She had forgiven me for my outburst. She was gentle with me, occasionally running a finger down the side of my face with sympathetic eyes. At night she was increasingly passionate, as if she, too, was determined to glean every last bit of happiness from what remained of our time together. Sometimes I had to tell her I couldn’t – I felt too sad and angry about what would soon take place that I couldn’t make it happen.
She never commented. She would just wrap her thin limbs round me, rest her face against the back of my neck and the two of us would lie, in the darkness, each knowing the other was awake, neither knowing what to say.
Several times she had asked when my sister was likely to call, when she was likely to do the interview. She tried to make her enquiries sound casual, but I knew she needed to set things in motion, to know exactly how much time she had left. I had stalled at first, then tried several times to reach Monica, but always I got her voicemail. Each time we failed to speak I felt nothing but relief.
My despondency was not helped by the seemingly unstoppable momentum of the hotel development. I was running out of ideas and energy, and despite my best efforts, I hadn’t managed to get a demonstration going on the day the architectural model went on display. The owner of the Blue Shoals Hotel rang to tell me that, sympathetic as he was to what I was doing, he ‘didn’t want any aggro’ as there was a christening party in the back room that lunchtime, and surely I understood. He sounded like a nice guy, and I didn’t feel I could ruin a family’s special day, so I called it off. Kathleen had laughed drily when I told her, and said some revolutionary I would have made. I didn’t like to tell her that only a handful of people had shown interest in joining the demonstration as it was.
Liza was out on Ishmael, and Hannah was at school, so after I’d tried and failed to continue the fight from my desk, I had headed down to the Blue Shoals, relishing, despite myself, the bright blue sky, and the warm breeze. These days, with the onset of warmer weather, Silver Bay seemed the most beautiful place on earth. Its landscape had become familiar, the volcanic horizon restful to the eye, the rows of bungalows and holiday lets no longer jarring, the pie and bottle shops along the coast road now regular stopping-off points. Everything a person could need is in this small corner of the world, I thought. One of the few certainties I employed to console myself was that I had decided to stay. I would help Kathleen in her fight to keep afloat, and look after Hannah until Liza came home.
In the circumstances it felt like the least I could do.
I was the only person in Reception at the Blue Shoals. The receptionist, who might have recognised me, jerked her thumb towards the leg of the L-shaped foyer, and there, flanked by cardboard screens, which illustrated projected visitor numbers and benefits for the community, it sat in a Perspex case, around four feet by six, unnoticed.
It was exactly as I had pictured it. In fact, I realised, as I bent over, it was better. Its four buildings were situated elegantly round a series of courtyards and swimming-pools. Its solar canopies mimicked the shape of the hills behind it. It was white and glossy, immaculate and expensive. Despite the weird stasis you get with architectural models, you could imagine the throngs of people round the pools, strolling back to their rooms after a day at the beach. The watersports area, which jutted far into the bay, was punctuated by little plastic boats and even two waterskiers, complete with foam trails. Whale Jetty was lined with expensive white yachts and catamarans. The sand was white and the buildings gleamed with whitewash and glass. The little pine trees climbed mountains behind it, and the sea was turquoise. It looked like somewhere you might like to fall into. It looked, I had to admit, like a little stretch of Paradise, and the business side of me couldn’t help but feel a perverse admiration for my own skills. Then I looked down the miniature bay and saw that Kathleen’s place and the Whalechasers Museum no longer existed. There was white sand, the headland and nothing else.
Anger built inside me again.
‘Looks pretty good, doesn’t it?’
I glanced up to see Mr Reilly gazing at the Perspex case. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and his jacket was over his shoulder, as if he hadn’t been prepared for the day’s warmth. ‘You must be pretty pleased with yourself.’
I straightened.
‘I’ve been wondering where they got all the little figures,’ he said.
‘There are specialist companies,’ I said curtly. ‘They make them to order.’
‘I’ve got a son who’s obsessed with model railways,’ he continued, squatting down so that he could see it all at eye level. ‘I should get them to make him a few figures. He’d love it.’
I said nothing. I was staring at the space where Kathleen’s hotel should have been.
‘Different when you see it in three-D, though,’ he observed. ‘I thought I could see it on the plans, but this brings it to life.’
‘It’s a mistake,’ I said. ‘It’s going to be a disaster for the area.’
Mr Reilly deflated slightly, stood up. ‘I’d heard you’d gone native. You surprise me, Mike, given how hard you fought for this place.’
‘I saw what you would lose,’ I said, ‘and I didn’t want to be part of it.’
‘I don’t believe we’ll lose too much.’
‘Just your whales and dolphins.’
‘You’re being a little dramatic, mate. Look, the coastguards have had a clampdown on those disco boats. There’s been none here for over ten days now. They’ve got the message.’
‘Until the building starts.’
‘Mike, there’s no evidence that building on shore is going to stress the animals.’
‘But the watersports will.’
‘Beaker have promised to put some pretty tough regulations in place.’
‘You think an eighteen-year-old with a jet-ski cares about regulations? It’s all cumulative, Mr Reilly,’ I said. ‘It’s all adding to the stresses on the whales.’
‘I’d have to disagree,’ he said. ‘At least two humpbacks have been spotted this week, which is about right for this late in the season. The whale-watchers are out again. Dolphins are there. Forgive me for saying this, but I don’t really understand why you’re so opposed to it.’
We stood opposite each other, the great glass case between us. I wanted to hit him, which was unusual for me, and a pity, as I suspected in other circumstances I might have liked him. I took a deep breath and gestured towards the model. ‘Mr Reilly, do me a favour. Tell me what you see when you look at this,’ I said.