She dreamed of the sea…
Emily tucked away a portion of her paycheck every month, saving for a holiday by the coast. For the last year, the sea had been all she could think about. Once, long ago, her parents had taken her south—but she barely remembered it. She’d been no more than three at the time. After that, summers meant the countryside, sent off to her grandparents’ cottage where the shallow river replaced the ocean, murky and warm, demanding blue lips and goosebumps from endless swimming.
In Year Four, her parents packed her off to summer camp. She hated it—the rigid schedule, the lack of freedom. They only swam once. The countryside had been better, with weekends full of family visits and treats. She never went back to camp.
Her childhood memories burned with white-hot sun, the shrill laughter of village children darting through the water, the shimmer of spray catching light. The scent of pondweed and brittle grass drying under the relentless sky. The warm, silken dust beneath her bare feet on the road.
Sometimes, she dreamed of running down that dusty path, her skin tanned nearly black, her ankles sinking into the soft earth. Then her parents would appear—just before she’d wake, heart pounding.
When she was in Year Eight, her father died of a heart attack. Her mother, hollowed by grief, flickered like a dying candle. She spent hours at the cemetery, returning silent and heavy.
Then her mother fell ill. She shuffled through the house, bent like an old woman, strength drained. She stopped styling her hair, stopped caring. Emily often came home from school to find her still in bed.
“Mum, have you eaten?” Emily would ask, voice tight with worry.
“Can’t. No strength,” her mother would whisper, dry lips barely moving.
Emily cooked, shopped, cleaned, coaxed her mother to take a bite. Then, one day, her mother stopped leaving the bed entirely. No pleading, no tears could rouse her. A neighbour checked in while Emily was at school, the same woman who called to say her mother was gone.
She barely remembered sitting her exams—if she even sat them at all. Her mother had died just before the school year ended, eyes fixed on her husband’s portrait. The neighbour helped with the funeral.
Emily enrolled in university through distance learning and took a job at the same institute. Round-faced, soft-bodied, she agonised over her reflection, cycling through fad diets only to abandon them in a storm of self-loathing. By graduation, she accepted the truth—she’d never match the glossy magazine ideals. Wrong genes.
Men weren’t cruel, but neither were they interested. “When I go to the seaside,” she promised herself, “I’ll eat only fruit. Then I’ll finally be thin.”
Her boss at the firm denied her summer leave.
“Be reasonable, Emily. You’re single, no children. Should I give summer to you or to, say, Natalie with her two little ones? Exactly. Put in for September. Perfect weather then.”
She agreed—what choice was there? She scrolled through hotels online, settled on flying—expensive but fast. Prayed for good weather. Bought a swimsuit, a light sundress. Imagined a wide-brimmed hat like in the films. The sea became her only dream. Even at night, she no longer ran down dusty roads—now she raced along the shoreline.
One evening, riding the bus home, she counted the weeks left to her holiday. A man slid into the seat beside her.
“Excuse me, how much longer to Babylon?”
She glanced at him—pleasant-faced, friendly.
“Not long. I’ll tell you when to get off. Are you visiting?”
“No, a friend. Said he lives near the shopping centre,” he replied, studying her.
“Which street?”
He fished a crumpled note from his pocket. “Green Street, number forty-two.”
“I live at thirty-eight,” she said, inexplicably pleased.
“Then we’ll get off together, and you can point me the way.”
She nodded, turning back to the window.
“Old army mate,” he mused. “Got married, had a daughter. Haven’t seen him in years. A bit nervous.”
“If he gave you the address, he’s expecting you,” she offered.
“He gave the address—lost his number. Didn’t tell him I was coming. What if he’s away?”
They talked idly until their stop. She showed him her building, directed him further down the road.
“Could I have your number? Just in case.” His smile flickered, shy.
She recited it. It meant nothing. She was sure he wouldn’t call. Her mother always said to match with equals—this man was too handsome for her. He thanked her and left, vanishing around the corner.
Later, half-asleep in front of the telly, her phone trilled. An unknown number. Half past eight. Then she remembered the man from the bus.
“We met earlier—you gave me your number,” the voice said, warm.
“My number, not my phone,” she corrected, heart leaping.
“Turns out my friend’s at his country place. I rang him, but it’s too late to go now.” A pause. “I’m sorry to bother you with this.”
She froze. The nerve—a stranger hinting for an invitation. Then—did he like her? Was this his way in?
“Call a cab. There’s a hotel nearby,” she said carefully.
“Right. I’ll do that.” He sounded defeated. A rustling noise.
“Are you alright?”
“Fine. Thanks again.” The line went dead.
Unease settled over her. A stranger, alone in a new city, maybe penniless. Not her problem. And yet… She dialled the last missed call. He answered instantly.
“Alright, come over.” She gave her flat number and hung up.
Five minutes later, he was at her door. She’d barely changed out of her tatty dressing gown. Over tea, he told her about his army days—James, he introduced himself. She laughed, genuinely, for the first time in ages. Then, haltingly, she spoke of being alone. His father was gone too, he said. They turned in after midnight—she made up the sofa in the living room, took the small bedroom where her mother had died.
She lay awake, replaying his steady gaze, his stories. Not a sound from the other room.
The alarm jolted her awake. She grabbed her dressing gown—then remembered James and pulled on a dress instead. Washed her face, dabbed on mascara, put the kettle on before gently waking him. They left together after breakfast.
“Where now?” she asked.
“Train station. Off to see my mate.”
“That’s your bus—run, you’ll make it.”
He did—sprinting, turning at the door to shout, “Thanks!”
She watched the bus pull away. She hadn’t expected him to leave so fast. What had she hoped for? She didn’t know. Just a dull ache, the certainty she’d never see him again. On her own commute, she stared out the window, pitying herself, her rotten luck.
That evening, approaching her building, she half-expected to see him waiting. Nothing. She slumped onto the sofa where he’d slept, dozing off to dreams of running along the shore, screaming for her mother—soundless.
She woke gasping, heart hammering. The room glowed with the silent flicker of the telly. She splashed water on her face—but the dread clung. Wide awake, she dug into her savings—gone. The £200 for her holiday. Ransacked the wardrobe. Nothing.
Panic hit like a wave. No sea now. No holiday. All those months of scrimping. All for nothing.
She should never have let him in. Should never have pitied him. Was it even James? He’d slept steps from her savings. Not a sound. She grabbed her phone—his number was dead.
She sobbed all night, cursing herself.
“Stop crying, Emily. He could’ve killed you. Be glad he only took the money,” her co-worker said the next day.
She left work early, filed a report at the station. A young officer listened, handed her water—her teeth chattered against the glass.
“Calm down. The SIM’s tossed, phone too. The money’s gone,” he said gently.
“I noticed—someone like him, with such a cheap phone…” She wiped her eyes. “A whole year saving. Just wanted to see the sea…”
“Silly cow. Serves you right,” she thought on the way home. A flicker outside the bus window—was that James? Too fast to tell.
Days later, the same officer knocked on her door.
“Did you catch him? Find the money?”
“No. The SIM was bought a week ago—by someone else. Your ‘James’ spun a tale about a stalker. Only called you. Be careful next time.”
“I’ll never trust anyone again.”
He looked at her, softening. “You’ll have your sea. A husband, love. You’re…” He trailed off, blushing.
Not handsome—sturdy, plain. Unlike theShe smiled, watching her little boy chase the waves, and realised that sometimes the wrong turn leads you exactly where you’re meant to be.
