You cushion the promenade’s metal railings with your leather jacket, and look idly down at the spot on the beach where you had been sitting the year before. So much has changed in that time. The jacket is a gift from your parents, who are an absolute soft touch at the moment, drenched in guilt over their impending divorce; it is both expensive and unsuitable, with its soft leather, red padding, and dripping with zips. Last year they wouldn’t even buy you a pair of tight jeans.
The bonfire is further up the beach this year, making this a particularly good vantage point. Strangers are all around you in the brightly-lit darkness, and you haven’t seen anyone you know, and if you did, you would probably ignore them. This is your nearly-goth phase, but you’ve already learned never to conform completely, so your hair is dyed red not black. You discovered eyeliner fairly recently, and you’ve gradually been drawing it on in deeper, darker lines. Behind the make-up and the leather, no-one can touch you.
He is holding a plastic glass of beer, lounging against the railings not far away, and just for the hell of it, you part your lips and pout a little, to see what happens. At first nothing, but you don’t look at him, you watch the children on the beach below, daringly close to the flames. Then he leans over and asks you the time.
You smile faintly; you can’t believe that it’s so easy to reel them in. You already know you’re not interested in him; he has sandy hair and bad skin, and his jeans are dirty; from his voice you know that he comes from one of the less pleasant areas of the nearest city; he probably thinks this town has some sort of class. He quickly confirms your assumptions, and shows a lot of interest in your leather jacket, but you disappoint him when you tell him you don’t have a motorbike. He offers to buy you a drink, which you decline, wondering how old he thinks you are.
You end up walking with him to the caravan he shares with his sister and her little boy, and the sister makes you a cup of tea. You perch on the tiny, scruffy sofa, feeling incredibly posh, even in your faded t-shirt and jeans. He smokes rolled-up cigarettes and talks about his motorbike, while you pretend to listen.
He wants to see you again, but you put him off with a lie. The attention is nice, but he is not good enough for you; and you’re not even sixteen, so the world really is your oyster. It seems wasteful to expend energy dating someone you have nothing in common with and you know you don’t actually want to touch.
The best part is when he walks you home, and your dad is waiting outside the house, so you part company at the bottom of the street, once you are certain you have been seen. Your dad must be reflecting on how things are changing, too.