The Two Week Wait by Sarah Rayner Read Free Book Online Page A

opposite pulls on her coat. There’s no time to contemplate.
    ‘Yes.’ Lou goes with her gut. ‘I do.’

6
    Lou is curled up on the sofa under a blanket when her mobile bleeps. A text:
    Sorry. I forgot to tell you that I’ve a leaving drink tonight so I’m going out to Soho with colleagues. Please eat without me. Sx
    Sofia could have told me before, she thinks.
    Lou has been alone all day so was looking forward to some company, and she’s made a special effort with dinner: green curry with wild rice. Getting the ingredients wasn’t easy:
she’s still recuperating from her operation. She’s not supposed to drive or lift anything heavy, and she had to edge her way round the local shops like an old lady, wary she might get
knocked or jolted any moment. Now, without someone to share the experience, it’s hardly worth bothering to cook.
    Damn Sofia! Lou throws her mobile to the far end of the sofa.
    A few seconds later it is still blinking up at her. Perhaps I’m being oversensitive, she tells herself.
    Maybe it’s hormones, and she has had major surgery; that she’s so physically and mentally vulnerable is probably inevitable. Certainly, her tummy is still sore and if she does
anything other than lie around watching telly or reading she gets exhausted. She also appears to cry very readily, neither of which she is used to. Lou usually expels emotions through exercise
– she’ll bash a tennis ball or pound the streets if she’s feeling angry or upset – so being forced to take it easy is doubly hard.
    Sod sitting around waiting, she decides eventually. What I need is a blast of fresh air.
    The flat is only yards from the seafront, but before she’s even reached the bottom of the stairs, she starts to feel the strain of getting there. A few paces later, she is obliged to stop
and rest against the wrought-iron railings of a B. & B., and at the end of her street she has to pause again before crossing the dual carriageway of Marine Parade.
    It’s not fair, she thinks. It’s the weekend – I bet everyone’s having more fun than I am. Then she chides herself for being self-pitying and scans the prom to see who
else is out.
    On the corner, lit by the orange glow of streetlights, is a group of young women in short skirts, high heels and T-shirts replete with fairy wings. In their midst is a white-tulle-clad
bride-to-be. It’s so cold and blustery, they should be freezing, but their whoops and guffaws suggest they are too tipsy to feel chilly. Two sprucely dressed men are waiting at the roadside
with a Jack Russell; the dog is straining at the leash, scenting the salty air of his beach playground. And half sitting on the balustrade opposite, a young man is hunched over and blowing on his
hands to keep warm. He looks up and down the seafront and gets to his feet as he sees someone headed towards him. The two come together, there is a quick glance to ensure no one is watching, a
shuffling of hands and pockets, then they part and go their separate ways. Lou can read the signs; a drug deal.
    She waits until they’ve gone, then cautiously heads down the steps and onto the beach. With a crunch of trainers on stones she makes her way towards the sea, sits on the shingle, as close
to the water as she dares. The waves are up, crashing in giant furls of white spray, rolling back pebbles with a clatter. It’s dark; the lights of the pier barely illuminate the
slate-coloured water, and purple clouds form strange and sinister shapes at the horizon like vast uncharted mountain ranges. The air is damp and soon so is Lou’s hair; she can feel salt on
her fingers, sticky. Even in her parka she is cold, but she doesn’t care.
    How different this feels from the beach of summer days, when the seafront is full to the brim with excitable children and put-upon parents, youths full of derring-do and pink-skinned pensioners;
where the sounds and smells of beatboxes, different languages, barbecues and picnics assault her