Read Online The Beach Hut by Veronica Henry - Free Book Online Page A

stranger. She realised she didn’t even know his name.
    ‘I’m Sarah, by the way,’ she said.
    ‘Oliver. Oliver Bishop. But you can call me Ollie.’
    They shook hands. When she went to take her hand away, he held onto it. He looked at her thoughtfully.
    ‘What?’
    ‘You look as if you need waking up.’
    ‘Waking up?’
    ‘You look as if you’re on autopilot. As if you’re not . . . really being you.’
    She frowned. How could he know that? That’s exactly how she felt, as if she was going through the motions. As if all her feelings had been neatly packed away because she had no use for them at the moment. Not all her feelings, perhaps. She loved her children, passionately.
    And she still loved Ian. But not with that deep-rooted passion that made you want to sing out loud. She loved him . . . like a brother, she supposed. Maybe that was the same for everyone after a certain amount of time. Her friends certainly complained about having sex with their husbands. Groaned wearily about having to spend any time with them. Positively rejoiced if they went away on business, as they could have the house to themselves and watch Desperate Housewives without—
    ‘We should have lunch.’
    She jumped out of her reverie.
    ‘Lunch?’
    ‘Don’t look like that. People do it all the time.’
    ‘But why? Why would we have lunch? Or do you mean all four of us?’
    He laughed heartily at this and Sarah felt indignant.
    ‘I’m sorry, I’m not the sort of person who thinks it’s normal to have lunch with another woman’s husband.’ She knew she sounded frosty and uptight. When really she wanted to get her diary out and make a date straight away.
    ‘It’s perfectly normal, if he’s discussing artwork with her.’
    ‘Artwork? You’re a barrister. Why would you need artwork?’
    ‘I have other interests. I’ve got shares in a vineyard in France. I’d like you to design a label.’ He was utterly convincing. Tying her up in knots. Presumably using the tactics he employed in court. ‘What’s your mobile number?’
    Looking back on it now, this was the moment at which her life had changed. She should have refused to give it to him.
    Instead, she told him, and he gravely punched it into his phone, then dialled.
    She felt her phone go in the pocket of her jeans. The vibration drilled right down into the core of her. But she just smiled and put her cigarette out on the garden wall, hoping he wouldn’t notice her hand shaking.
    ‘I better go back inside. Circulate.’
    He grimaced and mimed putting a gun to his head.
    ‘Good luck.’
     
    Inside, she scanned the guests until she picked out the woman who must be his wife. She was stunning. Amazonian, wearing a paisley silk halter-neck dress that left nothing to the imagination but wasn’t remotely tarty.
    ‘We’re going to St Moritz,’ she was declaring. ‘Ollie’s been there ever since he was tiny. He won’t go anywhere else. We stay at the Badrutt.’
    Sarah could just imagine him, gliding carelessly down the most treacherous of black runs, sauntering into the hotel afterwards, pushing back his hair, greeting the doorman, confident but casual.
    What on earth had he taken her number for? She wasn’t in his league. He was bored, probably. He’d look at his phone tomorrow and wonder whose number it was, then delete it. She went over to the table, where several half-empty bottles of champagne were going flat, and poured herself a glass.
    Ian came over to her. He looked a bit drunk, but happy. He thrived at social occasions like this.
    ‘Hey, babe.’ Babe? Babe?! ‘The Johnsons have asked if we want to go to Cheltenham with them.’
    Sarah looked puzzled.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Racing,’ he hissed, looking round to make sure no one else had heard her ignorant question. ‘They’ve got a box. You’ll have to dress up.’
    ‘Dog-racing? Ferret-racing?’
    ‘Oh, for God’s sake . . .’
    Sarah shrugged.
    ‘Sure.’ There was no point in protesting. They were