Treena was privy to and chief keeper of all the secrets in the high street. If MI6 had had a mind to train her, she could have been the greatest spy the secret service had ever known. There was an intimacy between the woman—legs akimbo—on the bed and the beautician brushing hot wax onto her vulva that made one feel able to divulge one’s innermost worries and confidences. A good waxing lady was like a spatula-wielding counselor. Annie had burst into sobs many times on Treena’s table, and not just from the eye-watering pain of having her body hair ripped out by the roots.

“Can you book me in before Saturday?” asked Annie.

“ ’Course I can, my love,” said Treena. “What needs doing?”

“Everything,” said Annie. “Tash to toes, please.”

“Date, is it?”

“Not exactly,” said Annie. “But I’d like to be prepared.”

“I’d better block out the whole afternoon,” said Treena.

Chapter 19

Annie spent the next few days familiarizing herself with her new environment. She began by heading right from Saltwater Nook, away from the direction of the hill. Here the promenade swept round for about a quarter mile until it ended abruptly in a set of iron railings. Beyond them were jagged rocks that led up to the grassy cliffs above. A little before the railings were steps down to the beach, and from the beach you could carry on round—tide permitting—to where the headland jutted out in a peninsula to form the bay. Mari had said that the tunnel, which supposedly led to the cellar at Saltwater Nook, began in a cave at the farthest point, before the cliff turned the corner and fell out of view. Even at low tide, Annie guessed you could expect to get your feet wet trying to reach it. On the other side of the peninsula, there was no beach to speak of for a mile or so, only rocks and towering cliffs like ancient sentries.

Curious, Annie headed down the beach toward the edge of the headland, wearing a pair of wellies and carrying a torch she had found hung on the back of the bedroom door. The pebbles crunched satisfyingly beneath her boots; empty mussel shells and lank brown seaweed littered the beach. The sky that morning was the color of lead and the water was a molten mirror image, darkly rippling and swollen with a promise of menace.

The tide was about as out as it was going to go, but she was still splashing through puddles. Deeper pools shimmered in hollows between the rocks, and here the seaweed was alive and waving beneath the surface of the water, its fronds brushing against the plump anemones—like round raspberry wine gums—that suctioned themselves to the pool-sides.