The Men in her Life

had made excuses because even wearing a Guernsey sweater, Dockers and espadrilles, she didn’t see herself as a sailing kind of person. This weekend, after the emotional upheaval of the last week, she had jumped at the opportunity to get out of London and feel the wind on her face. She was enjoying it more than she had thought she would, even though it was raining so hard it was impossible to tell where the sea ended and the sky began. Playing cards in the cabin reminded her of being in the caravan Colette’s family had taken every summer at Camber Sands. It felt safe and cosy drinking beer out of cans and chatting about nothing in particular with Simon.
    ‘Did you find it?’
    ‘Yes, thank you,’ Holly ducked her head. The boat Was fun in a cramped, Wendy-house kind of way, but she drew the line at peeing in a chemical toilet.
    ‘If it brightens up tomorrow, I thought we might wander down to Littlehampton.’ Simon was looking at a navigational chart.
    ‘Right. Great!’ Holly replied, privately hoping the sky would continue to throw it down. The slight rocking motion of water beneath them was quite relaxing, but she wasn’t sure she would be as happy bobbing about on the swirling grey mass beyond the Marina walls. Simon folded his chart and dealt another hand of gin rummy. She took up the cards slowly.
    ‘Did you know there’s a floating Chinese restaurant? D’you fancy going? Or I saw a poster for a karaoke evening in a pub...’
    Simon grimaced.
    ‘You’re not serious?’
    "Course I am. Come on, it’ll be fun. Scampi and chips in the basket, lots of lager and I promise I won’t make you sing.’

    Holly had all the gestures and the power, but her voice was approximately a semitone flat and ‘Memories’ was a difficult song at the best of times. The packed audience divided between booing and cheering as she returned to the table, her face pink from the exertion and heat.
    ‘Was I OK?’ she asked earnestly.
    ‘You were brilliant,’ Simon said, making room for her next to him on his chair.
    ‘I’d love to be able to really sing. Did I ever tell you that the first day I got given a dictaphone at work, I brought it home that evening and taped myself singing along to Patsy Cline? I wanted to know how bad I sounded, and you know, it wasn’t that bad...’
    She remembered herself standing in the colourful fall-out that was her bedroom, can of Stella in one hand, dictaphone in the other, singing ‘Crazy’.
    ‘Your turn,’ Holly said, taking a slug of lager and pointing at the stage. They were calling for volunteers.
    ‘No way,’ Simon said.
    ‘You must. You’ve got all the words on the screen. Go on. You couldn’t be worse than that...’ she pointed at the elderly Teddy boy with boot-polish quiff who was slurring his way through ‘Always on my Mind’. ‘Go on, I dare you...’
    ‘I suppose if I don’t, I’ll never hear the last of it...?’
    ‘Correct...’ Holly drained her glass.
    ‘As a matter of fact, I used to do Sinatra after about fourteen pints when I was at college...’
    ‘Well then
    ‘But I’ve only had three...’ he pointed at his empty glass.
    ‘I’ll get another round in while you’re up there.’ Holly was unrelenting.
    Simon walked unsteadily towards the stage and within seconds was standing in the spotlight singing ‘Strangers in the Night’ to a full orchestral accompaniment.
    ‘You bastard,’ Holly said, sticking her tongue out at him when he came back to the table, ‘you never told me you could really sing.’
    At closing time they walked along the sea front, bought hot dogs from a van and ate them leaning against the railings. Beneath them a row of discotheques pounded out Seventies hits. A gaggle of women wearing L-plates queued on the lower promenade giggling and shrieking.
    ‘Hen party,’ Holly said, as Simon stared bewildered.
    The rain had stopped but the sea was still heaving. They had to shout to hear each other above the Bee Gees, the crash of waves and the football-rattle drag of pebbles.
    ‘I could be perfectly happy living by the sea,’ Holly cried.
    ‘Me too...’
    ‘I don’t mean somewhere peaceful and nice, like where Clare lives, I mean somewhere like this, with all the tackiness and sleaze. I’d be in my element.’
    ‘You’d probably get bored with karaoke every night...’ he joked.
    ‘Well, I could always take up Bingo, or bowling...’
    ‘Some of us from work sometimes go bowling on Friday night,’ Simon said as