**Diary Entry – 12th June**
I’ve dreamt of the sea for as long as I can remember.
Every month, Emily set aside a portion of her salary for a holiday. For an entire year, she fantasised about the coast. Once, long ago, her parents had taken her to the seaside when she was just three, but the memories were faint. After that, they sent her to the countryside every summer, to stay with her grandparents. There was no sea—just a shallow river where she could splash about for hours, until her lips turned blue and goosebumps prickled her skin.
In Year Four, her parents packed her off to a summer camp. She hated it—the strict routine, the lack of freedom. They only let them swim once. The countryside had been better. Her parents visited every weekend, bringing sweets and treats. After that dreadful summer, she refused to go back.
In Emily’s memories, childhood meant scorching white sunshine, children squealing in the river, rainbow droplets spraying everywhere. She could still recall the smell of pondweed, the prickly grass drying in the heat, and the warm, powdery dust on the lanes, soft as silk beneath her bare feet.
Sometimes she dreamt she was running down those lanes, her tanned legs sinking ankle-deep into the dust—until she spotted Mum and Dad walking towards her. That was always when she woke, her heart pounding.
When she was in Year Nine, her father died of a heart attack. Mum never recovered. She wilted, silent and grief-stricken, visiting the cemetery often, returning hollow-eyed. Then she fell ill. She shuffled about the house like an old woman, bent and weary, giving up on makeup, on brushing her hair. Emily would come home from school to find her still in bed.
“Mum, have you eaten?” she’d ask, uneasy.
“Not hungry,” Mum would murmur, lips dry and bloodless.
Emily took over—cooking, shopping, washing, cleaning, coaxing Mum to eat just a little. Then Mum stopped getting up altogether—not even for the loo. No amount of begging or tears helped. Their neighbour looked in while Emily was at school. It was she who rang to say Mum had passed.
Emily barely remembered her exams, if she even took them. Mum died just before the end of term, gazing at Dad’s portrait on the wall. The neighbour helped arrange the funeral.
Emily enrolled in university part-time and got a job at the same institute. Round-faced, a little plump, she never thought herself pretty. She tried every fad diet, lasting two days before bingeing. By graduation, she’d accepted she’d never be as slim as the glossy magazine girls—genetics weren’t on her side.
Maybe that was why boys never noticed her, though no one called her fat. “At the seaside,” she told herself, “I’ll live on fruit and finally lose weight.”
But the manager at her first proper job refused her summer leave.
“Be reasonable, Emily,” he said. “You’re single, no kids. Who should I prioritise—you, or, say, Natalie with two little ones?” She had no choice but to take September instead.
Fine. The “velvet season,” they called it. She browsed hotels online, decided to fly—expensive, but quicker. Prayed for good weather. Bought a swimsuit, a new sundress. At the coast, she’d get a wide-brimmed hat, just like in the films. The trip consumed her thoughts. Even her dreams changed—now she ran along the shoreline, not dusty lanes.
One evening, on the bus home, she counted down the weeks. A man sat beside her.
“Excuse me, how long to Babylon?”
She turned. He was handsome, pleasant.
“Not far,” she said. “I’ll tell you when to get off. Visiting someone?”
“A mate. Said he lives near the shopping centre.” His gaze lingered.
“Which street?”
He fished a crumpled note from his pocket. “Greenway, number forty-two.”
“I’m at thirty-eight!” she said, oddly pleased.
“Mind if I walk with you? First time here.”
She nodded, turning back to the window.
“Haven’t seen him since the army. He’s married now, got a kid. Nervous,” he mused.
“If he gave you the address, he’s expecting you.”
“Lost his number. What if he’s away?” He sighed.
They chatted until their stop. Crossing the road, she pointed to her building.
“I’m here. Yours is just past it.”
He hesitated. “Could I have your number? Just in case.”
She recited it. It meant nothing. Mum always said to pick someone like yourself—he was too striking for her. He thanked her and left.
Later, lounging before the telly, her phone buzzed—an unknown number. Half-eight. Then she remembered.
“We met on the bus,” said the smooth voice.
“You got the number, not the phone,” she teased, heart fluttering.
“My mate’s at his holiday home. Too late to go now.” A pause. “Sorry to bother you.”
Her stomach lurched. Was this cheek or flirtation?
“Call a cab. There’s a hotel nearby.”
“Right. Thanks.” He sounded deflated. A rustle.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. Just wanted to say thanks.” The line died.
Guilt gnawed at her. A stranger, alone in town—what if he was skint? She wasn’t responsible. Yet… She redialled.
“Fine. Come over,” she said, giving her flat number.
He arrived in minutes. She’d barely swapped her tatty dressing gown for a decent frock. Over tea, James—his name—shared army stories. She laughed, then confided about losing her parents. He understood—his dad had died too. They turned in after midnight—her in Mum’s old room, him on the sofa.
She lay awake, replaying his intense looks, listening for sounds. None came.
The alarm jolted her. She grabbed a dress instead of her gown—James was here. Washed, dabbed on mascara, boiled the kettle, then woke him. Over breakfast, they left together.
“Where now?” she asked.
“Train station. Off to my mate’s.”
“There’s your bus—quick!”
He dashed off, turning at the door to call, “Cheers!”
She watched the bus vanish. Had she expected more? A dull ache settled—she’d likely never see him again. On her commute, she wallowed in self-pity.
That evening, she half-hoped to spot him outside. No luck. After supper, she dozed off on the sofa he’d used. Dreamt she was by the sea, calling for Mum, voice lost to the waves—
She woke, pulse racing. The room was dark, the telly muted. Unease clung. Thirsty, she checked her hidden savings—gone. All £200 of her holiday fund.
Panic hit. No sea now. She’d scrimped for nothing. Trusted James for nothing. Had he planned this? Why else skip the hotel? She snatched her phone—his number was dead.
She wept all night, cursing herself.
“Stop blubbing,” a colleague said next day. “He could’ve killed you. Be glad it was just cash.”
At the police station, a young officer, Dave, handed her water, sympathetic. “The SIM’s trash. Money’s gone.”
“Noticed his phone was cheap for someone like him,” she sniffed. “A whole year’s savings…”
“Dream on, you fool,” she thought bitterly, heading home. A fleeting shape outside might’ve been James—but the bus sped past.
Days later, Dave visited.
“Caught him?” she asked.
“No. The SIM was bought under a fake name. Only called you.” He sighed. “Be careful.”
“Never trusting strangers again.”
Dave blushed. “You’ll get your sea. And a chap. You’re… nice.”
Not some groomed heartthrob—just ordinary, sturdy. After James, ordinary felt safe. She made tea. As he left, he asked her to the cinema. She said yes.
Three months later, they married. The seaside trip waited—she was pregnant by summer.
They finally went when little Oliver turned two. Sitting on the sand, watching Dave and their boy splash at the water’s edge, Emily smiled.
*If I hadn’t dreamt of the sea, hadn’t saved, hadn’t been robbed—I’d never have met Dave. Now I have Oliver. This is happiness. I always knew it’d come from the sea.*
Sun-warmed, heart full, she closed her eyes.
