitchen. You could live like a queen with me. Why are you quiet? Isn’t there anything left of the old us?”
A local fishmonger walked past them, carrying a heavy cool bag. She shot Natalie a quick glance, full of casual curiosity: look at her, turning her nose up at such a catch.
From the road came a sharp screech of brakes—a bus driver nearly hit a dog. For a second there was silence, broken only by raindrops drumming on the stretched umbrella fabric.
“You know, James,” Natalie took a step back, out into the light rain. “My mum spent two months in hospital after you ran off. With her blood pressure. And my wedding dress hung in the wardrobe for three years—I couldn’t even bring myself to throw it away, just looking at it made me sick. I thought something terrible had happened to you, I searched through mutual friends. And you were ‘saving’ me. From debts. In quiet little Bath, where everyone knew your name.”
“Oh, why drag up the past?” James looked away, twisting the ring on his finger. “Who didn’t do stupid things at nineteen? I was in a mess, I was spinning plates, trying to survive. But now I can fix everything. Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you—understand? Want to go into town tomorrow, to a jeweller’s?”
By evening the rain had intensified into a storm with thunder. Water lashed against the guesthouse windows, flooding the narrow courtyard and turning the clay paths into streams of mud. The other guests stayed in their rooms—sounds of televisions and dominoes drifted from the windows.
Natalie sat on the bed, legs tucked under her. Inside, she felt calm, as if an old wound had finally healed. There was no anger, no urge to vent her grievances, no old pain that had stopped her from starting new relationships. Only a slight bewilderment at how badly this man had missed his moment with his promises of a beautiful life.
Close to ten in the evening, her phone rang again. An unknown number showed on the screen, but Natalie knew who it was.
“Think it over properly, Nat,” James said loudly, shouting over the rain noise. “I’ll be here till the end of the week. Room 302, main building. Come over, we’ll sit without all this road grime. Stop playing hard to get—we’re close people. So many years wasted on stupid mistakes, why waste more time on grudges?”
“Goodnight, James,” she said in a level voice and pressed the red button to end the call.
She stood up, walked to the window, and pulled the curtains tightly shut, cutting the room off from the raging storm outside. Life had long since taken a different path, and on that new path, there was simply no room for James.
By Friday the weather had turned again. The sky cleared to blue, the sun beat down from early morning, making the tarmac give off a heavy smell. The promenade filled once more with people in bright shorts and carrying inflatable mattresses.
James didn’t show up at the guesthouse gate again. Patricia mentioned casually in the morning that she’d seen the black car heading towards the motorway—looks like the guest checked out early.
“So your businessman’s gone, Natalie,” the landlady shook out a doormat on the washing line. “And you were a fool, love, forgive an old woman. Such a handsome man, with money. You could be living in London now, not stuck in your office for peanuts. What were you missing? So he ran off when he was young, scared of responsibility. Now he wanted to make up for it.”
Natalie didn’t answer, just smiled. She grabbed her towel, a bag with a book, and headed towards the sea, keeping to the shady side of the street.
In the evening, as the sun began to set over the horizon, painting the water pink, she sat at the far end of the pier, away from the noisy cafés and children’s play areas. It smelled of salt water, iodine, and seaweed washed up after the storm. Natalie took a fig she’d bought at the market from her bag, carefully broke the fruit in half.
Below, at the water’s edge, an elderly man in a faded sunhat patiently baited a hook while his grandson, about seven, watched the float. Ordinary, simple life went on.
Natalie took a sip of lukewarm mineral water and looked at the dying sunset. She still had a whole week of holiday left.
