Zoe Cook - One Day in Cornwall

There was Nina, all long limbs and beautiful long hair, running away from the camera towards the beach, being chased by Kristian. Then Lucy’s childhood dog, Spencer, a big, fat Labrador, lying on the sand looking happy as her brother, Richie, crouched next to him, all of two years old, bucket in hand and a mischievous grin on his face. Photo after photo showed the view of Hideaway from various high points across the Bay. From Tom’s palm-treed terrace, it looked almost Mediterranean, the sea a vivid greeny-blue. The photos from Lucy’s garden, with the rugged cliffs in view, looked more traditionally Cornish. Her favourite photos of Hideaway were those she’d taken from the café. In these you could really see how the bay had earned its name. Once you were in the town you felt totally cut off from anywhere else – as if you were in a secret cove, unreachable from anywhere but the sea. The steep, winding road that linked them to the real world seemed to give up towards the beach, and from there it was just cobbled streets of tiny shops and cafés with stripy awnings. The view from the café always reminded Lucy of something from a Famous Five book: Keeper’s Island sitting in front of them enticingly, but otherwise nothing but water and sand and the two cliffs either side closing them off from everywhere else, hiding them away.

She skipped past photos of Claire, feeling guilty about how long it had been since she’d seen her older sister. She didn’t live all that far away and when Lucy had first moved to London, Claire had tried to hard to help her settle, to be friends. Lucy should have made more of an effort, she knew that, but it felt like it had been too long now, like she’d made an issue out of nothing by her inaction. Claire would be angry with her, anyway, like she always was when Lucy did spend time with her in those first few months in London. Claire was so bloody sensible and collected, and together, and Lucy just wasn’t. The thing was, Lucy knew Claire’s intentions were good and that she cared, but it physically hurt Lucy to be near her. The reason she’d left Cornwall was to escape the memories and seeing Claire brought them all crashing back in. And Claire knew too much. She could always see when Lucy was struggling and could never stop herself from bringing it all up all over again. Sometimes Lucy just wanted to pretend things were fine when they weren’t. She didn’t want to try and work through the fucking pain all the time – she knew it didn’t work anyway. So she quickly shuffled the photos of Claire to the back of the packet of pictures, focusing instead on the hideous shots of her and Nina in some of their first trips into Plymouth, where they’d clearly tried to dress ‘fashionably’ but had fallen seriously bloody short of the mark. Nina was wearing an orange poncho with pom-pom trim and baggy jeans, Lucy didn’t look much better in what looked remarkably like a ski jacket and denim skirt. They looked ridiculous and she laughed to herself at the sight of them.

Then, inevitably, she reached the glossy photo she’d tried to deny she would find.

Scruffy brown hair swept to one side, in surf shorts and a ripped t-shirt, Tom smiling at her, his blue eyes looking as though he was thinking something naughty, Lucy thought. She remembered standing there, on the beach, taking the picture. She’d thrown the rest away, but she could never bring herself to destroy this one, it was too perfect. It had been taken the summer before she’d left Cornwall, just a normal day on the beach, he’d been surfing all morning and she had taken the mick out of him for his scruffy t-shirt. He’d pulled her into him, ‘You love it, Luce, I know you do,’ kissing her neck and hair playfully. ‘I love you ,’ she’d replied, kissing him back, and then she’d asked him to stand for the photo. Wrapped in her duvet, on her sofa in London, she could hear the seagulls circling the beach that day hoping for tourists’ fish and chips. She could feel Tom’s wet, salty skin on her body as he held her waist. She could smell the sun on his hair as she pushed it away from his eyes and kissed him. Lucy put the photo down and tipped her head back to stop the tears. It was a long time ago , she told herself, a different life.

This was why she shouldn’t look at the photos, she remembered, as she put the box down on the floor and used the sleeve of her pyjama top to dab at the tears prickling the corners of her eyes. Why did he have to send her that email? Why did he need to bring it all back up again? She tried to blame the feelings on him reaching out to her about the summer, but of course she knew, really, that she was simply eternally trying to move on from him, from how much she had loved him. She loved him so much it had ruined anyone else for her, because no one was ever going to compare. And he was just a fucking memory, not even a real person in her life any more. He had let her leave; he had been fine with it. He had not spoken to her for five fucking years.

She tried to put him out of her mind and concentrate on her plan of action to make herself a better person. She decided she’d start running again, eat healthily, really focus on her career. She wasn’t going to spend her life in London thinking about summers in Cornwall years ago, and she couldn’t allow herself to think about Tom – it was just the tiredness – and that bloody email, that was all. You can’t be in love with a memory , she told herself.

Even you’re not that bloody stupid .

‘Lucy? Lucy! It’s Sophie.’

Lucy blinked slowly, her head throbbing with pain. She suddenly became acutely aware that she had no idea where she was.

‘Sophie?’ she asked. ‘What are you doing here?’ Her own voice trembled and sounded as if it was coming from someone else. Sophie was her next-door neighbour, a couple of years old than her – a primary school teacher who she sometimes had a cup of tea with when they bumped into each other. She outstretched a shaking hand and felt gravel. She tried to lift her head, but Sophie placed her fingers firmly on her chest and told her to rest. She was lying on the ground, she realised now, and the hard, stony surface beneath her felt suddenly uncomfortable.

‘You just fainted, I think’ Sophie said. ‘It’s okay, you’re okay. Just lie down and get your breath back.’

Lucy opened her eyes again and looked down at her muddy running legs and running shorts. She remembered jogging from her house, to the park, feeling good.

‘I was running,’ she told Sophie.

‘I guessed!’ Sophie smiled at her.

‘I’m okay,’ Lucy protested, trying again to sit up.

‘I’m not sure that you are,’ Sophie said, kindly. ‘Lucy, we need to get you home.’

‘Yeah, I need to go to work – ‘ Lucy started.

‘You’re not going to work, Lucy, I called your sister from your phone and she’s coming to look after you. She told me once when you first moved in that I could call her if you ever needed her. I thought she was just being an over-protective sister, but it turns out you did need her after all!’

Lucy was suddenly, fiercely angry with Sophie for calling Claire. It was a ridiculous over-reaction. She began to argue again that she was fine, pulling her weight up with her arms, as she felt her heart pound and her eyes fill with sparkles, her head becoming heavy.

Lucy woke this time on her own sofa, wrapped in her duvet as she had been the night before. From the kitchen she could hear the sounds of cupboards being opened and closed, someone boiling a kettle, fetching mugs. Claire appeared in the room with two cups of steaming tea and Lucy felt tears running down her cheeks at the sight of her older sister.

‘Hey you! It’s okay,’ Claire said, handing her a warm mug and sitting next to Lucy on the sofa. She smelled of expensive perfume. ‘Before you start panicking, I’ve called work, they’re fine. They know where you are and no one’s cross, okay?’ Claire blew over her tea to cool it. ‘Lucy, I’m worried about you, fainting like that. And you’re so thin. Is this why you’ve been ignoring my calls?’