Meet Me at Pebble Beach

‘Okay. Let’s have a look at local jobs.’ He scooted his seat round to her and cosied up, and she noted he smelled of aftershave and coffee. He pulled up a website on his phone. ‘HGV driver? Maybe not.’ He eyed her cheekily.

‘You don’t know. I might be qualified,’ she said, making him tilt his head in question. ‘I’m not, as it happens, but I do like a Yorkie. Next.’ She leaned over his screen and got another whiff of aftershave. This was a good way to spend a Saturday.

‘Sous chef or carpentry lecturer?’

‘A bit niche.’

‘Recruitment consultant. How ironic,’ he said. ‘Assistant drainage engineer?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘What’s a production operative?’ she asked, touching the screen. They both read the details together. Picking, packing and labelling boxes. It wasn’t glamorous but it was probably the only one she didn’t need qualifications or experience for. He took a screenshot of the details, they swapped full names and phone numbers and he sent it to her. She typed his name in next to his number – Charlie McGee.

Chatting with Charlie was making her feel buoyed and ready for action. She’d had a great time with him but now it was time to leave. As they were exiting the coffee shop, a man the same size and shape as the doorway loomed over him. Regan feared there was about to be trouble.

‘Hey Debbie, what you up to?’ he asked.

Regan was confused. Had he mistaken her for someone else? But, before she could question him, Charlie spoke. ‘Hiya, Beanstalk,’ he said. ‘Beanstalk, this is my friend Reg.’

Regan didn’t argue; everything was already too strange. ‘Nice to meet you, Beanstalk.’

‘You too, Reg.’ He gave an unsubtle head tilt in her direction and winked at Charlie.

‘Bye, Beanstalk,’ said Charlie, slapping the large fellow on the back when they passed in the coffee shop doorway.

Beanstalk turned back for a second. ‘Hey, Debbie, I heard you got a bollocking from the station commander about Thursday’s shout. Tough call,’ he said with a wince, before disappearing inside.

‘You wanna tell me what went on there … Debbie?’ asked Regan, failing to hide her amusement.

Charlie screwed his face up. ‘It’s a work thing. Pretty much all of us have nicknames.’

Regan grinned. ‘And yours is Debbie?’ By comparison, Reg didn’t seem bad at all. ‘Oh, Debbie McGee.’ The penny dropped. ‘That’s genius.’ She laughed.

‘Isn’t it?’ said Charlie, not looking that impressed; but he’d likely witnessed this reaction before.

‘And what did you get a bollocking about?’ It was reassuring to hear about others making a hash of things at work, although it was unlikely to be on the same scale as hers.

Charlie rubbed his stubbly chin. For a moment he appeared vulnerable, making her warm to him even more. ‘I didn’t exit a burning building when I was instructed to.’

Regan was surprised. ‘A burning building? Like one on fire?’ How brave was this copper?

Charlie looked like he was chewing the inside of his mouth. ‘I may not have been entirely truthful with you when we first met.’ He looked suitably chastened. ‘I said I was a police officer so that you’d listen to me and stop pummelling that bloke’s head in. But I’m actually a firefighter.’

‘Right,’ said Regan. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about this news, but her instant reaction was one of distrust. Clearly he wasn’t totally trustworthy or he would have owned up to this a lot sooner. ‘So you lied.’

‘I figured you wouldn’t take any notice unless you thought you were about to be arrested,’ said Charlie. ‘I’d forgotten about it, which was why I didn’t put you straight. I’m sorry.’

Regan didn’t need people she couldn’t trust. He no longer looked quite so appealing. ‘Yeah. Me too,’ she said, with a disappointed smile and she walked away.

Chapter Nine

Sunday in the studio was lonely. Its location was off the beaten track but in the week there was the sound of traffic to make her feel like she had some connection to the rest of the universe. On Sundays, not so much.

Yesterday, thanks to Charlie, she had gone to the library after she’d left him and got herself registered so she could use the computers. She’d managed to produce a reasonable-looking CV and fire it off for a couple of vacancies, as well as uploading it to some job websites. She’d also been able to check out some books, which at least meant she had something to do in the evenings other than stare at bare walls or nipples.

This morning she’d been to the gym, taking care to avoid Jarvis’s usual timeslot, and had really enjoyed her time on the bike and the treadmill because she’d been able to watch some telly, which now seemed like such a treat. She’d used the yoga area to have a go at practising her mindfulness technique and ended up having a little nap. She’d also had a shower so she was clean too – she had a lot to be thankful for.

The spring weather was notoriously changeable and it had turned a bit chilly. The drop in temperature was noticeable in the studio: its high ceilings whisked away any warmth and, whilst the boiler was doing its best, the two radiators didn’t provide much heat. She moved the chair so that she could lean against a radiator, got out one of the library books and started reading.

Three lines in, her phone rang. It was Charlie. She considered cancelling the call but she knew she’d probably acted a little hastily yesterday. ‘Yep,’ she said, her tone curt.

‘Delivery for Reg Corsetti. Where should I deliver to?’

‘Delivery of what?’ She was more than suspicious after his revelation.

‘Chinese takeaway and chocolate cake. It’s my way of apologising.’

Regan knew it was going to be hard to stay mad with this guy for long, especially when he brought food as an apology. Could this be a match made in heaven? She gave him directions to the studio on the proviso he wouldn’t alert anyone to the fact she was living there.

Regan tidied her stuff into the corner and covered it with the throw, because old habits died hard. She waited excitedly for her knight in shining armour to appear, complete with chicken chow mein.

There was a gentle tap on the door and she whipped it open making him flinch slightly. ‘Shhh,’ she said, beckoning him inside and shutting the door quickly. It was raining and a chill wind was picking up. Charlie put down the bags on the drainer and looked about.

‘Welcome to my temporary abode.’

He was giving reassuring head bobs but she could see he was taking it all in. He pulled two bottles of wine from one of the bags. ‘I didn’t know if you preferred red or white, so I bought one of each.’

‘That is exactly what I prefer,’ she said, getting two mugs off the mug tree.

Charlie gallantly let Regan have the chair, whilst he perched on an odd little wooden stool with a round seat that you had to spin to get it to go up or down. Regan had forgotten to point out that she didn’t have any plates or cutlery, but Charlie had brought free chopsticks and passing the containers to each other and eating directly from them was actually quite fun.

‘See, no washing up,’ she said, when she could eat no more. ‘Although I will wash up the chopsticks – they’ll come in handy.’ They were a step up from the coffee stirrers.

Charlie sipped his wine and surveyed the studio. ‘I know you said it was basic but … I kind of expected you’d have a bed.’

‘Nope. This is it. But it’s more than a lot of people have.’ A picture of Kevin out in the wind and rain instantly sprang to mind.

Regan tidied up the cartons and used an odd-looking arty tool of Cleo’s she’d found to cut the cake into slices. ‘So, firefighter, huh?’ She took a bite of the cake to stop herself from making any lame jokes about firemen’s poles or long hoses.

‘All my life, apart from brief stints as a waiter and a dustman.’

‘That is pretty awesome, being a firefighter … not a dustman.’

Charlie gave a modest shrug. ‘I’m not academic but I’ve always known I needed to have a job with a purpose. Something that added some value to other people’s lives.’

Regan felt instantly inadequate. She’d never felt like that at all. She was starting to think her dad was right about the whole Nissan Micra analogy. ‘I don’t know what the hell I’ve been doing with my life.’ She finished her cake and licked her fingers.

Charlie chuckled. ‘I’m sure you’ve done plenty.’

‘Nope. I’ve been bumming around, basically, doing as little as I can get away with.’ She marvelled at her own honesty. She took a swig of her wine, wincing at both the clash of wine with chocolate cake and how little she had achieved. Friends from school were married and had kids in tow but that had never been an ambition of hers. If she thought about it she’d never really had any ambition. Even the school careers advisor had suggested a job as a fishmonger might suit her, and whilst that was a perfectly good job, it wasn’t exactly setting her sights high. She feared invoices clerk at BHB Healthcare had been the peak of her career. She chuckled to herself and Charlie scrutinised her.

‘So, what now?’ he asked.

Regan drank more wine and sighed slowly. ‘I fired off some job applications from the library. Thank you for that tip,’ she said. ‘I’ve uploaded my CV to a few job sites, too, so hopefully in a couple of days they’ll be beating my door down.’ She tried to sound optimistic but she didn’t believe it herself.

‘There are other options.’

‘Like?’

Charlie looked like he was going to lean back on the stool and then thought better of it. He put down his wine and went over to the corner to the box Regan had brought from the office – not as well tidied as she’d thought. He returned with Regan’s lottery wish list.

‘I keep thinking about this,’ he said, waving it near her but just out of reach.

‘Don’t remind me.’ She drained and refilled her Cookie Monster mug.

‘I think this is an excellent thing to have done.’ If Regan had worn glasses she would have been looking at him from over the top of them right now. ‘Bear with me. You wrote this because, like all of us, when we think about winning the lottery we think it is the key that unlocks all our dreams. So this list,’ he tapped the paper, ‘is a true list of the things you really want to do with your life.’

‘If I won the lottery,’ she added.

He shook his head. ‘Regardless of winning. You still want to do them; you just need to find a way of achieving them without the money.’

Regan laughed and then saw his expression was serious. She needed more wine. Charlie topped up both their drinks and picked up his Hong Kong Phooey mug, eyeing her speculatively.

Regan snatched up the list. He was being ridiculous. She scanned them. ‘Which of these is even vaguely possible without tons of cash?’

‘Well, the bottom one is, but we’ll come back to that.’ She scanned it quickly; the last item was ‘Get new hot boyfriend who doesn’t nag or wear button-up pyjamas’. She looked back up again slowly; this was a promising development. Charlie was looking thoughtful now. He tapped a bullet point towards the top of the list. ‘How could you help your dad out?’

‘Suggest he dumps Tarty Tara.’

Charlie was grinning broadly. ‘Tell me more about Tarty Tara. I think I love her already.’

Regan shook her head. ‘Where to start … She’s ten years younger than my dad. She works part time so she’s round his all the time. I’m sure she’s bleeding him dry moneywise.’

‘Any redeeming features?’ Charlie was looking amused.

Regan screwed her face up in thought. ‘Hmm, she puts the hoover round. That’s about it, though.’

‘So what does he need help with?’

‘He’s only got a one-bedroom flat. I was thinking I would buy him somewhere nicer. I definitely need lottery money for that.’

Charlie was nodding. ‘Could you make his flat nicer in any other ways?’

Regan was feeling put on the spot. ‘Dunno.’ Charlie was watching her expectantly. ‘It needs redecorating and his kitchen is really dated but I don’t think there’s much I could do there without ripping it all out.’

Charlie leaned forward. ‘But the redecorating wouldn’t cost much – only your time and a bit of paint.’

Regan waved her mug at him and the contents sloshed about, making her realise she was probably a bit more drunk than she’d thought. ‘You forget that paint costs money and I have none.’

‘I’ve got friends in the trade. They have half tins left over all the time. I’ll speak to one of them if you like?’

Regan studied him. He was ruggedly handsome with very good teeth. He’d got her out of trouble when she could have quite happily brained Alex. He’d bought her a takeaway and wine, and here he was offering suggestions of how she could help her dad. She found herself ticking off a list of everything she wanted in a partner and Charlie was it. This guy was sent from heaven. ‘You’re brilliant,’ she said, feeling it was a pretty good summary.

Charlie went coy. ‘Just being a friend. I’m a big believer in karma. You know, that the good you do will come back to you eventually.’

He used the ‘f’ word. Friend. That was unfortunate, because right at that moment she wanted to snog his face off. ‘Do you really believe that?’

‘I have to.’

Her booze-addled brain was trying to process what he’d said when he got unsteadily to his feet. ‘I should go.’ He picked up his jacket and pointed to the door.

‘It’s been a great evening. Thanks for dinner and everything.’ She stood up and held on to the wall to steady herself. How much had she drunk?

She followed him to the door and when he spun around to say something they both froze as their faces were so close to each other. Regan didn’t stop to think. She kissed him. She didn’t have to wait for his reaction. He kissed her back, hard. They were soon up against the brick wall exploring each other in a frenzy of booze-fuelled lust.

‘Ow,’ said Regan, grazing her back on the rough brickwork.

‘Sorry,’ said Charlie through a gasped breath. ‘Chair?’ he suggested after scanning the bare room.

‘Okay.’ They made it to the chair, their lips still attached. Regan paused. How was this going to work? She sat in the chair and Charlie awkwardly kneeled next to her and they resumed their feverish kissing. The chair rocked precariously. Regan clutched the sides whilst still mid-kiss. Charlie’s weight shifted and so did the chair, tipping them both unceremoniously to the floor.

‘Ow,’ said Charlie. ‘Dodgy joint,’ he explained, getting to his feet and rubbing his knee. ‘Old injury.’

‘Actually that was killing my back,’ said Regan, and they paused to look at each other rubbing their separate sore patches. They both dissolved into hysterics. ‘That killed the mood.’

‘Maybe it’s for the best. We’ve both drunk quite a bit,’ said Charlie, planting a kiss on her forehead. ‘I’ll see you soon. Okay?’ He gave her a look that made her go weak at the knickers.

It was more than okay with Regan; the sooner the better.

Regan was settling down to sleep when she saw she had new emails. Maybe it was a job interview. She yawned and flicked through them. Nothing about any jobs, but there was one from Cleo. She opened it expecting to see photos of fabulous places, but instead it was late-night ramblings.

Hey You!

Hope you’re okay and not missing me too much lol. My brain’s a bit foggy because we had a long flight and an even longer car journey … Followed by a meal where I was expected to engage with people. I tried my best but Oscar informed me that it was a woefully inept performance and I need to improve before we meet the next round of prospective buyers. But that’s the least of my worries. A top art critic saw an early preview of my new collection in Japan and to say they slated it would be too much praise. There wasn’t a thing they liked about it. They said: The colours held as much vibrancy as mud. The style felt like a poor copy of Cleo’s earlier work. Even the size of the canvas in their opinion was wrong. Or as they put it, ‘obese’. They concluded that I’ve had my day and my moment in the sun is over.

Oscar is furious. I’m a bit torn. Part of me is happy to retreat back into the shadows and paint. Leave behind the madness of the celebrity lifestyle and be normal. But now it’s happened, it’s a far bigger blow than I’d ever thought it would be. Financially, it’s not great, and all the anxiety I’ve carried about being an imposter, a fraud, just a lucky chance that I once painted something that was okay … now that’s come crashing down on me too.

Coupled with that, there’s also Oscar’s temper to deal with. He swore at me last night. Wanted to know if I’d said something out of line about the reviewer that may have got back to them. Oscar believes this particular person is vain enough to take out their revenge via a review. I know I haven’t said anything out of place but I’ve still been awake all night going over every conversation I can remember that could have in any way been misconstrued. And I’ve drawn a blank.

Everything’s a mess and I’m virtually on the other side of the planet from you. And I know, unlike Oscar, you actually care about me. I miss you. Tell me everything’s going to be okay?

Love

C

x

Regan typed a hasty reply:

Everything is going to be okay.

Love

R

X

P.S. Oscar is a twat.

P.P.S. Will write properly later.

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