Page 4 of The Secret Beach

There was already a skip on the drive, with North Property Management emblazoned on the side. Her brother Graham had dropped it off, and later he was bringing over some of her furniture in one of the company vans. Most of her stuff was in storage. For now, all she needed was a bed, a little table and chairs and an armchair for flumping into at the end of a long day. She was going to camp out here while she did the renovations, safe in the knowledge her mum would give her a bed at their family home, Mariners, if the dust and grime got too much.

She threw open the back door and looked out into the dew-drenched garden. It was even wilder than before, a tangle of green tendrils with little shoots of colour here and there. Beyond the tangle was the glassy sea. She would never tire of the sight of it, all hidden depths and shape-shifting and changing moods, like a film star with a million guises. There wasn’t time to moon over it now. The sea wasn’t going anywhere and there was work to be done.

Two hours later, Nikki lugged a pair of bin bags out to the skip. Even though the house had been emptied there was rubbish to get rid of: grimy net curtains to take down from the windows, bits of old carpet from around the loo, layers of newspaper lining the shelves in the airing cupboard. As she worked her way through the house, she began to understand it: which rooms had the best view and the most light. She began to imagine how she might live in it and where all her possessions would go.

As she hurled the bags over the side of the skip, she noticed a station wagon had pulled up and parked outside the house next door. A big old silver Saab, with the boot open, crammed with stuff. Holidaymakers, probably. They must be staying at least a fortnight, judging by the amount they’d brought with them. The front door was open and she peered inside to see if she could see anyone, but there was no sign of life. Until a brown streak shot out of the house and straight over to the tiny patch of grass in front of her house – theirs was paved with immaculate limestone – where he proceeded to leave a hefty deposit.

‘Oi!’

The dog looked up at her, unashamed. He was long legged, with a handsome head and a rough coat. She had no idea what breed he was, but he was very appealing, and despite his misdemeanour she was taken by him. It wasn’t his fault if his owner wasn’t keeping an eye on him.

She went inside for a plastic bag, scooped up the offending deposit then marched up to the open door.

‘Hello!’ she called, and rapped on the tastefully painted wood. It was dark aubergine. No one in Speedwell had a dark aubergine door. It was rich and dark and glamorous and inviting.

‘Hello!’ a voice from within sang back and the next moment a man appeared.

He was slim, with thick hair swept back from his forehead, and large enquiring eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses. His dark blue shirt was French-tucked into jeans. A drift of the most delicious cologne smelled of warm nights somewhere exotic.

‘A present for you,’ said Nikki, holding out the bag and nodding her head towards the dog, which had slunk back inside sensing something was up and had disappeared.

‘Oh my God,’ he said, and his voice was like melting treacle. ‘I am so sorry. Let me take that.’ He stretched out an arm and took the bag from Nikki without flinching. ‘I can’t apologise enough. People who let their dogs crap on other people’s lawns are the worst.’

‘They certainly are.’

‘What can I do to atone?’

Nikki was disarmed. She wished she hadn’t been quite so abrupt now. She gave a smile and a shrug. ‘Just make sure he doesn’t do it again.’

He looked concerned. ‘I don’t want us to get off on the wrong foot. I was going to ask you in for a drink, since we’re going to be neighbours, but now Gatsby’s kind of ruined the moment.’

‘Neighbours?’

‘Yes. I’m finally making the big scary move down from London.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Adam. Adam Fitzroy.’

‘Oh! I’m sorry. I assumed you were on holiday. Hello.’

She took his hand. It was warm, and his clasp was tight. Not in an aggressive power-play way, but a friendly, welcoming squeeze. Behind him, the guilty party hove back into view and sat by his owner’s feet, the picture of innocence.

‘Gatsby,’ Adam said, ‘you have a lot of work to do to make up to—’

He turned to Nikki with an enquiring smile, and she realised she hadn’t introduced herself.

‘Nikki,’ she said, cursing herself for her gaucheness. ‘Nikki North. I’ve moved in today. I got the keys this morning.’

Gatsby looked up at her with beseeching brown eyes.

‘I find it impossible to be cross with Gatsby,’ said Adam. ‘But I totally understand if you can’t find it in your heart to forgive him.’

Nikki smiled, despite herself. ‘What is he?’ she asked.

‘A wire-haired Viszla. I’m afraid he doesn’t live up to his name, though. He has never so much as raised a paw to make me a cocktail.’

Nikki laughed. ‘You’re a Scott Fitzgerald fan, then?’ She’d read The Great Gatsby only a couple of years ago, when a couple wanted a Gatsby-themed wedding.

He paused for a moment.

‘My wife named him. Ill advisedly – I think Gatsby was a terrible person. But she thought it was glamorous.’

---