Lime and Soda ✓

nine - clash

We rise early on Saturday, Astrid and I. It's predicted to be the hottest day of the summer so far, and Astrid has decided we will spend the day surfing. It's my first time on a surfboard this summer, so Astrid has agreed to come with me before the others arrive so I have some time to warm up, find my stride. So I don't embarrass myself in front of Jay. Or anyone else, for that matter.

It's the kind of clear, tranquil morning that precedes a scorching hot day. The BBC predicts twenty-eight, nine, thirty by late afternoon. The hottest it gets in England, heatwave weather. It will be busy on the beach, but cooler there, with the sea breeze.

Astrid stayed over the night before, and we rose early, before Bea, took some breakfast out on the little patio in the garden - bowls of granola and fruit, juice, coffee (decaf for me). Bea's garden is an odd mix of well-kept and overgrown - she has an immaculate little herb garden by the compost heap, and not a single weed can be seen. Her plants thrive there, flourish in the sun that falls on the little spot in the middle of the day.

The patio is a mess, however - weeds and tufts of grass poke up from between the squares, reaching upwards towards the sun. Her set of garden furniture, a wooden table and four chairs, stands resolutely, battered by the weather. These we sit on gingerly to eat our breakfast. There is no sound save for the soft calling of the early morning birds, and the sky is a pale blue, unblemished by clouds. I strain my ears and can make out the soft sounds of the sea. Always there, never silent. 

We walk to the beach, but the longer way, through the town, shutting the front door softly so as not to wake Bea, not speaking much, enjoying the peaceful morning. We walk through the little cobbled streets, passing fish and chip shops, cafes not yet open for the day, greengrocers setting out their crates of fruit and vegetables outside. No one else is about yet, just locals. The tourists always lie in. We'll have the beach to ourselves for an hour or two, before they come out to enjoy the sun.

I've dug out and dusted off the old surfboard Bea keeps in her summerhouse at the bottom of the garden. She only keeps it for me now, or my cousins when they come home. Her surfing days are over. From what I've heard told over cups of mulled wine at Christmas time, clustered around the fire in Bea's cosy little sitting room or our lounge at home, my mother and Bea spent their whole childhood running in and out of the waves, swimming and surfing and playing. I wonder if that's how my kids will spend their summers too, if their kids will. On and on. We will always have the sea, I think, and that thought cheers me.

The beach is quiet when we arrive. I kick off my shoes and we set up camp near the beach huts, though not too close to the cafes. Today I'm wearing a pale pink bikini that I found, left in the wardrobe in my room from last summer. I'd forgotten I had it.

'Damn,' Astrid pronounces when I whip my shorts off (though leave my tshirt on - an oversized one that I sleep in occasionally). 'Your bum looks so good in that. Jay won't know where to look.'

I throw one of my shoes at her.

The water is crisp, cool, delicious. I savour every second as it laps around my ankles, thighs, waist, chest, until I am immersed. I tilt my head back and let the water lap around my ears, over my face. Then I swallow some by accident and gag, disgusted. Astrid laughs. 'Nice.'

The waves aren't too big today, but that suits me. I practice again and again until I'm no longer falling off my board every time, until I catch my balance. The sun rises higher in the sky, the beach becomes busier and busier, hotter and hotter. We stop to slather ourselves in suncream - the backs of my legs are turning pink.

Around eleven, the others arrive - first Celia and Eleanor, arm in arm, in matching bikinis, cornflower blue today, the colour of the sky, laughing. They stick a parasol into the sand to shield us from the heat, and unpack a basket filled with fruit, bread, cold pasta, some wine for tonight. Then Sophia and Sebastian, matching denim, matching blond hair, cold blue eyes. Neither of them greet me. Then Ross and Jay. The tension is palpable as they walk towards us across the sand. Astrid coughs and turns her back, heads back into the sea. They still haven't spoken. Sophia fixes a bright smile onto her face when she realises Jay is here. 'Hello, you two!' she trills. I want to slap her. My hands are suddenly clammy, and I don't know what to do. I feel a hot flush rising up my neck. Jay stops nearby, heaves his bag down onto the sand, raises a hand in greeting.