In the Summertime (28 page)

Eliot was out. Geraldine had seen him and Clare going up the road. She’d said they were holding hands and told her they were eloping, but he thought they were probably heading for the sailing club for a drink and a bag of nuts like most people who wandered past his house. Geraldine was given to fanciful statements like that, just to shock. Not that he would be shocked. Actually, it would be rather lovely if it were true. Even lovelier if it were he and Jessica running away together into the night instead.

He could smell Geraldine’s foul cigarettes from his kitchen doorway, so this was the moment to make his move, while Geraldine was shrouded in smoke and concentrating on deep inhaling and the bliss of the tobacco hit. She tended to close her eyes for that, which was useful. He scuttled nimbly across to Jessica’s fence and hopped over quickly, finding yet another camellia
to hide in, the one where they’d buried that tiny bit of Jack the other day. What was it they’d had the funeral for, off the beach all those years ago? Jessica had said it was a baby bird but he’d doubted that even at the time. It was all right, though; if he wasn’t meant to know then that was fine by him. Right now, he had something to give to Jess. Himself, he thought, if she’d ever consider it, which she probably wouldn’t. For now, it was enough to think of himself as her friend. There was time. Or so he hoped. He sent a fervent prayer up that her cancer would never return. She’d said it almost certainly wouldn’t. And when it came to it he might be the one to die first. He could drown, or just get run over by a bus. Anything …

He shivered a bit behind the camellia. Perhaps tonight the young ones were giving the beach a miss? The weather hadn’t exactly been glorious, though it had recovered a lot after the stormy night. It wasn’t that he minded all the children being there normally, but for this, just tonight, he needed to be alone with Jess.

At last he heard sounds of movement and the back door opened and then slammed shut again. Clumpy teen footsteps could be heard stamping round the side of the house in the direction of the road, and goodbyes and see-you-laters were being shouted.

Andrew took his chance and walked up the path to knock on Jess’s door, hoping he wasn’t about to make a complete idiot of himself.

‘And you get fish
magazines
?’ Miranda felt mildly drunk and incredibly happy. They’d talked about anything and everything (except Cheryl) and Steve had made her laugh so much about the absurdities of village politics that she was aching across her middle. She mustn’t have any more wine, though – the next day was too important for her to rock up with a hangover.

‘Trade mags, yes, of course. Don’t you in your business?’

‘Well yes, but then any of the soft-furnishing porn ones – not
actual
porn, obviously,’ she said, not wanting to mislead, ‘but anything with chairs and cushions in it like
Elle Decoration
and
Livingetc
, I suppose that’s what I’d call my trade. So fish – what are they called?
Mackerel Monthly
? The
Haddock Gazette
?’

‘The
Plaice Chronicle
?’

‘No, really?’ she said, leaning across her crème brûlee and in danger of dipping her necklace into it. He reached across and moved it slightly, out of range of the pudding.

‘No, not really,’ he said. ‘But there is one called
Fry Monthly
for the chippie trade.’

‘You can’t help wondering about the journalists, can you? Is it a stepping stone to working on the
Guardian
or do they have to be
really keen
on seafood, do you think?’

Steve laughed. ‘OK, let’s picture the
Daily Cod
guy.
Nearly retired, smokes roll-ups, used to be ambitious but now has a bitter streak. Can’t even look at a chip shop without his lip curling in disgust.’

‘Also he has a gambling habit,’ Miranda contributed. ‘How about
Mackerel Monthly
? Posh boy work experience?’

‘Yep, thick as a plank but the editor is a chum of Daddy’s and hey, it’s a step up. Next stop
Newsnight
.’

Miranda was enjoying herself a lot, enjoying being just plain silly. She was feeling rather hot and realized she was the only woman wearing a cardigan, though that had been because of the outside evening chill. She slid it off and hung it on the back of her chair.

‘So, the
Plaice Chronicle
.’ She smiled at Steve, who was looking a bit thoughtful after watching her take a layer off. ‘I think she’s in her thirties and she slept with the editor once because he promised her a column on beauty and fashion. But it never happened.’

‘Ah, poor girl.’ Steve said, doing a sad face. ‘The way of the world.’

‘It’s a shame, because there’s nothing she doesn’t know about moisturizer.’

‘Her day will come,’ Steve said, pouring them the last of the wine.

‘It will. She’s writing a romantic comedy in her spare time.’

‘That’s all right then.’

‘But she’s thinking of getting a cat. Probably two.’

‘Not so good.’ Steve leaned forward and took her hand. ‘Do you have cats, Miranda?’

She thought for a moment. There was Toby, but for her purposes right now she delegated him to the children’s care. And in fact he had originally been Bo’s pet.

‘Bo has old ginger Toby but no, just as
me
, I don’t,’ she said, hoping Toby would forgive her.

‘That’s good.’ There was a long moment of silence, then he said very quietly, ‘Shall we get the bill?’

He didn’t think she’d cry. It hadn’t crossed his mind. He reckoned she’d be pleased, laugh even. He should have thought it through. Andrew handed Jess another handful of tissues and put his arm round her, hugging her close. She snuffled and sobbed into his chest and if he hadn’t made her obviously unhappy he’d have been loving every minute of it. What would he have given to be this close to Jessica when she’d been sixteen? Still, better late, as Geraldine would probably bark at him.

‘I’m so sorry. It was a huge mistake. I am a complete idiot.’

‘No you’re not,’ she said, sitting up a bit and blowing her nose, looking pink and blotchy yet thoroughly appealing. ‘It was such a sweet thought. And anyway,’ she gave him a quick but wobbly blast of her lovely smile, ‘it was me who was an idiot, I mean what a thing to do. I was horrible to you, sending you a topless
photo of me like that as a massive tease. What was I thinking of?’

‘Was it your idea? Not Miranda’s?’ He kind of needed to know.

‘No, totally mine. I’m sorry. I was only playing.’

‘Well, we were only young. And please don’t be sorry.’ He laughed and reached across to pour them both a bit more wine. ‘I was seventeen years old, remember. To this day I
honestly
don’t think I’ve ever had anything through the post that was more exciting. And that includes my five hundred pound premium bond win.’

‘Really? But it’s such a tiny photo, and in black and white, from the booth, I think, in the post office in Truro.’

‘It must have taken some nerve,’ Andrew said, conscious that although she’d stopped crying she hadn’t moved away from him and was still lying with that lovely curly head against his body.

She giggled, sounding teenage again herself. ‘I was pretty damn scared, I can tell you. Miranda was on guard but it was only that flimsy curtain between me and the shop. I wouldn’t have minded being topless on a beach, but, you know, it’s not really the done thing in the Truro post office.’

‘I can imagine the curtain being flung back and the whole queue gawping at you.’ Andrew laughed.

Jess looked serious again. ‘Yes, well they wouldn’t
now. I’m … you know, rebuilt, but it’s not the same. Part of me’s gone, as if it’s died.’

‘But that part wasn’t well. Its time was up.’ Andrew thought as soon as he said it that it was a risky line to take.

She frowned. ‘It just makes me think, there’s no afterlife, is there? Because how much of your body do you have to have chopped off for it to kind of
go
somewhere and wait for you to die? Will I get to whatever “heaven” is and be reunited with all my old fingernails and my left breast? I don’t think so.’

‘Brain energy,’ Andrew said. ‘I suppose it’s all down to that. That and, I don’t know, some inner spark? Like a battery?’

Jessica laughed. ‘It’s a bit heavy, isn’t it, for what started as a little photo of my naked tits? I remember Miranda’s dad – well, stepdad – Jack. He once said something was a “heavy reality sandwich” and Eliot said that was a typical dippy old hippy thing to say – not in a bad way, he liked Jack – but it was so funny. They said things differently then.’

‘They’re doing him a big send-off on the river. Are you coming?’

‘Yes. And I know it’s selfish, but every minute I’ll be thanking whatever’s out there that it isn’t me.’

‘Me too,’ Andrew said, looking down into her eyes. This was the moment. He leaned forward to kiss her but just as his mouth connected with hers there was a
general slamming of doors and some shouting. ‘Yo, Ma, I’m back!’ yelled Lola.

Great, Andrew thought. Terrific. But at least he wasn’t left thinking there’d be no other time.

Well, Miranda hadn’t expected that. Or maybe deep down she had, actually, if she was honest. Well, more hoped than expected. Steve was still asleep beside her. The light through the shutters’ louvres hadn’t landed on his face yet but had woken her first and she had a chance to look at him, his eyes closed, the lashes brown and long against his tanned face. She’d never seen him asleep before. Sixteen-year-olds having sex don’t usually get the opportunity actually to close their eyes and nod off. Rest after sex was a privilege for grown-ups only, unless, like the young, they only got to do it on beaches and in the backs of cars. Fall asleep where she and Steve used to go and the tide would get you.

It would soon be time to put a new parking permit in his van and she didn’t want him to get a ticket from the over-eager wardens, so with great reluctance she slid out of bed, put her dressing gown on and went downstairs, found his keys on the hall table and went out quickly to put the voucher on the dashboard. Then she went into the kitchen and switched the kettle on and opened the garden doors. The day was a beautiful one, sunny and warm. It would probably end up too dry and dusty compared with Cornwall but for now it was just perfect.
She went out and did some more deadheading while the kettle boiled, and was almost singing to herself. When was sex last that good, she wondered. She was sure she must look like Harriet when she came back from that night at the hotel with goalkeeper Duncan, all glowy and glossy and with a smile as wide as the Thames estuary.

She went back inside and made two mugs of tea and took them upstairs.

‘Morning, you,’ she said to Steve, who was just waking. The sun through the shutter slats made stripes across the skin on his naked chest. She leaned down and kissed a pale one, then a dark one.

‘Morning,’ he said, smiling at her. Then, ‘No regrets?’

‘No! Of course not!’ Strange question, she thought. Why would there be? Or … oh, right. Was this just a one-off, a follow-up to a fun night out? How little she knew him, really.

‘I was your first, back in that summer, wasn’t I?’ he’d said the night before, as he took her hand outside the restaurant.

‘Yes,’ she’d told him.

‘That means you’re mine then. I can claim you.’ And he’d kissed her, very thoroughly, right there on the street.

‘Claiming sounds a bit … medieval,’ she’d said, putting in a rather weak bid for feminism.

‘It does, but sometimes the old ways are the best,
unless you’re burying a fisherman, of course. But if you’d rather I went home right now, I can see a bus at the traffic lights a couple of hundred yards away.’

And that’s when the decision was made. And it was never going to be just an invitation for coffee.

‘No regrets here either,’ he said now, kissing her shoulder. ‘And maybe we could …’

There was a clattering sound downstairs and someone shouted, ‘Shit!’

‘Bloody hell, what’s that?’ Miranda said, pulling her robe around her and making for the stairs.

Steve, pulling on jeans, was right behind her. ‘Wait, you don’t know … let me.’

Miranda followed the repeated curses into the kitchen. There was Dan standing in front of the dresser holding an empty drawer whose former contents were all over the floor. Behind him on the table was his old drill in a box.

‘What are you doing? And how did you get in?’ Miranda demanded.

He smirked and pointed at the open doors to the garden. ‘I was wandering down the alley, short cut from the station as per. You really shouldn’t leave the doors open, Miranda. Anyone can get in.’ He addressed the last sentence to Steve, who was putting his shirt on. ‘And you are?’ he asked, his tone imperious.

‘You are such a knobhead, Dan,’ Miranda said before Steve could reply. ‘Don’t ever think of just walking
in here again. Ring the front door bell another time.’

‘Sorry, sweetie. Just looking for a couple of missing drill bits. I’ve already burgled your shed for the Black and Decker. Your friend isn’t saying much. I say friend; maybe plumber or something?’

Steve stepped forward and Miranda thought he was going to hit Dan, for which she honestly couldn’t blame him, but Dan put his hand out. ‘Lovely to meet you, old chap. I’m Dan. Miranda’s husband.’ Steve didn’t take the hand and Dan stepped back a bit.

‘
Ex
-husband,’ Miranda hissed. ‘Dan, will you just take what you need and go?’

‘Sorry.’ Dan pulled an exaggeratedly apologetic face and looked from one to the other of them. ‘Have I spoiled the party? Big sorries.’ He rummaged a bit more among the screws, batteries, string and various sorts of tape that he’d spilled all over the floor. ‘Good to see you still keep a Man Drawer, Miranda. So useful knowing where all the working parts of a house are.’

‘Like you’d know. You were never a working part of a sodding house.’

‘Miranda, the language. Hardly in keeping with this genteel neighbourhood. Talking of which, have you seen? Some tradesman oik has parked a fish delivery van outside. Can you believe it? I thought you bought into a nice residential area when you abandoned me and took our children away. But now look. Some fast-buck fish fryer’s obviously a new neighbour.’ He picked
out a couple of Allen keys and stood up, just in time to be grabbed by Steve and marched at great speed towards the open door.