The Summer Without You (26 page)

Everyone was silent as they parked in front of an angular building so low slung its roof couldn’t be seen from the road. The house was constructed from the same reddish wood as the gates
and had huge plates of green-tinted glass. It looked, to Ro, like toddlers’ stacking cubes on a giant scale, the upper levels set at seemingly random angles and overhanging the ground floor
to create shaded loggias below.

‘Fuck . . . me,’ Bobbi muttered not so under her breath, fiddling with her seat belt. ‘That’s only a Moji Fukayama design. You know who he is, right?’ She looked
across at Hump, who shrugged. ‘He won the International Architecture Award – it’s the most prestigious mantle out there. He takes on, like, one project a year. One! We’re
all scrabbling around trying to do bigger, bolder, more, and he takes one per year and even then not always.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Hump nodded, clearly totally disinterested and spotting Melodie waiting for them by the door. She was looking radiant in a lipstick-pink origami-folded silk dress, her
lustrous hair left down. Next to her was a handsome young waiter who looked like he did day shifts in the Ralph Lauren store and bench-pressed ponies, holding a tray of pink champagne. ‘Now
let’s party.’

‘I thought we said “casual”,’ Ro said under her breath as she and Melodie kissed their hellos. ‘Casual to me means marmalade on toast, not –’ she
gestured to the handsome waiter who was waiting for Bobbi to choose a drink ‘–
him
.’

Melodie patted her arm. ‘This is casual. Rather than me stressing about it, I delegate. You see? Casual.’

Casual, Hamptons-style maybe. What would every person here think if they saw what passed for casual back home? Lap trays, pyjamas and fleecy socks, and a box set of
Borgen
.

Ro made the introductions to Bobbi and Greg, and they all followed Melodie through into an open-plan all-white sitting room that was, Ro imagined, just like walking into heaven. On the angled,
vaulted ceiling, a ghostly pink haze rippled along it like a light show. There was no music playing, but there was sound and she saw, to her left, a wall with pink-lit water skinning down the
length and width of it. Her eye followed the water’s fall and she saw how it fed into a deep, narrow groove that was cut through the polished concrete floor like a Mondrian line, dissecting
it with arrow-straight precision to the glass wall opposite, where it dashed underneath to the pool outdoors.

Ro had never seen anything like it, and she looked over at Bobbi to check she was still remembering to breathe in and out. It was debatable – Bobbi was rotating on the spot, open-mouthed.
The house somehow appeared to have two fasciae: inside the house, the irregular angles of the walls were in contrast to the cuboid parallelograms of the exterior, and Ro could almost see
Bobbi’s mind whirling at the engineering and advanced maths involved in building a house like this.

‘Would you like me to pinch you?’ Melodie asked her, bringing her over the drink that she had been too distracted to collect on her way in.

‘I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’m standing here. I can’t believe this is your
home
. It’s part of architectural legend.’ Bobbi smacked
a hand over her heart. ‘It is because of buildings like this that I do what I do.’

‘It’s official. She really does love her job more than I do mine,’ Greg murmured, watching from the sidelines.

‘It’s certainly a very interesting house to live in.’ Melodie smiled modestly.

‘Did you and your husband commission it, or did it come onto the market? I know that the architect is incredibly controlling about who he will build for. I mean, he actually interviews his
clients first, right?’

‘Well, it never came onto the open market, but we bought it quite soon after it had been built. The previous owners divorced and couldn’t afford to keep it.’

‘Luckily for us,’ Brook said, picking up the conversation as he walked into the room. ‘So long as
we
don’t divorce,’ he grinned, squeezing the back of
Melodie’s neck affectionately.

‘That’s not likely, darling,’ Melodie said, a wicked gleam in her eye. ‘Obviously, I only married you for your money.’

Brook laughed expansively. ‘The other way round more like.’ He turned to face the small group, all looking on politely. ‘Now, you must be Bobbi,’ he said, beaming with
bonhomie and holding out a hand.

‘Yes, Bobbi Winkleman. A pleasure,’ Bobbi said, stepping smartly forward from the group and staking her claim.

‘And Ro, of course,’ Brook said, turning to her. ‘Well, I say of course, but . . . your hair.’

‘I had a dramatic cut this week, yes. I guess I must look quite different from when we met at the Wölffer party.’ Ro’s hands patted it soothingly.

‘Indeed, but all for the better if I may say.’

She smiled and relaxed.

Hump held out his hand. ‘Hump, we met last weekend too at the—’

‘I remember. The entrepreneur. We’re going to have lunch, aren’t we?’

‘Yes, we are.’ Hump grinned, clearly delighted that a suggestion of drinks had been accidentally upgraded to lunch. ‘I’ll set it up.’

Greg held his hand out, in turn. ‘Greg Livingston.’

Brook looked at him through interested eyes, immediately discerning Greg’s more reserved manners and professional demeanour. He never seemed fully ‘off’, as though he could
chair a board meeting at any moment. ‘Now, we haven’t met.’

‘No, sir.’

‘And what is it you do, Greg?’

‘I’m senior attorney at Overy & Chambers.’

‘Overy & Chambers. I’ve heard of them. Environmental practice, right?’ Brook said thoughtfully.

‘I’m flattered you know that. Most people have never heard of us. We’re below radar compared to the corporate behemoths.’

‘Ah, but you guys are smarter than them. You’re at the coalface of federal policy. Leave those sharks to chasing paltry dollars in discrimination lawsuits. The future is
environmental – global warming, carbon emissions, polar navigation rights, natural-disaster relief . . . They’re the big issues that affect the planet’s billions of normal people,
not just multinationals. You guys are the G8 of law.’

‘Well, I’ve not heard it described like that before. I’ll have it put on my cards,’ Greg laughed. ‘Which field are you in, Mr Whitmore?’

‘Call me Brook. I’m an insurance man, I’m afraid: the grey man in the grey suit.’

‘You’re so not grey,’ Ro said, looking at his deep tan. He was certainly well into his late fifties, if not early sixties, but looked fitter and better than most
forty-year-olds.

‘That’s because of the twice-monthly trips to Bermuda to play golf,’ Melodie said, patting her husband’s arm.

‘My wife doesn’t believe me when I tell her ninety-eight per cent of my business is conducted on the golf course.’

Melodie rolled her eyes. ‘Meanwhile, most other people are out there working for a living . . .’

‘As I recall, you don’t seem to mind the trips yourself, Songbird. And besides, you do play a little golf too.’ He stepped back to his wife and rested his arm over her
shoulder. ‘Her yoga flexibility gives her a wonderful swing.’

Melodie’s smile seemed to fix in place. ‘Well . . . why don’t we go outside and enjoy the fresh air rather than standing in here?’ she suggested, motioning towards the
terrace.

Hump joined her, his large foot straddling the groove in the floor; Bobbi followed, but – still distracted by the avant-garde building – she stepped without looking and her thin heel
caught in the gap as she walked. She shrieked as her forward momentum was thrown and her ankle twisted, her knee buckling.

‘I’ve got you!’ Greg said, lunging forward and catching her one-handed – for he was holding his drink too – by the elbow. He held her still for a moment while she
recovered her balance. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yeah,’ Bobbi murmured, embarrassed, as Brook rushed over and took her by the other elbow. Bobbi stood between the two men, both her elbows supported, until Greg, realizing the
ridiculousness of the situation, took a step back, demurring to their host.

‘Is your ankle hurt?’ Brook asked solicitously at the sight of her foot completely free of her shoe and attached only by the calf straps.

‘I’m good, thank you. It was entirely my own fault,’ Bobbi replied, clearly on her best behaviour, bending to slip her foot back into the shoe.

‘No, it wasn’t at all. You’re not the first person that’s happened to. Melodie’s always telling me to infill it. The“crack”, she calls it. She says
it’s a safety hazard, even though neither she nor I – you’ll be relieved to hear – wear high-heel shoes. I suppose she does have a point.’ He scuffed the groove
lightly with his shoe, an almost loving gesture. ‘Clearly I’d hate for anybody to come to any harm, but . . . it’s a Fukayama house. That doesn’t really mean anything to my
wife, but—’

‘Oh, but it does to me!’ Bobbi gasped. ‘He’s my absolute hero. I studied him obsessively at college.’

Brook looked surprised. ‘Really? No one ever usually knows what I’m talking about when I mention his name. It’s like I’m speaking in tongues.’

‘Oh, I do. I’m an architect, a VP with BES Associates.’

‘I know them well! Dick Eastman is one of my oldest friends. We were at Varsity together.’

‘He’s a great man, a true visionary. I’ve learned so much from him,’ Bobbi gushed, eyes sparkling at the news that her host was an old friend of her top boss. Ro could
almost see the cogs in her mind working, wondering how to take best advantage of the situation.

‘You know, I always find myself jealous of architects. I share your love for the discipline but lack the requisite creative vision myself. Of course, I can appreciate it when I see it
–’ he gestured to the award-winning house surrounding them ‘– but it’s not quite the same.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like
a tour?’

Ro thought Bobbi was going to swoon on the spot, and as Brook led her out of the room, Ro almost had to wonder whether Bobbi hadn’t sabotaged herself on purpose.

‘Well, I guess we should go out too,’ Ro smiled, looking over at Hump and Melodie, who were already standing by the pool.

Greg looked back at her. ‘Sorry, what?’

Ro hesitated. He was clearly straining to hear the conversation between Brook and Bobbi in the next room, as Bobbi’s laughter kept drifting through in coquettish fragments.

‘Shall we join the others?’ She jerked her thumb behind her and he nodded, following behind reluctantly.

She carefully picked her way over the groove in the floor, and they walked towards the terrace, Ro trying to take in the immaculate garden. It was like a modern-day Versailles, with box balls
and trees planted in rigid symmetry, and parterres criss-crossing the lawn in a saltire. It was certainly impressive and clearly very high maintenance, although not to her taste – she
preferred Florence’s house, where beach balls lay strewn on the grass and pool towels were stretched messily across the old-school plastic loungers.

They joined Melodie and Hump’s conversation – seemingly on ZZ Top, of all things – Ro trying to adjust to this new context in which she had to view her friend. They had met and
bonded in a small, dark yoga studio where Melodie had brought Ro along for the ride on her hunt for spiritual riches; but seeing her here – in what had to be one of the most spectacular
properties in the Hamptons – it was hard to reconcile that humility with such lavishness. What could the woman who lived in
this
possibly be searching for?

A peal of laughter rippled over to them and they all looked up to see Brook and Bobbi in an upstairs bedroom, Bobbi folded over with amusement at something Brook had said, her hand resting on
his arm. Ro glanced back at Melodie, who had looked over too, an inscrutable expression on her smiling face. And she thought, then, that perhaps she knew.

‘I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to seeing your posters up,’ Melodie said as the waiter set down her lobster salad. Only a sliver of
flame-red daylight was left in the inky night sky. They were seated now at a slim glass table beside the illuminated pool, which was flickering like candlelight, the dark garden dotted with
discreet uplighters.

‘It’s funny, I’ve never done anything like that before. I wasn’t even sure if I could do it. It was really interesting having to find a single image that can communicate
a specific message.’

‘Sorry, what’s this? Greg asked, putting his hand over his wine glass as the waiter came round with a bottle of Pouilly fumé.

‘Ro’s in cahoots with Florence Wiseman for her kooky seed-bombing campaign,’ Hump explained, a devilish look on his face.

‘Hey! It is not kooky! There is sound reasoning behind her objectives,’ Ro said defensively. ‘And I hardly think we’re in cahoots. She was doing me a favour because I
hadn’t got any work on and she had to commission someone anyway. It helped us both out.’

‘Is this the project to replant the dunes?’ Brook asked her, the first time he’d spoken to her since the introductions at the beginning of the evening. Ro was sitting to his
left, Bobbi to his right, but Bobbi had monopolized his attention all night, barely pausing for breath, much less food.

‘It is.’

‘A noble idea,’ he replied, sipping his wine thoughtfully. A pause bloomed after the comment.
Noble?

‘But?’ Greg prompted, picking up on the same scepticism as Ro.

‘Well, I admire the sentiment, I really do, but it’s going to take more than grass to protect this town when the next northeaster comes.’

‘What’s a northeaster?’ Ro whispered to Greg on her left.

‘The storms that hit us throughout the winter come from the northeast, the prevailing wind and tide direction,’ Melodie offered, overhearing.

‘So what do you think should be done?’ Greg asked, clearly interested as he leaned in on his elbows.

‘Well,
something
, for a start. For too long now, the town’s been paralysed into inactivity by the damned LWRP,’ Brook said.

Ro looked to Melodie for help again. ‘The what?’ she mouthed.

But before Melodie could help, Brook butted in. ‘It stands for the Local Waterfront Revitalization Program. A town citizens’ committee drafted it in the late 1990s and the town
adopted its recommendations when the Department of State authorized it in 2007. Basically, they advocate an “elevate or retreat policy”: either lift or relocate vulnerable
structures—’