by Philippa Green
Ali pulled her hand through the tangle of her hair and scowled at the bathroom mirror.
Sand specks trailed the bathroom floor. The mingled scent of pine and sunscreen hung fresh on the sarong laid out to dry on the balcony. Sea salt clung to her skin, crusting her hair after a day spent half in half out of the water.
“More sunscreen tomorrow,” said the mirror. “Factor 50 please.”
“Of course.” Ali smiled. A tight weariness creasing her forehead.
It had mostly been a day of sandcastles, moats collapsing as the tide pulled in. Squealing, laughing, whining, sulking and then back to laughing again. Up and down the corniche, the same mini dramas unfolding.
“Olive have a good day?” asked the mirror.
“Always,” said Ali.
Olive loved the beach.
Out of the shower, Ali ruffled her clean hair.
The console by her bedside flashed, irascible and ignored:
Software update overdue.
Date time stamp anomaly identified
Click ‘here’ to accept software update.
Ali scrolled through and ignored the unread messages, voicemail notifications and software update requests.
Date time stamp anomaly identified.
‘There’s never enough time,’ she thought and marched downstairs to get Olive’s dinner out of the fridge, feed the dog and get the towels out of the dryer for tomorrow.
Alone in the kitchen, Ali poured a glass of wine. She’d chosen the bottle, a local Rueda, at the beach side tapas bar earlier today. The Subscription didn’t think she needed wine at this time. Why would it?
“Shall I read your messages?” asked the console.
“No thank you,” said Ali.
She tipped Olive’s uneaten pasta and tomato sauce into the dog’s bowl. Cato lived almost entirely from Olive’s uneaten food these days. He seemed well enough on it.
“Jerry called,” said the console.
Ali took her wine onto the balcony. Cato followed and together they watched the stars twinkle across the bay. Through the nursery window, Olive’s sleep machine offered a lullaby blend of dreamy tunes and cricket chirps.
Next morning, an early mist hung over the bay. A halo of clouds clinging to the toblerone mountains that surrounded the harbour.
The clouds would burn off by mid-morning. They always did. And then Olive would spend the afternoon digging her delicious feet into the sand. Splash salt spray into her face. Complain at the sting and then do it again.
Sitting on the balcony, hands wrapped around her coffee cup, feet propped against the balcony, Ali smiled.
It was too early still for Olive to be up. From the nursery window, the sleep machine whispered soothing white noise. It would turn soon to birds – a chatter calibrated to rouse a cheerful toddler.
The coffee was bitter and strong. A caffeine hit equal to the hour. Ali had had to over-ride the automated shopping list to get caffeine back on the menu. Paid unscheduled at a store not supported by her Subscription. But it was worth it.
“Seat belts,” said the car as Ali slipped her bag onto the seat in the back of the car.
“Of course.” Ali clipped the elaborate seat belts close. They were the safest on the market. Jerry had insisted.
“Round the Bobbin or Freddie’s Favourite?” The car offered up Olive’s two songs of the moment. It had been Freddie’s Favourite for the last five car trips.
“Round the Bobbin?” suggested Ali, rushing the words before Olive could object.
“Round the Bobbin!” concurred the car.
Ali glanced in the mirror as she reversed out of the parking space, hoping to catch the cheerful turn of Olive’s mouth as she sang along.
But Olive was asleep.
“Jerry called,” said her watch.
Ali took it off. Laid it on her bedside table and left it there as she stood under the shower. Streams of hot water washing off the day’s sand and salt spray.
“Sunscreen!” Reprimanded the mirror as she peered into the glass and tracked the course of sun damage across her face.
“Of course,” said Ali.
“Olive have a good day?” asked the mirror.
“Always,” said Ali.
Another crystal morning.
The mist halo burned off by mid-morning into a beach-perfect afternoon.
Ali loaded Olive’s beach things – bucket, spade, wind shield, rubber wings, hat and sunscreen, factor 50 – into the car.
On the beach, the same mini dramas unfolded up and down the corniche.
Ali pushed out into the water. Closed her eyes as the salt spray splashed her face. From the turquoise clear water she watched the children push their feet into the sand. Dig up moats for castles, laugh and scream as the tide collapsed the sand. They looked like intrepid little explorers – tiny humans in their floppy hats, with the flap at the back to protect the soft folds of their precious necks.
Olive’s hat was blue. Blue with orange lobsters dancing round the side.
Ali turned from the beach and swam to the buoy.
Fresh from the shower, Ali scrolled through and ignored the unread messages, notifications and update requests.
“Jerry called,” said the console.
Ali took her wine onto the balcony.
Next morning the clouds hung heavy over the hills. The water on the bay rippled and the waiters at the restaurants along the pine walk folded their arms and waited to see if maybe the sun would break through.
A couple of tourist families marched complaining children to the beach, because this is why they’re here, weather be damned. The local mothers made other plans.
Ali stood alone on the sand. The bag of Olive’s beach things – her bucket and spade, wind shield, rubber rings and that funny hat with the orange lobsters dancing round the blue flap – unwanted at her feet.
The turquoise sea turned indigo as Ali strode into the water. No swimmers today. No day-tripping paddle-boarders. Too rough even for the windsurfers.
Ali pulled her arms through the water. The sting of cold water pushing away the evening wine. Her limbs strong against the current.
On the beach behind her, Olive’s bag standing sentry against a pile of sand waiting to be cajoled into castles.
Ali circled the buoy, tucked her head into the water and turned out to sea.
The sea tremored as a wave smashed against her face, breaking the rhythm of the pull of her arms through the water.
Ali turned in the water, her arms circling to keep afloat as her legs cycled beneath her.
The sands are empty now. The tourist mothers given up and let their kids spend the stormy afternoon on their screens instead.
Only Olive’s bag stands guard over an empty space.
Olive loved the beach.
Ali’s limbs are leaden.
One day she’ll keep swimming.
On the beach a forever child with grazed knees and curly hair pushes her delicious feet into the sand. Her white blonde curls teasing out from a blue sun hat. Even from here Ali knows there are lobsters dancing round the rim.
She could swim forever.
But not today.
“Seat belts,” said the car as Ali laid the weighted bag of beach things onto Olive’s infant seat.
“Jerry called,” said the console as Ali swiped through the unread messages, voicemail notifications and software update requests.
Software update overdue.
Date time stamp anomaly identified
Click ‘here’ to accept software update.
“Olive have a good day?” asked the mirror.
“Always,” said Ali.
Philippa Green lives in London with her husband, two cats and sometimes well-behaved dog. She has been writing stories since she was 5 but got distracted by a career as a diplomat that took her travelling across the Middle East, Europe and South Asia. Mirror, Mirror was short-listed for the Bridport Prize in 2024 (as Ellis Green).
