Again, this should be fairly short and hopefully it will be a little bit fluffier than my last one, which should have been fluffy but got derailed at the end!
Hope you enjoy and thank you as ever for reading.
Although the heat of the day had subsided, the breeze was balmy and the sky promised at least another hour of daylight. Parking the car on the Esplanade he walked the few hundred yards to his hotel, checked in, dumped his bag, and headed across the road towards the beach. Leaning on the railing he pulled off his shoes and socks then stepped down onto the sand.
As he walked towards the shoreline he realised that the last time he'd felt sand between his toes had been August 1985, on a disastrous family holiday in Cornwall. KGB colonel Oleg Gordievsky had just defected, and he'd been distracted, wondering what intel the Russian might be passing on. His son, already in the throes of the terrible twos, had irritated and frustrated him beyond measure; and Jane, who was already harassed and resentful, had spent the week sniping at him. In a desperate bid to salvage something from the holiday, on the last night he'd organised a babysitter and taken her out to a restaurant they could ill afford. She'd been angry, unable to either appreciate the gesture or realise how necessary it was, and the meal was largely eaten in silence, the only conversation between them the fleeting small talk of strangers. The one saving grace was that she had drunk more wine than usual, and so proved amenable afterwards to his suggestion of a walk along the beach.
Finding a deserted cove beyond the headland he'd stripped and run naked into the surf, and to his surprise she had joined him. The water had been cold, and before long she'd sought refuge on the headland, climbing up onto a plateau of rock and stretching out her long limbs to be warmed by the last rays of the sun. Treading water, he'd watched her, longing to join her, to feel her skin against his, to lose himself in her, but sure that if he made his wishes known he would shatter the fragile détente. Jane, however, knew all too well the effect she was having on him, and after tormenting him for a few more minutes she had dived into the water and with strong, sure strokes made her way back to the shore.
There, for the first and only time in their married life, she had seduced him. Normally a creature of unimaginative habit with a fondness for home comforts beyond her years, she'd dragged him down onto the nest of their clothes and ridden him as if all the hounds of hell were after them. Afterwards, sweaty, dishevelled and crumpled, they'd made their way back towards the cottage, wrapped around each other like teenagers. And then his pager had gone off.
Harry winced at the memory. Forcing his thoughts back to the present, he checked his watch. Nearly 8pm, and somehow he'd forgotten about lunch; no wonder he was hungry. Trudging back up to the Esplanade he brushed the sand off his feet as best he could with his socks, then slid his bare feet into his shoes. Scanning the seafront all he could see was B+Bs, hotels, gaudy amusement arcades and tired shopfronts. Briefly he contemplated finding a restaurant, sitting down to a healthy meal and a bottle of Pinot Noir, then he crossed the street and set off in search of a chippy.
By 9pm he was back in his room, stripped to his trunks and sipping a rather generous nightcap. The room was hot and airless, the open window making little difference to either the temperature or the movement of air within. Placing his tooth glass on the bedside table he picked up his mobile and switched it on. Seven missed calls. He scanned the log of caller IDs. Nothing that couldn't wait. Turning the phone off once more he sat on the bed, propped up against the headboard, but in the silence, with no distractions, his thoughts drifted all too quickly to Ruth Evershed; to the proposal and the subsequent rooftop conversation that had twisted the knife just that little bit deeper. He took a slug of Ardbeg and wondered once more if he'd made the right decision in withdrawing his resignation. Seeing Ruth every day was proving more difficult than he'd imagined, and he knew that he'd been taking it out on her. We move on from this, my eye, he thought. Your fucking male pride's been dented so you're being unprofessional and childish and worse than that you're feeling sorry for yourself. Get a grip, for god's sake. Suddenly overcome with weariness he downed the last of the whisky and inched himself down the bed. The thought of sleeping under the covers was anathema, but as it was the instant his head snuggled onto the pillow he drifted off into a deep and dreamless sleep.