Read The Beach Hut for Free Online Page B
Authors: Veronica Henry
from the balcony.
She knew no one would ever make her feel the way he had. Ever again. She had tasted it, the gut-wrenching emotion that drives all humans, that sets them apart from animals. The emotion that fuelled his writing. The emotion he had felt with his heroine, Anita Palmer, and that he would never feel again. Which was why he could pick up and put down the likes of her and Barbara, toy with them, use them to his own ends.
She went back into the cool of the hut. Her parents were dozing on the beach, Robert and Elsie were mucking about in the shallows. She picked up her handbag and looked inside.
It was all there, bar the title page she had left on the burner. She drew it out carefully, two hundred and forty-two pages. How much of it would he be able to remember? How long would it take him to write it again? Would he bother?
She hoped he spent nights writhing in agony over what he had lost. She hoped it tortured him. She hoped that he desperately tried to recall the plot, the descriptive passages, the wonderful dialogue that had reduced her to tears, but that it would elude him, taunting him. She hoped that he felt just one fifth, one tenth of the agony she had been feeling.
Maybe that way he would learn his lesson.
At the end of the summer, her mother arranged a party for the beach-hut owners. They had all got to know each other over the holiday. Friendships had been formed, the children made up little gangs, depending on their ages. Everyone who had anything to do with the beach was invited; the couple who ran the post office, Roy and his family.
Her father constructed a big fire, so they could cook sausages and roast marshmallows. Everyone contributed something to eat. The Ship Aground provided kegs of beer for the men, and there was a deathly punch for the rest of the grown-ups, with bits of fruit floating round in it.
Jane drank four glasses. She had got used to drinking wine with Terence, and so had developed a head for drink. The fifth tipped her over the edge, gave her a devil-may-care courage.
As the sun descended towards the sea, a shining gold disc surrounded by pink, she took Roy by the hand and drew him round behind the huts. As darkness descended they stood close to each other.
‘Hold me,’ she instructed and he did, sliding his arms rather awkwardly round her, then pulling her to him. She shut her eyes and put her lips to his. He responded eagerly, pulling her in even tighter.
She felt nothing. He kissed her, and she felt nothing. Terence had only had to look at her and she felt torrential passion well up inside her. Kissing Roy was perfectly pleasant. She didn’t feel disgusted or revolted. But it was nothing special. It didn’t make her want to die for him. It didn’t make her head spin or her legs feel as if they were going to give way underneath. It was like . . . eating an apple. As everyday as that.
She pulled away from him. She couldn’t use him like this. Roy was far too nice to be an experiment. He deserved better. Someone who could feel, for a start.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
‘What is it?’ he asked, concerned.
She shook her head and walked away. The sun had disappeared entirely, and the chill night air clamped itself around her. She could sense him watching her, sense his disappointment, and his bewilderment.
She slipped into the beach hut, scrambled up to the top bunk, and pulled the blankets over her. Sleep had become the only true escape. She shut her eyes and waited for it to wash over her, so she could be free from all the thoughts jumbled up in her head, made even more confused by the punch.
When her parents finally came back in with Robert and Elsie, they found her fast asleep.
The following week, she bought a daily newspaper in the post office and applied for three jobs in London. She received interviews for two of them by return of post. She took the train up to Paddington, and by the end of the day she had been offered a job as personal
She knew no one would ever make her feel the way he had. Ever again. She had tasted it, the gut-wrenching emotion that drives all humans, that sets them apart from animals. The emotion that fuelled his writing. The emotion he had felt with his heroine, Anita Palmer, and that he would never feel again. Which was why he could pick up and put down the likes of her and Barbara, toy with them, use them to his own ends.
She went back into the cool of the hut. Her parents were dozing on the beach, Robert and Elsie were mucking about in the shallows. She picked up her handbag and looked inside.
It was all there, bar the title page she had left on the burner. She drew it out carefully, two hundred and forty-two pages. How much of it would he be able to remember? How long would it take him to write it again? Would he bother?
She hoped he spent nights writhing in agony over what he had lost. She hoped it tortured him. She hoped that he desperately tried to recall the plot, the descriptive passages, the wonderful dialogue that had reduced her to tears, but that it would elude him, taunting him. She hoped that he felt just one fifth, one tenth of the agony she had been feeling.
Maybe that way he would learn his lesson.
At the end of the summer, her mother arranged a party for the beach-hut owners. They had all got to know each other over the holiday. Friendships had been formed, the children made up little gangs, depending on their ages. Everyone who had anything to do with the beach was invited; the couple who ran the post office, Roy and his family.
Her father constructed a big fire, so they could cook sausages and roast marshmallows. Everyone contributed something to eat. The Ship Aground provided kegs of beer for the men, and there was a deathly punch for the rest of the grown-ups, with bits of fruit floating round in it.
Jane drank four glasses. She had got used to drinking wine with Terence, and so had developed a head for drink. The fifth tipped her over the edge, gave her a devil-may-care courage.
As the sun descended towards the sea, a shining gold disc surrounded by pink, she took Roy by the hand and drew him round behind the huts. As darkness descended they stood close to each other.
‘Hold me,’ she instructed and he did, sliding his arms rather awkwardly round her, then pulling her to him. She shut her eyes and put her lips to his. He responded eagerly, pulling her in even tighter.
She felt nothing. He kissed her, and she felt nothing. Terence had only had to look at her and she felt torrential passion well up inside her. Kissing Roy was perfectly pleasant. She didn’t feel disgusted or revolted. But it was nothing special. It didn’t make her want to die for him. It didn’t make her head spin or her legs feel as if they were going to give way underneath. It was like . . . eating an apple. As everyday as that.
She pulled away from him. She couldn’t use him like this. Roy was far too nice to be an experiment. He deserved better. Someone who could feel, for a start.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
‘What is it?’ he asked, concerned.
She shook her head and walked away. The sun had disappeared entirely, and the chill night air clamped itself around her. She could sense him watching her, sense his disappointment, and his bewilderment.
She slipped into the beach hut, scrambled up to the top bunk, and pulled the blankets over her. Sleep had become the only true escape. She shut her eyes and waited for it to wash over her, so she could be free from all the thoughts jumbled up in her head, made even more confused by the punch.
When her parents finally came back in with Robert and Elsie, they found her fast asleep.
The following week, she bought a daily newspaper in the post office and applied for three jobs in London. She received interviews for two of them by return of post. She took the train up to Paddington, and by the end of the day she had been offered a job as personal