The Holiday

I’d imagined the sea air would heal everything. A few days alone by the coast, I told myself, would clear my mind and leave me calm — perhaps even glowing.

Instead, I arrived at a “boutique guesthouse” that smelled of air freshener and regret, and was shown to a room described online as sea-view adjacent — meaning that if I stood on the bed and leaned left, I could glimpse about an inch of water between two wheelie bins.

Down on the beach, bronzed families were already out — squealing, slathered in sun cream, confident in their purpose. I spread my towel beside them, and the wind immediately whipped it into the next postcode. I realised, not for the first time, that even on holiday I was the only person treating relaxation like an exam I was destined to fail.

This was my first holiday alone in years. People had always assumed I was confident, loud, a proper “go-getter,” but none of that was true. I’d merely pretended that Neil leaving me for a much younger woman hadn’t affected me at all. It was like being force-fed medicine down my wrinkled throat when friends insisted that the new Mrs Roberts wasn’t especially pretty and, even better, was thought to be “weird.”

It never occurred to me to wonder whether those supposed faults — the very traits that seemed like nectar to Neil — somehow mirrored my own; the strange quirks that had once made him say he loved me.

I sat stiffly on my new beach towel, sucked in my stomach, and rubbed sun lotion over myself. Sitting there, glistening, I fancied I resembled a rather dignified sea lion — until I discovered that even the slightest movement produced an unpleasant squelch.

“Damn,” I muttered. “If I try to reach into my bag for the novel I’ve been dying to read, I’ll leave oily fingerprints everywhere.”

Feeling defeated, I decided to blend in with the rest of the beach crowd. I surveyed the scene and noticed that, unlike me, most people had wisely chosen spots far from the gang of shrieking children. Turning my head from side to side in an attempt to block out the blur of small, noisy bodies, I focused on the calm adults beyond them.

“Ah,” I told myself. “Lie down. Look relaxed. Pretend you’re enjoying yourself.”

I eased myself onto the towel, using my elbows to control the descent and hoping to appear graceful. Just as my back touched the fabric, the sunlight vanished — and so did the rest of the beach — as a giant beach ball, coated with gritty, damp sand, smacked me full in the face.

My hands shot up instinctively to fend off the ball. I gasped for sea air — and inhaled a rush of grit that landed on my tongue, coating my freshly whitened teeth. As I turned my head, the ball clung absurdly to my oiled face before a breeze scattered the sand like confetti. Grains lodged in my eyes, blinding me; the rest clung to my sun-creamed cheeks in a prickly crust. My neck — which I had once foolishly boasted showed almost no wrinkles despite my age — was now entirely obscured by a fine layer of beige grit, outlining every line and flaw, courtesy of the beach ball.

I sensed someone approaching and painfully parted my sandy eyes into a narrow slit. A very young boy rushed over to reclaim his beach ball, clutching it possessively. Through the thin gap in my stinging eyelids, I caught his expression — the kind that suggested my mere existence had ruined his entire game. I sat in mortified silence, my face and upper body plastered with gritty sand, eyes squeezed shut. My expensive swimsuit, worn for less than an hour, was already stiff with a generous coating of beach.

Why was I embarrassed? Because I was alone, perhaps — and my face was a mosaic of damp sand and disbelief.

I fumbled for a tissue, but it had long since disintegrated into a papier-mâché relic at the bottom of my bag. I tried brushing the sand away with my hands, only to spread it into a kind of beige paste. When I finally dared to open my eyes, I caught a woman nearby watching me with the polite fascination usually reserved for exotic birds or minor car accidents. I gave her a tight smile, as if to say, Yes, I do this all the time — it’s an advanced exfoliation technique. She turned away at once; it clearly never occurred to her to offer help.

Attempting to hide behind my sunglasses, I realised they’d turned opaque with grit and were sliding down my nose. I put them back on anyway; somehow, anonymity felt safer than exposure. I blinked through the smeared lenses, half-blind yet determined to look serenely at one with the elements. I probably resembled the Invisible Man — bandaged, bespectacled, and bewildered — or perhaps a pensioner waiting to be rescued.

Somewhere behind me, someone tried to stifle a snorting laugh — and yes, I knew it was because of me. Hauling myself upright from my resting hips and tummy, striving to look tall and commanding, I turned to deliver a glare that would shame them for life — except, of course, I couldn’t see a thing.

Footsteps crunched closer. For a moment, I assumed it was one of the boy’s parents, but no — an older man sank to his knees beside me.

“My God — it’s in your teeth too,” he said.

Through my sand-encrusted lashes, I felt tears cutting tiny rivers down my over-exfoliated face. I’d been on the beach barely ten minutes and already my brand-new swimsuit looked like a family heirloom, my sunglasses were glued with sticky sand, my eyes refused to focus, and my face was stinging. And now — as if things couldn’t get worse — the only man on the beach I didn’t want to notice me was laughing.

“Can I try to clean your face? I’ve got wet wipes,” he said. “Ah, good — your eyes are streaming. That’ll help rinse them out.”

Thank God the fool hadn’t realised I was crying my eyes out.

“Oi, you — yes, you!” he shouted to God knows who. “Do you see what you’ve done to this lady?”

“Is she okay?” called a woman’s voice.

Did I look okay? What a spectacularly stupid question.

“I’m fine, fine,” I said in my best British accent. Didn’t everyone know that, as an Englishwoman, even if my leg were hanging off, I’d still say, I’m fine, truly fine, even while the world collapsed around me?

“I just need to get home and have a good shower to wash off the beach,” I added.

“Okay — where’s home?” he asked softly.

“A short distance, nothing to worry about,” I said, trying to stand and move away from the beach, the man, the boy, and the beach ball.

“Where exactly?” he asked again, more gently this time.

“The Anchorage.”

“Oh, that’s not far. Great — I’ll help you.”

Behind my squinting eyes, I tried — I really did — to explain that I didn’t need help. After all, I was a woman who’d been dumped; I could handle anything.

“Don’t be daft,” he said. “You can’t even open your eyes. You’re covered in sand, and frankly, it’s everywhere — up your nose, in your teeth. Not a pretty sight.”

“Thanks.”

He laughed, and somehow I laughed too.

“My pharmacy’s on the same road as The Anchorage — we’ll pop in and sort you out. And no, you are not fine. We’re going to get you sorted,” he said, still chuckling.

I joined in the laughter. Why on earth did I keep insisting I was fine when, without this man’s help, I probably wouldn’t have found my way home?

As he guided me into the pharmacy, he called out to the woman behind the counter:

“Hi, Joyce — we’ve got a patient! Victim of a large, colourful beach ball!”

Joyce hurried out from behind the counter. “Gosh, what a mess. Must’ve been a big beach ball. Are you hurt at all?”

“Oh, don’t ask her that,” he said, grinning. “She can only say, ‘I’m fine, I’m fine, honestly!’”

Between giggles I managed, “Okay, I’m not fine. I’m almost blind with sand, my face hurts like hell, and frankly, I feel ridiculous.”

“Joyce, let’s start with eye drops — I’ll get her a chair,” said Mark.

Joyce returned with a gentle smile. “What’s your name, love?”

“Charlene.”

“Weren’t you lucky that Mark found you!”

Mark reappeared, carrying a bottle of baby oil and a large roll of cotton wool.

“Thank you, Mark — really. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

“Mark’s a good man,” Joyce said. “Best boss I’ve ever had.”

“Oh, you’re the pharmacist, Mark? Then I was very lucky you chose that patch of beach.”

“It’s his day off,” Joyce said. “He always pops down to the beach on a sunny day. Oooh, let me clean those sunglasses for you. There — can you see better now?”

I nodded and smiled.

“That’s better, love — you’re smiling. Are you here for long?”

“No, just a couple of days. I live in London, but I thought a few days out of the city would do me good — clearly, I was wrong!” I began laughing. “What a ridiculous day at the beach.”

The three of us sat together in the pharmacy, laughing and chatting, and for the first time since getting off the train yesterday evening, I felt relaxed. I no longer felt like an alien in a world that had punished me; I felt, at last, human again.

“Mark, have you had lunch yet?” Joyce asked.

He shook his head.

“Then take Charlene next door for lunch and a coffee. You both look like you need it. Charlene?”

“Yes — and it’s my treat,” I said quickly. “You’ve both saved my life today. Joyce, can I bring you something back?”

The café was bright and noisy, filled with chatter and the clinking of cups. Mark ordered for us before I could protest — a sandwich I didn’t really want and a coffee I hadn’t realised I needed. He was still laughing, replaying the beach-ball incident in absurd detail, and I found myself smiling more than I’d intended.

“So, do you know Brighton well?” he asked, wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth.

“No,” I said. “First time. I chose it from a list of train destinations that didn’t sound too depressing.”

“Excellent criteria,” he said. “I live here — born and bred. I can give you the full guided tour: seafront, pier, the shops that all sell the same hat, and the pigeons that own the place. You’ll love it.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’m the sightseeing type,” I said quickly. “I came for peace and quiet.”

“Quiet?” he grinned. “Then we’d better steer clear of the pier — it’s like a fairground on caffeine.”

I chuckled again. He was impossible not to like, though part of me stayed cautious, that old voice whispering, Don’t get too comfortable.

“Do you always go away on your own?” he asked.

I studied his face, trying to read the question. Was it friendly curiosity, or code for Do you have someone waiting at home?

“Oh, you know — as the mood takes me,” I lied.

He leaned forward and touched my sand-roughened hand. “It was just a question. I’m not trying to get you into bed,” he said — and roared with laughter. I couldn’t help it; I joined in too.

“That’s better, Charlene. You’ve had a dreadful day on your holiday, and I’m just trying to see if a Brighton local can make it up to you.”

I wiped my eyes, which were streaming with laughter. “Look, Mark, I hope I wasn’t rude to you after all your help. The truth is, I felt awkward when you offered to show me around.”

He waited, smiling, clearly unwilling to fill the silence for me.

“I was married for so many years I’ve lost count,” I said at last. “He left me for a much younger woman — seemed desperate to marry his child bride, so I didn’t argue. I just signed the papers and got on with it.”

I hesitated, wondering whether to stop, but he nodded for me to continue. By the time I finished, my coffee was stone cold.

“Ugh — cold,” I muttered.

Mark raised his hand immediately. “Mary! Two more coffees, please.”

“Your turn,” I said, smiling.

He waited until the coffees arrived, thanked Mary, and settled back in his seat.

“It’s not quite as dramatic,” he said, “but I’m a widower. My wife — also a pharmacist — met me at university. We built the shop together, saved, worked hard… then she got cancer. Joyce came in to help, and after she died, I just kept going.”

He paused and stirred his coffee. “You probably noticed Joyce was the one who suggested we come here. She worries I’m lonely. But I tell her I’m fine.” He grinned. “I’m no spring chicken. I don’t need another wife — but I do like women as friends. I asked to show you around for two reasons: first, because you don’t know Brighton and I do; and second, because you seem like a nice woman who doesn’t expect to move in and run the pharmacy after a twenty-minute walk.”

I burst out laughing, shaking my head.

Brighton turned out to be every bit as charming as Mark promised. He was full of local lore, and when I showed the faintest interest in its history, he launched into a personal tour. I doubt I could have found a better guide. He was witty, engaging, and knew every hidden alley and bit of gossip worth hearing. By the end of the afternoon, my cheeks ached from smiling.

When we reached The Anchorage and he prepared to say goodbye, I summoned what little bravery I had left.

“Are you free this evening?” I asked. “I’d like to take you for a proper thank-you dinner.”

For someone who had arrived in Brighton the loneliest woman in the world, I had somehow managed to find friends. The evening meal was warm and easy, full of laughter that felt completely unforced.

The next day, Joyce insisted on driving me to the station.

“Come back soon, Charlene,” she said. “I think Mark’s rather taken with his new companion.”

I laughed out loud — the kind of laugh that leaves you lighter. As the train pulled into Victoria, I noticed I was still smiling. Perhaps going on holiday alone wasn’t such a disaster after all. I really must find that boy with the beach ball and buy him the biggest, coldest ice cream.