She longed for the sea…
Every month, Emily tucked away a portion of her salary for a holiday. For the past year, she had dreamt of the coast. Once, long ago, she had gone south with her parents, but she barely remembered it—she’d only been three. Afterwards, summers meant trips to her grandparents’ cottage, where instead of the sea, there was a shallow river, but she could splash about freely till her lips turned blue and goosebumps covered her skin.
In Year Five, her parents sent her to a summer camp. She hated it—too many rules, no freedom. They only swam once. The countryside holidays had been far better. Every weekend, her parents visited with sweets and treats. After that, Emily never went back to camp.
In her memories, childhood was golden: scorching white sun, shrieks of laughter in the river, sparkling droplets catching light. She remembered the scent of damp earth and dry, prickly grass along the bank, the warm dust underfoot like silk. Sometimes she’d dream she was running barefoot down that dusty lane, her skin browned from the sun, and there—coming towards her—were Mum and Dad… She always woke then, her heart pounding.
In Year Nine, her father died of a heart attack. Mum never recovered, fading like a candle. She visited the cemetery often, returning silent and hollow.
Then Mum fell ill, shuffling about the house, bent as if her strength had fled. She stopped fixing her hair, stopped caring. Emily often came home from school to find her still in bed.
“Mum, have you eaten?” Emily would ask anxiously.
“Not hungry. Too tired,” came the whispered reply.
Emily cooked, shopped, cleaned. She coaxed Mum to eat, but soon even that failed. The neighbour helped when Emily was at school—she was the one who called the day Mum died, staring at Dad’s photo on the wall.
Emily enrolled in an Open University course and took a job at the same institution. Plump and round-faced, she thought herself plain. Fad diets never lasted—two days of hunger, then raiding the fridge. By graduation, she accepted she’d never match magazine models. Genetics weren’t kind.
Perhaps that was why boys weren’t interested. No one called her fat, but still—no dates. “At the seaside, I’ll live on fruit and finally slim down,” she dreamed.
Her manager denied her summer leave.
“Be reasonable, Emily. You’re single, no kids. Should I let you go or Natalie, who’s got two little ones? Take September instead—shoulder season’s lovely.”
She agreed. What choice was there? Online, she scoured hotels, deciding to fly—expensive, but fast. Weather permitting. She bought a swimsuit and a floaty dress. At the coast, she’d get a wide-brimmed hat, just like in films. It was all she thought about. Even her dreams changed: now she ran along the shoreline, not a dusty lane.
One evening, riding the bus home, she counted down the weeks until her trip. A man sat beside her.
“Excuse me, how long till Babylon?”
She turned. He was handsome, pleasant.
“Not far. I’ll tell you when to get off. Visiting someone?”
“A friend. Said he lives near the shopping centre.” His gaze lingered.
“Oh? Which street?”
He fished a crumpled note from his pocket. “Green Street, number forty-two.”
“I’m at thirty-eight!” Why that delighted her, she didn’t know.
“Perfect. I’ll follow you out, then.” He smiled. “First time in town.”
They chatted easily. His friend had married, had a baby. Lost touch after the army. Nervous reunion.
“If he gave you the address, he’ll be glad to see you,” Emily said.
“Hope so. Lost his number. Didn’t warn him I’m coming.”
At the stop, they crossed the road. She pointed to her building.
“Here’s mine. Yours is just past.”
“Could I have your number? Just in case.” He looked bashful.
She recited it. It meant nothing. He wouldn’t call—someone like him? Mum had said to choose an equal, not a prince.
At half eight, her phone rang. Unknown number.
“We met on the bus. You gave me your number,” came his warm voice.
“My *number*, not my phone,” she corrected, heart skipping.
“My friend’s at his holiday home. Too late to go now.” A pause. “I’m stuck. Sorry to bother you.”
Her first thought: *cheeky bloke, inviting himself over.* Then—what if he liked her?
“Get a taxi to a hotel,” she said carefully.
“Right. Good idea.” He sounded deflated.
Silence. Then rustling.
“You alright?”
“Yeah. Thanks anyway.” The line went dead.
She fidgeted. A stranger, stranded. Not her problem. Yet… She dialled the last caller. He answered instantly, as if waiting.
“Fine. Come over.” She gave her flat number.
Five minutes later, James arrived. She’d barely swapped her tatty dressing gown for something decent. Over tea, he spoke of army days with his mate. She laughed, then shared her own loneliness. James understood—his dad was gone too. By one AM, she made up the sofa for him, taking her old childhood room where Mum had passed.
Sleep wouldn’t come. His intent looks, his stories—had she imagined interest? The flat stayed silent.
Her alarm jolted her awake. She dressed quickly, avoiding her usual robe. James was still asleep. She put the kettle on, then woke him. Over breakfast, they left together.
“Off to the train station?” she asked.
“To my friend’s holiday place.”
“There’s your bus—run!”
He sprinted. At the doors, he turned. “Thanks!”
The bus pulled away. She hadn’t expected him to vanish so fast. What had she hoped for? Melancholy settled over her commute.
That evening, her heart leapt approaching her building—but no James. She dozed on the sofa where he’d slept, dreaming of the sea, calling for Mum, voice lost…
She woke uneasy. Pitch dark, the TV flickering silently. Water didn’t soothe her nerves. Restless, she checked her savings—gone. Every last pound.
Panic crashed over her. No seaside now. All that scrimping wasted. Stupid to pity James—if that was even his name. Stupider to let him stay where she kept her cash. Why hadn’t he just booked a hotel? *Planned this all along.* She dialled his number. Disconnected.
She cried all night, cursing herself.
“Stop blubbing. He could’ve killed you. Be glad it was just money,” a colleague said.
At the police station, a young officer listened sympathetically.
“Sim card’s likely trashed. The money’s gone.”
“His phone was cheap, now I think of it,” she sniffled. “Saved all year for this…”
*Silly cow. Serves me right.*
Days later, the officer—Tom—visited.
“Did you catch him?”
“No. The SIM was bought under a fake name. Only called you. Be careful next time.”
“Never trusting strangers again.”
Tom studied her. “You’ll get your seaside. And love. You’re… nice.” He flushed crimson.
Not a looker, stocky, ordinary. Handsome men brought trouble, she now knew. She made tea. He asked her to the cinema. She said yes.
Three months later, they married. The seaside holiday postponed—she was pregnant by summer.
They finally went when their son Archie turned two. Emily sat on the sand, watching Tom and Archie toddle hand in hand at the water’s edge.
*If I hadn’t dreamt of the sea, saved up, been robbed… I’d never have met Tom. Now there’s Archie. This is happiness. Feels like the sea brought it, after all.*
Warmed by sun and love, she smiled.
