Chapter 5

The beach is not a place to work; to read, write or to think.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh

The first wedding at the White Sands since we arrived is taking place today. From the balcony of Room 501, I'm watching the staff carry armfuls of flowers to the gazebo where the ceremonies are held. I try not to imagine how my own wedding might have been, but I can't help picturing me and Steve standing in the bower together, vowing to love each other till death us do part.

Thinking you'll be together for life is pretty optimistic, isn't it? For me and Steve, that could've been more than fifty years. I wonder if we'd have stayed the pace. Well, clearly not when we didn't even get to the starting gate. So perhaps he did me a favour. I've got to look at it like that.

The women carrying the flowers are joined by another couple of staff members, this time carrying flute glasses and silver champagne buckets. They're laughing and chatting, although I can't hear what they're saying.

‘I wonder if they become blasé about it,' remarks Celeste as she joins me on the balcony. ‘Weddings are practically an industry here.'

‘Love isn't an industry,' I protest.

‘Hah!' She gives me a sceptical look. ‘Valentine's Day, anyone? An excuse for restaurants and florists to hike up their prices.'

‘OK, OK, I'll give you Valentine's.' Though I'm remembering Steve bringing me to a gorgeous wine bar in the docklands and sharing a lovely meal overlooking the river, and it was so romantic I didn't care about the price. Not that I had to. We normally split the bill when we went out but for Valentine's Day he insisted on paying.

‘I'm sorry,' says Celeste. ‘Love isn't only about performative gestures in public.'

‘No.'

Now I'm thinking of the proposal balloons again. I was so sure then that he was the one. And I was sure he was sure I was right for him.

If something had happened, if there'd been a massive row or he'd found someone else, I might have understood it better. But his vague ‘I'm not ready' makes me feel that it was more about me than him. I wish I knew what it was. Why I wasn't good enough for him. I get some comfort from the fact that there hasn't been one post on his social media of him with another woman, not even in Italy, but I still feel as though I've let myself down somehow.

‘Are you sure you don't mind me heading off without you?' It takes a moment for Celeste's words to filter through. She booked a catamaran trip around the island earlier. As I'm not keen on being on the water, I decided not to join her and told her I'd be perfectly happy on the beach, but with the wedding due to take place later, I think she's worried I'll have some kind of bridal meltdown. If she knew I'd been thinking about Steve's proposal, she'd be even more worried.

‘I'll be fine,' I promise her. ‘I'm going to read my book and work on my tan.'

‘Because I won't go if you don't want me to.'

‘Of course I want you to. I'll be fine here. I want to read my book, honestly.'

I walk with her down to the beach, where other guests are already awaiting the arrival of the catamaran. I stand at the edge of the sand, allowing the water to wash over my toes and thinking that perhaps I should have gone after all.

Then the catamaran arrives, bobbing up and down dramatically, and I'm happy with my decision again. The crew members help their passengers on board, and I take photos of Celeste as the boat moves slowly away from the beach, then turn back towards the hotel and head to the room.

This is the first time I've been properly alone since we got here. I don't count the day of my early-morning walk because Celeste was nearby. Now she's sailed off and I feel . . . well, a bit liberated, if I'm totally honest. Because of course she's been kind and generous and lovely, but that's made me have to be brave and strong and outwardly cheerful all the time. And it's been hard.

I know I said I was going to lie on the beach and work on my tan, but I'm not in the mood to do that right now. I feel the need to be active. So I slap on some more sunscreen, pop a baseball cap on my head and retrace my steps from earlier in the week, past the private villas where I saw the man dive into the pool. Other than in the restaurant, where he continues to sit alone at the same table, I haven't noticed him anywhere in the resort. He's never on the beach during the day, or in the bar at night. I've decided he's some kind of recluse. Or else he's a golfer and out all day, although he's not part of the group of men and women who regularly leave the hotel in the mornings with their bags and clubs, and who are generally very sociable.

I wave at one of them, a woman in her sixties who Celeste and I got talking to last night. She's a widow, and she and her husband used to come here every few years to play a couple of local courses and chill out. He died less than a year ago, but she chose to come again anyway, and has joined up with the group. She's friendly and optimistic and doesn't show her grief outwardly, but I'm sure it's there.

She continues in one direction and I go the other, towards the less developed part of the resort, where there are a number of small rocky coves. According to the website, people can fish there, but I'm not sure why any of the guests would. It's not like they'll cook the catch for dinner.

The first cove I reach is more of a narrow inlet, and there's no beach, merely shingle that crunches underfoot. The second is wider, but also mainly shingle, and I'm thinking that I've done enough Famous Five exploring when I see yet another cove, this time with a small beach. I think it might be a nice place to sit and contemplate life, even though I have to access it by scrambling over some rocks. As I jump from the last, I land awkwardly and cry out in shock.

It takes me a moment or two to catch my breath, and then I tentatively test my ankle, which definitely twisted in my fall. It's a bit sore, but nothing too awful, which I'm thankful for, because I'm trying to imagine clambering over those rocks again and getting back to the hotel with a dodgy ankle, and thinking that coming to this isolated spot on my own was actually quite stupid. I walk slowly to the water's edge and allow the cool waves to wash over my feet.

When I turn around, I realise it's not as isolated as I thought. I'm not alone.

Restaurant man is here, half hidden behind a twisted palm tree. He's sitting under a parasol, a small folding table in front of him. On the table is a thin sheaf of paper. He's not looking at the paper, though, he's looking at me.

‘Hi,' I say as cheerfully as I can. ‘Sorry if I'm disturbing you.'

He says nothing, and I walk slowly up the beach, keeping my weight off my bad ankle.

‘I'm going to sit here for a few minutes until my ankle is OK, then I'll be out of your hair,' I tell him. Closer to, I'm guessing he's in his fifties rather than his forties. Pretty fit with it, though. He's wearing a light T-shirt that allows his muscles to show, and it's obvious he works out.

‘This is a private beach.' He's clearly irritated. ‘I come here precisely because it's private.'

‘It's part of the resort,' I respond. ‘So not private if you're a guest. And I am too.'

‘I know,' he says. ‘I've seen you.'

Is it good to have been noticed? Or has he noticed me in a ‘how the hell can she and her friend afford to be here' kind of way?

‘Iseult O'Connor,' I say. ‘I've seen you too.'

‘After the poet or the legend?'

‘Neither,' I reply when I realise he's asking about my name. I'm actually named after my great-grandmother, who I never knew and who was once arrested for throwing a stone through the window of a government office as part of a votes-for-women campaign. But I do know the legend of Tristan and Iseult (or Isolde, as she's also known) and I also know that the poet is Iseult Gonne, who would have lived around the same time as my great-grandmother. Not that any of this is of the slightest interest to the man sitting at the folding table.

A puff of breeze rustles through the palms, and as I feel it reach my shoulders, the pages in front of him rustle too, and are then gently lifted and float on the air, spinning in all directions.

‘Oh bloody fucking hell!' he cries.

I wasn't sure earlier, because his accent held a mid-Atlantic twang that could be from anywhere, but his unapologetic swearing is pure Irish.

He gets up from the table, which topples over, and begins to rush after the pages. I manage to collect the ones that have blown in my direction, but at least half a dozen end up in the sea and are almost immediately carried out of sight.

‘Now look what you've done,' he says as he returns and rights the table. ‘An entire morning's work wasted.'

‘I hardly think it's my fault,' I protest. ‘I don't control the wind.'

‘You distracted me.'

‘You should've put a stone on them or something.'

‘So it's my fault?'

‘Yes.'

He glares at me, and I shrug. I don't know what he's getting so worked up about. I'm sure he's got all his data on a computer somewhere. Although I notice as I glance down at the top page in my hand that it's full of handwritten comments. I hand the sheets to him.

‘A whole morning ruined.' He groans.

‘It's not completely ruined,' I say. ‘You've got most of the pages. A few are probably on the way to the Bahamas or something, but I'm sure you can replicate whatever notes you made.'

‘I can't replicate them.' He's practically snarling now. ‘They came from somewhere deep inside and I don't know if I'll ever find that place again.'

I've no idea what he means, so I stay silent.

‘I can't do this any more.' He puts the pages on the table and this time weighs them down with a large stone. ‘I thought I could, but I can't.'

‘Do what?'

He doesn't answer, but instead puts his head in his hands and then rests both on the table.

‘Are you all right?' I ask.

He remains silent.

To be honest, I'm a bit worried about him now. And about me. I wouldn't have put him down as some kind of crazed killer or anything, but you never do know, do you? Women and girls trust men all the time before realising they shouldn't have.

‘Well,' I say, ‘I'll be off. Ouch.' The ouch is because a sharp twang of pain has shot through my ankle. ‘Um, I'll be off in a minute.' I sit on a nearby tuft of grass and rotate my ankle gently. It isn't even swollen, so I know it'll be fine, but it obviously needs a little more TLC before I take it walking again.

‘What part of Ireland are you from?' he asks suddenly.

‘Dublin. Marino. And you?'

‘The south side.' He gives me a half-smile when I tell him I won't hold that against him.

‘Do you ever get stuck?' His tone is far more conciliatory now, mellow and actually quite soothing.

‘Stuck where? How?' I'm wondering if he's talking about Dublin's notorious traffic, or about Northsiders and Southsiders preferring to stay on their respective sides of the river, but he tells me he means work. He wants to know if I ever don't know what I should be doing.

‘Not really,' I reply. ‘I follow procedures and the outcome is inevitable.'

‘Do you think about work all the time?'

‘My line of work is all about a single day. Of course repercussions can happen later, but basically I go in, do my job and go home. It's why I love it.'

From his original pose of seeming to look past me, he now removes his sunglasses and stares straight at me.

‘What do you do?' he asks.

He looks startled when I tell him. People often are. In the same way they'd be startled, I think, if I said I was a tax inspector. Because everyone has a moment where they've brought home too many cigarettes or too much booze from a holiday, or made a slightly suspect claim on their tax return. Minor things that nobody gets too exercised about, to be honest. It wasn't the job I expected to get when I was transferred from Agriculture to Revenue, but when the opportunity came up, I thought it might be interesting. Besides, I don't like being stuck behind a desk. I like being out and about.

‘I can't see you in Dublin Airport calling stressed passengers to one side,' he says.

‘I don't work at the airport,' I tell him. ‘I'm based in the docks. I check maritime traffic, not people coming home from their jollies.'

‘You mean freight?'

‘Mostly,' I say. ‘Lorries coming in from everywhere. It's a dirty job but somebody's got to do it.' I smile at this. I love my job, even if I do get a bit grubby from time to time. But you know how it is, you say things to people to keep the conversational ball rolling. Not that I'm entirely sure I want a conversation with him.

‘I see.' He's looking at me appraisingly now.

‘And you?' I ask. ‘What do you do that has you working when you should be on your holidays? Because don't tell me you've come to the White Sands to work. It's a place for total relaxation.'

‘Not for all of us.'

I wait. He waits. I think he's expecting me to say something, but I'm not sure what it is. And then I realise that I thought he was familiar before and he's definitely familiar now. It's his mid-Atlantic accent that's ringing a bell. But he's not a movie star, crap as I am at recognising them. I know most of the older ones and I can't place him in anything. A singer, perhaps? One of those tenor trios that were all the rage years ago? Something like that?

‘I'm working on my novel,' he tells me. ‘I came here for peace and quiet.'

‘Your novel?'

‘Charles Miller,' he says.

And now I remember. He was on The Late Late Show a while back, talking about the movie of his bestselling book.

‘Oh, right. Pleased to meet you.'

‘You don't know who I am, do you?' He puts the question after a moment's pause.

I tell him that I saw him on TV.

‘Have you read my books?'

This is awkward. I think about faking it, and then shake my head.

‘I'm more of a crime and thriller reader,' I admit.

‘I see.' He says this as though I've just admitted to murdering kittens. ‘I suppose in your line of work it shouldn't come as a surprise.'

‘I like crime,' I tell him. ‘It's satisfying. Mostly the bad guys get what's coming to them, which isn't always the case in real life.'

‘You have a point,' he concedes.

‘I'll go and leave you to your muse,' I say eventually, standing up and wiping sand from my shorts. I'm still hobbling a little, but my ankle is much better now, something I tell Charles Miller when he asks if I'm all right.

‘Nice talking to you,' I say, even though it wasn't.

He's concentrating on his notes and doesn't reply.

I limp back the way I came.

When I get back to the room, I change into a swimsuit and do what I told Celeste I'd be doing: lying on the beach with my Janice Jermyn, where there's a satisfyingly high body count and the murderer is always revealed at the end.

But after a while, I take out my phone and google Charles Miller. It seems his rise was pretty meteoric after his debut won the Booker and was made into a movie; his second novel is ‘in development', whatever that means. His most recent books don't seem to have been as popular, because they've neither won prizes nor appear to be in development, but he's clearly done pretty well nonetheless. There's very little under personal information in Wikipedia, just that he was born in Waterford, graduated from UCD and is forty-nine. I do a little more digging and see some photos of him accepting his Booker Prize, and others at the movie premiere over ten years ago. There's a good-looking brunette by his side in these, and I wonder if she's a girlfriend or partner or wife. A further search brings up a piece headlined ‘An Agency Romance', which says that Charles and Ariel Barrett, the agent who discovered him, have become engaged. It goes on to say that they're the hottest couple in London right now. I wonder where she is while he's alone on Paradise Island. If I was his fiancée or wife, I wouldn't be too keen on being left behind in London while he pretended to work beneath tropical skies.

I abandon Google and open Find My Friends instead. Steve is currently travelling along the M50 motorway that circles Dublin. I take a photo of the view in front of me and post it to my Instagram #PeacefulParadise.

I pick up the Janice Jermyn again, and next thing I know, the smell of meat on the barbecue wakes me up. I've been asleep for almost an hour, which is unheard of for me on a sunlounger. But I feel surprisingly rested, and surprisingly hungry too, even though I had an enormous breakfast earlier. I remind myself that it was six hours ago and so I'm entitled to be ravenous. If nothing else, this holiday has seen me regain my appetite, and probably a few of the kilos I lost after Steve and I split.

I haul myself off the lounger, pull on my patterned sundress, and make my way towards the main building, where a queue has already formed at the barbecue. I check in at the restaurant and am allocated a table, then I order a glass of wine and join the BBQ line, where I opt for grilled fish, chicken wings and a selection of salads. Yes, those kilos are most definitely on the way back.

I'm about to tuck in when I see Charles Miller making his way to his usual table. He's wearing a maroon polo shirt and shorts, along with deck shoes and a panama hat. I quite like the hat. It makes a statement that the baseball caps more usually worn by the male guests don't.

I don't want him to see me staring, so I open my book and start to read, though it's actually very difficult what with the sauce from the chicken wings making my fingers sticky as well as rolling inelegantly down my chin. When it comes to BBQs, I'm a messy eater. I'm aware of him walking through the restaurant with an empty plate, but then I get to an engrossing part of the novel (an unexpected additional murder in Chapter Fifteen) and am startled when I realise he's standing beside my table. This time his plate is loaded with food.

‘Are you eating alone?' he asks.

I swallow some potato salad before I can answer.

‘Yes. My cousin's on a trip.'

‘Your cousin?'

‘The girl I'm on holiday with.'

‘Oh yes. The pretty one.'

Never let it be said that Charles Miller is tactful. Perhaps my expression gives me away, because his look is apologetic. ‘I'm not making comparisons,' he says hastily. ‘Just that she's stereotypically pretty.'

But he should. I do all the time. Celeste is the glossier version of me. Her hair, dark brown like mine, although with lovely russet undertones, is long and curly, while mine is short and spiky, and her skin is flawless, whereas I'm prone to breakouts. She's taller, better proportioned and was always the heartbreaker.

‘You've more character.' Charles Miller digs the hole a bit deeper.

‘For someone who's supposed to be good with words, you're doing a terrible job,' I say.

‘Sorry. I'm . . . Look, would you like to join me? I'm on my own too and it would be nice to resume our conversation of earlier.'

It was hardly a conversation; it was him being annoyed with me, and I'm really not in the mood for people being annoyed with me. However, I tell myself he's being conciliatory and I should be nice about it. So I nod, then pick up my plate and follow him. A flurry of waiters and waitresses gather around to transport my wine, my book and my bag and set them down on Charles's table. I'm amused when one of them calls him Charlie-boy.

‘Well,' he says when we're settled. ‘I think we got off on the wrong foot. And then I put the other one in it by implying that your cousin is a beauty queen and you're average when actually you're quite striking.'

I'll take striking as a compliment today and say so.

‘In that case . . . we're OK?' He sounds relieved.

‘Of course.' I take a sip of wine. ‘I suppose this could be the opening of your next book. A boy-meets-girl comedy? Although we're obviously not a boy-meets-girl comedy. I'm sure you have a significant other in your life.' I'm not going to let on I already know about him being part of one of London's hottest couples.

‘Not any more.' He frowns. ‘Also, I don't write romantic comedies. Do you know anything about my books? I won the Booker Prize, even if it was a long time ago now.'

‘I know.' I nod while taking on board the fact that his agent-slash-fiancée-slash-maybe-wife is now his agent-slash-ex. ‘They should give you a little badge you can wear to proclaim your brilliance. I got the impression earlier you weren't writing much of anything, romantic or otherwise. Didn't you say you were stuck?'

‘A badge would be nice.' He gives me a wry smile. ‘Though I'd feel like a fraud wearing it at the moment.'

‘Have you got writer's block?'

‘Norman Mailer says that writer's block is a failure of the ego,' he says. ‘My agent often tells me I have an enormous ego. Makes the failure even worse, I guess.'

I want to ask if that's the same agent who discovered him and became his fiancée-slash-ex, but that's a bit too personal. It could be a sensitive subject.

‘I wouldn't know,' I say. ‘I struggle to write a report, let alone anything longer, even when it's nothing more than a list of procedures.'

‘I love writing lists of procedures,' he says, and this time he's wistful. ‘I used to do it all the time when I worked in an office.'

‘I'm sure writing novels is better fun than writing reports.'

‘So was I once.' He shakes his head. ‘Sorry, I'm banging on about myself. Tell me about your job.'

I do my best to explain what it's like to stand in the rain and stop a six-axle articulated lorry that's been driven from Turkey to Ireland by an irritated driver who just wants to get the job done, and he listens with interest. He's a really good listener.

‘And do you enjoy it?' he asks.

‘Love it.'

‘It sounds confrontational.'

‘Part of the skill is not being confrontational,' I tell him.

‘I could've done with that myself over the last years.'

‘What have you been confrontational about?' I ask. ‘It doesn't say in your bio.'

‘What bio?' He looks startled.

‘Your Wiki bio, of course.'

‘I wasn't aware I had one.'

‘Don't you google yourself?'

‘No.' He shudders. ‘I don't. Nor do I look at my Amazon reviews or other stuff like that. I did at the start and it nearly killed me.'

‘Why? Weren't they good?'

‘Lots were. But definitely not all of them. And I never remember any of the good ones, only the awful ones.'

‘I've read some of them,' I tell him. ‘Most people think you're amazing.'

‘You're only as good as your last book,' he tells me. ‘And when that's a flop, it's a difficult place to come back from.'

‘Was your last book a flop?'

‘It was critically acclaimed.' He makes a face. ‘It's what we say when we get positive reviews and nobody buys it.'

‘But you did win the Booker, even if you don't have a badge,' I remind him. ‘Surely that means loads of people bought it. It's like a gold-star recommendation, isn't it?'

‘That was a lifetime ago,' he says. ‘And yes, a lot of people did buy Winter's Heartbreak, but that doesn't mean they'll buy everything I write. They bought my second because it was shortlisted too, but fewer bought the third, even though it took me an age to write and the Irish Times said it was "emotionally engaging at a fundamental level". My fourth was a novella to keep the publisher happy, and now I'm trying to figure out if the idea I had that sounded so good when I pitched it to my agent will actually turn out to be a book that no one at all wants to read.'

‘Why did you come here to write it?' I ask. ‘I mean, it's a stunning location but it's hardly a get-away-from-it-all type of place. I thought all you great writers needed to find perfect solitude to work: no internet, no people, nothing to distract you. A house in the hills or the forest or the wilds of Connemara or something.'

‘Yes, well.' He shakes his head. ‘The wilds of Connemara were booked up. Besides, I'm not that sort of writer. I didn't do English literature in college. I wrote my earlier books mostly in my lunch hour at work. I shouldn't need solitude to be able to write.'

‘And you've compromised by coming to a luxury hotel where you hired a private villa and reserved a table to yourself so that you don't have to mix with the common people?' I can barely hide how funny I find this.

‘Sort of.' He looks embarrassed.

‘It's the kind of failure I could manage,' I tell him.

He laughs. He's a completely different person when he laughs. His faint air of superiority disappears, and because his laughter is so deep, it's infectious. I laugh too.

‘You're a tonic,' he tells me.

‘I'm not sure about that.'

‘And you're right.' He nods ‘I'm being precious about my book and my writing. I need to get on with it and stop tearing myself apart.'

‘What's it about?' I ask.

‘Someone who retreats to a backwater island to find themselves,' he says.

‘This definitely isn't the best place to imagine a backwater.' I look around. The restaurant is busy with holidaymakers. There's lots of laughter and animated conversation, and people are having a good time.

‘That's why I go to the cove,' he says. ‘Although I should be able to imagine a backwater island for myself. It's just . . .'

‘What?'

‘I'm not a hundred per cent sure what I'm trying to create.'

I wipe my sticky fingers on the crisp linen napkin and pour myself a glass of water because I've finished my wine and I don't want him to think I'm a lush.

‘I know you were dismissive of it earlier, but what about a crime novel?' I suggest.

‘I don't do crime.' He's clearly aghast at the suggestion.

‘It doesn't have to be as good as this.' I pick up the Janice Jermyn book and hand it to him. He's been glancing at it from time to time during our talk.

‘That's not the sort of thing I write.'

‘Have you read it?'

‘No. Of course not.'

‘Then you don't know if it's your sort of thing or not.'

‘My themes—'

‘You've said you're writing about someone who wants to find themselves,' I tell him. ‘In this, the detective inspector is going through a very personal trauma. The first victim was running away from her family. The second . . . well, no spoilers, but there's a lot of finding oneself going on.'

‘I really think—'

‘You could write a crime novel and make it sort of literary,' I say. ‘Use your flashy way with words. Start at the beginning and keep on going till the end.'

‘You're giving me writing advice?' He shoots me an amused look.

‘I'm not really offering advice on writing,' I say. ‘I'm offering advice on how to get things done. That's something I'm good at.'

‘Right,' he says.

‘Read the book,' I tell him. ‘I haven't finished it myself yet, but your need is greater than mine. I'm pretty sure whodunnit at this point, though as Janice always keeps a few twists for the final chapters, I could be wildly wrong.'

He hesitates, then reaches into the backpack beside his seat.

‘I'll do a swap.'

He hands me his Booker Prize-winning book, Winter's Heartbreak. The cover is grey and silver and says that more than five million copies have been sold. I wonder if he carries it around with him all the time, to remind him how good he is at writing.

I don't say that some kind of tragic romance is the last thing I want to read.