A short story about a couple spending a weekend in a seaside town, where their future will be decided.

It was too cloudy for much of a sunset, but the forecast was hopeful. They walked from the station along the beachfront, empty now that it was evening, and stopped at the kebab shop where the street meets the highroad. When the woman said they were here for ‘Emile’s keys’, the guy behind the counter looked puzzled. He conferred with his colleague in a language the woman didn’t know.

‘Ah, you mean Emil-ee,’ he said at last, and handed her a brown envelope with a bulge in the middle. ‘35 B, yeah?’

Outside her boyfriend said, ‘I told you it was Emily. That’s how she said it on the phone.’

‘What, they’ve got a bucket of keys back there? Besides, who spells Emily E-M-I-L-E? It doesn’t make any sense.’

The man fiddled with the lock until the door gave way.

‘This place isn’t bad. You always think they won’t live up to the pictures.’

The main room was divided by a central island into a kitchen and a living area. One side was lined with books, another gave way to a balcony, set up with two chairs and a coffee table. Nice place for breakfast, the woman thought. On the back wall, the brickwork was exposed.

‘I love the way they do this. Like you’re looking at the outside of the house.’

‘Yeah, it’s nice,’ the man said, without enthusiasm.

There were wooden floorboards throughout, except in the bedroom, which was carpeted and much larger than the one they shared in London. The bathroom contained a free-standing tub with lion paw feet.

‘Perhaps we should move to Margate,’ the woman said.

She was standing in front of the balcony, looking at where the sunset would have been.

‘Yeah? And what would we do here?’

He walked up behind her, wrapped his arms round her waist, and kissed her neck. She sighed.

‘Let’s fuck right away,’ he said, ‘before we do anything else.’

Before she could come, they were startled by the sound of water gushing against the bathroom sink. The poltergeist proved bashful and soon turned the taps off again, but they’d already given up. It didn’t matter. Coming wasn’t the be-all and end-all.

Still, the man was hurt, his body tense in her arms.

‘I’m just tired, ok? Tomorrow you’ll make me come.’

The man went to run a bath. As the tub filled, he said, ‘You can join me, if you like.’

She said she’d have a shower when he was done. Once he’d closed the door to the bathroom, she began to touch herself. Then she decided to go for a walk. ‘I’ll be back in half an hour,’ she called at the door. ‘Want me to pick anything up?’ But there was no answer, and she wasn’t sure if he’d heard.

She headed towards the sea. It was properly dark now, and she felt a tremor of excitement. It had been so long since the two of them had got away. The smell of salt blew in from the sea, and she found herself ambling towards the tall, neon sign for Dreamland. The glowing letters, shining above a stream of cars, recalled the films she used to watch as a teenager. She called her friend.

‘You having a good time?’

‘I love it here. At night, it’s all lit up, it looks like a Hopper painting. I feel like I already know my way around.’

After a short silence, the friend said,‘I don’t know what that is.’

She shouldn’t have mentioned Hopper. Did she think she sounded smart? She knew from experience, no one was impressed. Her friend asked about the boyfriend.

‘He works so hard, you know, I think it really benefits him to get out.’

‘I wish I could get away more.’

In the silence on the phone, she thought she could hear plates clattering together. I think it really benefits him. Since when did she talk like that? A little way out on the beach walked a little girl with plaited hair, all on her own. She wore a long, green dress which scraped the sand, and threatened to trip her feet. Now she bent over to pick up a stone and threw it at the sea.

The friend was speaking again. ‘So do you think he’s gonna do it?’

‘Do what?’

‘Propose, idiot.’

‘I don’t know why you’d say that.’

‘It’s your, what, six-year anniversary? Seven-year? He takes you out to the seaside, pays for a nice room…’

Where were the child’s parents? She stepped out onto the sand, but the girl, as if frightened, turned on her heels. In a few moments she had merged with the people walking along the street, and the woman lost sight of her.

‘Are you still there?’ her friend asked.

 When she got back, the flat was filled with the smell of garlic. Earlier they’d said they would go out for dinner tonight and eat in tomorrow.

‘You were a while, so I thought I’d make myself useful,’ the man said.

That night they didn’t have sex. The man fell asleep fast—it was like he had an off-button—and the woman lay awake. She tried reading in the main room. Probably out here it was more common to let children wander off. A more trusting place. She gulped down a glass of leftover wine and returned to bed. With her eyes closed, she imagined she was swimming through endless black water.

The man was making breakfast when she got up. On the island, a lidless cafetiere brimmed with coffee. Looking closely, she saw lighter shades swirling through the dark liquid.

‘There’s this amazing little shop just down the road. It’s a shame you missed it, but I’ll show you later. Feel this loaf. Still warm.’

In the pan sitting above a ring of flames, oil was just starting to spit. The man cracked an egg one-handed, then another. Then he turned around and kissed her on the mouth.

‘Happy anniversary,’ he said.

‘Would you like a present?’

He nodded and kissed her again. In the bedroom, she retrieved his gift from her suitcase. It was an art deco clock, a restored piece. Set against marbled wood, the round face was protected by a convex glass, giving it the look of a ship’s porthole.

She placed it on the island, next to the cafetiere.

‘Yours is on the table,’ the man said.

There it was, a tiny black box, tied with pink ribbon. The man served the eggs out onto avocado toast and asked her to plunge the coffee. Then they carried everything over to the breakfast table.

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

‘Let’s eat first,’ she said.

‘I want to see your face.’

So this was it, it was happening now. She didn’t know what she’d say. Carefully, she unknotted the ribbon and opened the box.

A pair of earrings, two amber tear drops.

‘Aren’t they exactly your style? Got a good price too, poor guy didn’t know what hit him.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, putting the lid back on the box.

‘I thought you might put them on.’

‘I’m already wearing hoops.’

She tossed salt onto her egg and cut herself a mouthful. The yolk spilled out over the plate.

‘What? What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. Let’s just eat, ok?’

‘You don’t like them? We’ll take them back, exchange them for something else. I kept the receipt. You can do the explaining, though.’

‘They’re perfect,’ she said. ‘Did you hear me?’

He was still looking at her. ‘Don’t you want me to open mine?’

In the shower, she considered her behaviour. The earrings were beautiful, and it would hardly have killed her to put them on. Trouble was she wasn’t twenty-five anymore. An engagement lasts a year, eighteen months tops, longer than that was silly. Being optimistic, it might take another year of trying before she got pregnant. Once you added nine months, that would mean that even if he had proposed today, she would be at least thirty-five by the time she had her first child, and probably thirty-six. According to the medical guides, a geriatric mother. Last year, he promised he was going to propose before her next birthday. Promised. And of course, she’d let herself believe him. Then the day came and went. What could she say? Where’s my proposal? Where’s my fucking ring?!

At least he liked the clock.

By the time she came out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, she’d thought up what to say. ‘I’m sorry if I was off earlier. I just feel funny. Maybe it’s because it’s our anniversary, and we didn’t have sex this morning.’

‘You slept in! You were tired.’

‘I know, I know,’ she said, lifting her hand to his face. ‘My fault. We could do it now, before we go out?’

He pulled her close and kissed the top of her head.‘It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just, it’s already past eleven, and we’ll miss the day.’

‘Of course.’

‘When you smile, a pair of parentheses appears at either side of your mouth. Quite charming, really.’

He had made this observation before, and she found it strange that he should repeat it now. She didn’t know she was smiling.

It was unseasonably warm, and they headed straight for the sea. Such a jolt when you got in, but ok once you got used to it. Before they submerged themselves, the man asked the woman to let herself fall back into his arms; he would catch her just as she was about to plunge through the surface of the water. She protested, but then he said, ‘Don’t you trust me?’ and she had to go along with it. In the end she was glad. She liked the feeling of free fall, and the sudden arrival of his arms, like a spontaneous realisation. Later she made him immerse himself fully. Getting his hair wet in open water was one of the few things he was a wuss about. She loved him for it. He burst out of the water with his darkened fringe flattened against his face, puffing.

Up on the pier they ordered oysters and a half bottle of champagne at one of the pop-ups. The afternoon sun glittered on the moving sea. A diamond of light would appear and vanish, only to return a second later. She wondered if he was going to do it here. It was a more spectacular setting than the breakfast table. Then she told herself not to think like that. Watched kettles. There were a dozen oysters in total. She ate five and he ate seven, but probably she was the only one counting.

‘What now?’ she asked.

‘Let’s check out the shell grotto.’

The grotto was something she read about before they came, one of the reasons they chose Margate. No one knew who built it or why. According to the information plaques, nearly five million shells had been used in the construction of the mosaic panels that stretched from the floor to the ceilings of the underground cave, and not all the shells were from local beaches. The caves were discovered in the 1830s. Precisely how many centuries they had lain dormant, with all that brilliance hidden just a few feet under the earth, was disputed. And if it was a temple, as many people speculated, which God did it celebrate? The woman stood now in front of what looked like a rose. The petals were formed from oyster shells arranged in a spiral, with a small conch in the centre. In nearby panels she thought she saw the image of a star, and what looked like a raised hand.

These arched passages reminded her of the interiors of early churches. Stained by years of gaslit tours, the once-vivid shells were blackened now, smoky grey near the base of the walls and virtually charcoal further up. She realised the man was no longer beside her. He must gave gone the other way. Due to the colourless walls and the low lighting, walking through those dim corridors felt curiously like stepping into a black and white photograph.

At the end of the tunnels, the cave opened out into a large, rectangular space, known as the altar room. The back wall was destroyed by bombs during the Second World War and was plastered over with a large blow-up of a photograph from the thirties. A group of unsmiling women, spanning from youth to middle age, sit closed in by the walls of shell. They are here to attend a séance. One stands in the centre with her eyes closed and her hands clasped together.

On another day, in a better mood, the woman might have found this place thrilling. But now she found it vaguely horrifying. Imagine spending your whole life in the dark, sticking shells to the wall. Joining up with a band of sad women and demanding answers from the dead.

For dinner they’d booked a seafood restaurant, and he ordered for both of them. At times like this, he seemed perfectly at ease with the world, joking with the waiters, asking questions about the wine. She was reminded of her first impressions of him, at a mutual friend’s birthday party. A tall man on the far side of the room, gesturing excitedly to some people arranged on a sofa. How confident he had seemed then. And how everyone had laughed.

After the starters came—kippered herring, fish soup—he asked what was up.

‘Nothing,’ she said.

‘You’re miserable. I know you. Ever since breakfast you’ve been having an awful time.’

She wanted to cry.

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Just say whatever it is.’

‘It’ll sound stupid.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

He put his hand on hers.

‘It’s nothing really. This morning, when you gave me that little box, I thought you were going to propose. There. I said it would sound silly.’

She jerked her hand away from his and sipped her wine.

‘I see,’ he said. He began to cut his food. The look of infinite patience was gone. ‘And now, you’re, like, mad at me because I didn’t propose? Is that it?’

‘You know it’s not that simple.’

The man flagged down the waitress and ordered a second carafe of wine.

‘I just don’t see why it matters so much. You wanted us to be exclusive, we’re exclusive. Then you wanted to move in together, we moved in. I try and plan a nice trip for our anniversary, and still it’s not enough. Nothing is ever enough.’

‘I didn’t realise it was such a sacrifice for you to be exclusive.’

Under the table, she squeezed her nails into the palm of her hand.

‘You always take everything in the worst way. I’m just saying I try, don’t I, to give you what you want. And now this, this fixation…’

The waitress returned with the carafe. She tried to top up the woman’s glass, but the woman waved her hand over the rim. When the waitress was gone, she helped herself.

‘You said, though. You promised. You told me that you would propose before I turned thirty-two.’

The man put down his cutlery.

‘I don’t remember that.’

‘You’re fucking kidding me.’

‘No, seriously, when did I say that? I just don’t feel like I would say something like that.’

‘Fuck you.’

Other people glanced.

‘Jesus, ok, I’m not going to have a yes-you-did, no-I-didn’t argument. Let’s just agree to disagree.’

She couldn’t believe he had regained his composure so quickly. Worse still, he looked as if he really didn’t remember what he’d promised.

‘Fuck you,’ she said again. She hated the way it sounded.

He laughed. ‘Wonderful, very mature.’ Then he went on eating. Eventually, he looked up, smiling, and said, ‘You gonna keep swearing at me, or are you done now?’

That night he said he was going down to the pub and she could come with or do her own thing, and she went walking along the seafront. She wondered if she’d see the little girl again, but the beach was empty. The sea at night was black and depthless. It must be strange to live by the sea, to look out at that expanse of darkness every night. Perhaps it was precarious coastal life that caused strange passions to take root in your heart, sending you under the ground day after day to build temples from the shells of dead fish and worship terrible gods. Who knew. As far out as she could see, right at the horizon, three tall pillars rose from the water, each one capped with a dot of light. What were they? Lighthouses? She felt drawn to them, imagining the pillars were three travellers who had sailed right out to the edge of the world.

She was fairly sure her relationship was over. She was trying, very hard, to care.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked. It was Sunday morning. They’d been walking for nearly twenty minutes, and had rerouted twice after a wrong turn, though the man’s eyes were glued to his phone. It was the hottest it had been all weekend, and the obvious thing was to swim again.

‘You’ll see,’ the man said. ‘Almost there.’

At the end of a long, cobbled street, they came to an antiques shop. In the glass display-case were watches and rings and an old pipe, but they were obscured by a curtain of metal bars.

‘Damn it,’ he said, kicking the stoop. ‘There must be somewhere else.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘What do you think?’

The second shop they found was open, but far shabbier. It specialised in novelty items. He could have bought her a ring with a mermaid lounging topless on a silver bed, or earrings shaped like Poseidon’s tridents.

‘I think we should go home,’ she said. ‘I feel weird.’

‘What do you mean? This is what you want, right?’

‘Not like this.’

‘Look, I figured it out. Ok? Look at me. Look at me. Last night, I was in this pub that overlooked the sea, and I was miserable. And people could tell – the barman mixed me a Negroni on the house, but it only made me more miserable. After a while, I caught sight of this figure, wandering over the sand. She looked so lost. But even at a distance, I could see how beautiful she was. I wondered if I should go out and ask what she wanted. And as she got closer, of course, I realised it was you. It made me so very happy. That’s when I realised. I’m fucking up the best relationship of my life. For what? I couldn’t remember what I was even scared of anymore. So I decided, let’s do it, let’s buy a ring and get it over with.’  

‘You sure that wasn’t the gin talking?’

He smiled. ‘You know what Hemingway said, don’t you? He said you should always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That way you learn to keep your mouth shut.’

The third place had a suitable ring. It was rose gold, her favourite. He let her pick it and asked her to step outside while he paid for it. The shop assistant told her how lucky she was. She still couldn’t decide if it was odd for a woman to pick her own engagement ring. There had been a moment when he asked her if she was sure she was happy with that one. And then it was decided, and then the moment was gone forever.

Middle of the next week the woman called her friend. She hadn’t told anyone yet.

‘Oh my God, I’m so happy for you! Bet you’re glad all that waiting didn’t come to nothing! You must be thrilled.’

‘I am, it’s wonderful. It was the perfect weekend, so romantic.’

She told her friend about the shell grotto and swimming in the sea at night. She told her about watching the sun set before they caught the train back to London on Sunday evening, their first sunset as an engaged couple. The sky turned pink and then red, and even after the sun had slipped below the horizon, the windows of the sea-facing houses burned yellow and orange.

‘So how did he do it? Did he go down on one knee?’

‘No,’ she said, and then corrected herself. ‘I mean yes.’ She paused. However she told the story now, she would have to stick to it for the rest of her life. One day, too, she would have to teach the story to her fiancé.

Photo of dock at sunset by Kim Frewin-Clarke on Unsplash

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