A lazy sun rose over the beach, bathing the expanse of deserted sand and deceptively cool water with a lingering red glow, like flames from the sky that licked the ground, scorching it and leaving their mark. Even though the sun had come up, there was a crisp chill in the air that was at odds with the apparent warmth of the surroundings; it was unseasonably cold for mid September in a supposedly hot climate. CNN blamed global warming and greenhouse gases, the woman next door blamed the unsafe disposal of fridges and aerosols fifteen years earlier but the woman who stepped from her small condo on the beach and shivered at the unexpected coldness suspected it was more to do with fate than anything else. She had moved here partly because it was hot, partly because it was glamorous and partly because she had been offered a job that was hard to turn down at Los Angeles Central Hospital. The job had appeared too good to be true when it was presented and six months into her contract, she had to admit that it was. Really it was nothing more than long hours for less pay than she received in England and little respect from her colleagues, unimpressed by some 'foreign bitch' being promoted above natives who had worked at the hospital since they graduated. The general feeling was that she should have stayed in England rather than coming to America and taking the jobs that they felt should rightfully be theirs. The supposed glamour of Los Angeles she had quickly discovered to be a myth; while Beverley Hills and Hollywood were undoubtedly glamorous, they bore little resemblance to the unpleasant area of downtown LA that housed the hospital and her small home that seemed a massive step down from the veritable mansion that she had shared with her husband in England. While she had visited the bright lights of Hollywood on the occasional day trip, in general, glamour was in even shorter supply here than it had been in Holby. Now it seemed that even the weather had been a lie – in the past six months she had experienced only unseasonable wintriness and uncomfortable heat, none of the balmy comfortable warmth that she had been promised. Even though she was no stranger to disillusionment, the disappointment she felt had been crushing and even more so, she felt regret. She had sacrificed a lot to come out here; a job that she enjoyed in a hospital that had been her first and last great love, a man who cared for her and loved her every little foible and a house which had an excess of everything she had ever dreamt of. In the three months before she had left she had been as close as she had ever come to being truly happy and foolishly, she believed that by taking her 'dream job' in America, things could only be improved. Now she realised that she had been completely wrong – she had tried to improve on near perfection and had ended up almost as unhappy as she had been in her marriage. Loneliness, dissatisfaction and disenchantment; she had it all in spades, just has she had for the fifteen years that she had spent beside a man who had turned out to be the most corrupt man ever employed by the Department of Health.
Jogging briskly down the rickety wooden stairs she stepped onto the sand, immediately feeling the grains push into her feet, driving her toes apart and chafing the soft skin of her heel as she groped around in the small silk sports rucksack slung over her shoulders and extracted a pair of trainers that matched the exact blue of the rucksack and coordinated perfectly with the navy velour tracksuit that she wore. Finally she produced a pair of wrap around sunglasses with metallic blue frames, slid them onto her narrow face and started to run along the beach, just as she did every morning. Back in Holby she had loathed all exercise that involved clothes and doing more than simply lying on your back and moaning in the right places but since coming to America and living in a society even more obsessed with appearance than the plastic surgery patients of the Hadlington she had started to enjoy exercise. There was something strangely liberating about propelling yourself along a vast expanse of sand while everyone else slept soundly in their beds; about feeling the wind rush through your hair and remembering for the first time in years what if felt like to be truly alive. At first she hadn't been able to run a great distance – although she was slim and toned this was achieved through the strategic neglect of food and the use of toning tables rather than exercise – but over the past six months she had built it up, getting up earlier and running further until now she found herself running for three miles both morning and evening leaving her exhilarated and exhausted respectively. Now, the hour and a half she spent running had gone from being a necessary evil to stop all the perfect blonde clones looking down on her with disgust to her favourite part of the day. Running indulged her competitive side as she constantly strived to run faster and further than she had before. Her hour and a half running was a time for her to reflect on her life and the mess that she had made of it without having time to stop and wallow in self-pity. A time for her to remember the life that she had left behind and mourn for it without having time to cry. A time to wish that she could turn back the clock so that she had never signed the three-year contract that felt like a prison sentence. So that she could go back to Holby. So that she could go back home.
An hour and a half later she crashed into the kitchen, hands pressed to her knees and back arched as she gasped for breath, having managed to run two blocks further than she had before – a personal best. Eventually she managed to overcome the cramp that gripped her legs like a vice and stagger to the sink where she snatched a glass from the draining board and filled it with icy cold water which she drained before pressing the cool glass gratefully to her cheek. It might have been chilly outside but after her run she was as hot and sticky as if she had spent a day in a car without air conditioning in the height of summer. Dropping to her knees, crippled by the muscles of her legs crying out in protest at her overexertion, she crawled to the bathroom and switched on the shower, lying on the cool tiled floor as she waited for the water to warm up sufficiently to sooth her aching body without making her any hotter than she already was. Pulling herself to her feet she stepped beneath the blissful water and felt her body relax momentarily before stiffening, a sure sign that in the last block she had pushed herself too far. Perhaps she had overdone it a bit but at the time she had been sure she could handle the extra few metres and she had been virtually at her front door by the time she had realised her mistake.
Emerging from the shower she looked in the mirror, as she did every morning, and with every other morning, she grimaced. It was undeniable that she looked good – better than she had for years in fact now that she sported the healthy glow of a natural tan and a more athletic figure that even she had to admit, suited her – but as she looked in the mirror she saw only the imperfections. The thin, silvery scar that sliced across her midriff and bore a constant reminder of her loss. The jagged scar across her left wrist that filled her with shame as she recalled how she had sustained the injury and how much worse she had made it by prying the wound apart over and over again in attempt to punish herself and her husband for crimes that she could barely even recall. A more recent complaint about her reflection was her breasts; they weren't quite as pert as they had once been and she made a mental note to discuss the possibility of some kind of lift or augmentation with a plastic surgeon who she occasionally bumped into at work. She didn't like the man – he was unscrupulous and obsessed by cosmetic perfection at any cost – but she had to admit that he was a genius whose every patient was a masterpiece by the time he had finished with her. For a long time she gazed in the mirror, surveying her reflection with dissatisfaction but eventually she tore her eyes from the mirror with a disgusted grunt and dressed herself briskly in a white suit with a black vest top, the polar opposite of what she would have worn in Holby but far more practical for the often sticky climate which she now lived in.
Finally, three hours after she rolled out of bed, grumbling at her alarm, she was ready for work. Grabbing a banana and an apple from the bowl of fruit in the kitchen and stuffing them into her bag to eat on the train she didn't break her stride to the front door, which she opened, breathing in a deep lungful of sea air and smiling contentedly. While her life out here might have its faults – and the faults were legion – it also had advantages and stepping out onto the beach in the morning when she left for work was one of them. Taking the stairs in small, perfectly even steps she greeted the postman with a jaunty wave and took from him the pile of letters – doubtless bills as this was the only mail that she ever received, the few people in England who she kept in touch with having long ago reverted to the hassle-free medium of email. Walking the brisk two blocks to the station she flicked through the mail, stuffing the predictable bills and flyers into her bag and conveniently placed litterbins before stopping and staring at a small, handwritten envelope postmarked England. Even before she opened it or analysed the handwriting she knew exactly whom it was from and at that moment time seemed to stand still. Peripherally she was aware of people moving past her in slow motion, as if moving through viscous liquid but she was too absorbed in staring at the letter to pay them any attention. Eventually she started to move, turning on her heel and moving briskly back towards her house, already rooting through her bag for her mobile to break the habit of a lifetime and call in sick. She didn't want any distractions while she read the letter that she had spent six months waiting and hoping for and she knew that she wouldn't last the day without succumbing to temptation and opening it. Whatever it was that he had finally plucked up the courage to say to her, it couldn't and wouldn't wait.
The kitchen was cool as she stepped inside and laid the envelope reverently on the marble breakfast bar before hopping up onto a stool so she sat in front of it, her hands resting on the brown paper as if in worship, a single finger tracing the letters written in familiar, virtually illegible scrawl. Finally after months of being on tenterhooks every time the postman ran, it was here. Finally he had responded to the numerous cheery postcards and letters that she persisted in sending him in the hope that one day he would overcome his pride and get in touch. It seemed today was the day that she had been waiting for. Feeling absurdly nervous she picked up the envelope again and toyed with the raised left hand corner of the flap, no longer sure that she wanted to know what he had to say to her; perhaps he had been waiting all these months to find a way to tell her to get out of his life, leave him alone and stop writing to him. Perhaps it would be bad news that had driven him to write – she had heard on the grapevine that life had not been kind to him since she had left – or perhaps as she hoped, he was writing because finally his pride had allowed him to admit that he missed her as much as she missed him and wanted to speak to her but didn't have her number or email address in the states.
Eventually she took a deep breath and ripped the envelope open, employing the 'band aid' philosophy that it would be easier if she got it over with quickly and speed would dull any pain that she felt. Tipping the contents of the envelope in front of her she felt disappointment flood her body before tightening in a vice-like grip around her heart. Far from the affectionate sentiments that she had hoped for, the contents of the envelope were nothing more than some left over hospital business that he had clearly been given the job of forwarding. There were pay slips, tax forms and various other things that she had no interest in but there wasn't so much as a post it note from him. Tears of disappointment rolled down her face, falling in dull splashes on the pages in front of her, blurring the ink and rendering the words of the Inland Revenue illegible. Eventually she threw the envelope aside and reached for the phone, knowing what she had to do.