Storms

So far he didn’t have any ideas about how to get the money. Not even bad ones.

Maybe a surf would help him think.

‘What the hell.’ He poked an arm out from under the quilt, found his phone and texted:

Hi Gorgeous. Weather no good 4 walking. Give yrself lie in. Going qk surf. Best in ages. Meet up later, yes?

He snoozed, waiting for a reply. When none came, he crawled out of the sack and tiptoed downstairs. He made a steaming coffee, thick as soup, and ate an energy bar. He put his wetsuit on, got a board from the shed and headed out.

It was cold. The wind and rain had bite. They meant business. It was more like winter than the end of summer. The wind was so hard he had to hold the surfboard tight under one arm and steady the front with the other, just to stop it taking off.

Ten minutes later he was there. It didn’t look good from the cliff. Great white horses were rising out of the sea, raging and disappearing. Huge waves, bouncing and twisting with wild energy. Impressive, but no good for surfing. Maybe he’d wasted his time. He played with the idea of heading back. But then again … he couldn’t see the cove, and the forecast website had said:

It’s going to be special today, guys. It’s going to be wonderful … if you know the right spots.

Wonderful. That was weird. Jake had never seen that word on a forecast before.

If it was bad: Pony. Blown to shit. Or: Flat as road-kill.

If it was good: Cracking. Thumping. Off the scale.

Something like that. But wonderful?

Wonder-ful. Full of wonders. An offering from the sea gods.

There was a steep path, tucked into the cliffs, leading past a boulder and by a stream. No one used it apart from brave dogs and nudey sunbathers in summer.

Jake took that path, chasing a promise. Except the path and stream were now a river. He waded and climbed, slipped and swore.

He almost fell into the surfer coming the other way. A short, craggy-faced bloke he’d seen at Praa Sands a couple of times. The dude was climbing through the waterfall.

‘Wass it like?’ said Jake. He always asked surfers coming back from a break, checking their faces for glassy eyes and stupid grins. ‘Is it wonderful?’

Crag-face headed past, without saying a word, or looking at him. Maybe he hadn’t heard Jake? Or maybe he didn’t want to let on how great it was.

Only one way to find out. And it would give him thinking time. Surf could do that. Wash all your worries away. Clear your head. Just for a bit.

Hannah (#ulink_143c0e59-dd5a-5e3e-b82a-f93291bcf78c)

HANNAH CHECKED HERSELF in the hall mirror.

Sunset-red Henri Lloyd storm-breaker jacket, brand new. A present from Dad. Black waterproof trousers. Hunter wellies.

‘Sexy,’ she said. A howl of wind rattled the door, threatening to blow it open. Rain hammered on the conservatory roof like a thousand tiny drumbeats.

‘No such thing as bad weather,’ she said to Beano. He was scratching at the door. ‘Only a bad attitude and the wrong clothing. Right?’

Beano whimpered, keen to get going.

‘Hang on, he’ll be here soon.’

‘Morning, Hannah.’ Dad walked down the stairs in his dressing gown. ‘Going out?’

‘Beano needs a walk.’

‘Want some company? I can be ready in five.’

‘No. You’re okay. I’m supposed to be meeting Jake.’

‘Supposed to be?’

‘He hasn’t turned up … yet.’

‘Ah.’ Her dad smiled, raised his eyebrows and walked to the kitchen. As if just that one look said everything about Jake. Just that look. He did it all the time. It annoyed her.

She looked at her phone. Seven thirty. There was a message. He was going surfing.

Hannah smiled. Maybe it was a good thing if she went by herself. She needed to think.

Without saying goodbye to Dad, Hannah headed out along the path down to the village, through the streets and past the houses. When she came round the corner and started on the road to the beach, she got the force of what Jake called the full Atlantic blast. A shock of wind and stinging rain.

‘Jesus,’ she said, and sank her head deep into her jacket as she headed down to the sand.

It was only weeks before she was due to get on that plane. It didn’t seem real. How could she be walking on a howling Cornish beach one day, and not so many later be photographing whales in crystal lagoons?

And with Jake? He wanted Hawaii as much as her. More than anything. Not just for her, but because it was Hawaii, the best surf on earth.

It was his dream too. It was just a different one.

How would it go when they got there? Her working long hours, him surfing. And he hadn’t bought a ticket yet. He kept saying he’d sort it, but he hadn’t. She had money, but if she bought his ticket and had to pay for them both when she got there she’d be stony broke, pretty quick.

She reached the sand and started walking.

What if he couldn’t get the ticket? What if he didn’t come?

It would be months. And she’d miss him, the same as she’d miss the Cornish storms. The kiss of needle rain on her face, and Jake’s kiss when he put a smacker on her cheek. How she’d wipe away the itch of his stubble.

‘Ugh. It’s like being kissed by a badger’s bum,’ she’d say. Complaining, but not complaining. Then he’d kiss her on the lips and it’d almost knock her out. Like the shots of tequila the night they’d met.

‘That’s disgusting,’ she’d said, reeling from the salt, the bitter shot and the sting of lime.

‘You’ll get to enjoy it,’ he’d said, handing her another.

She had too. Hannah smiled at the memory.

How could she go without him? How could she even think it? But …

He’ll drag you down.