The Summer Without You (35 page)

Was Matt having as much fun? Was he as happy as he had hoped? Or more so? What if it was even better than he’d dreamed? A spike of anxiety pricked her happy bubble as she wondered
suddenly, What did it mean for them if they were both so happy apart?

A peal of laughter made her turn and she saw a guy running towards the water, a girl in a miniskirt over his shoulder. Ro turned and looked back along the twilit beach scene: people were
dancing, playing with fluoro frisbees . . . She had never felt more removed from her leafy suburb, working out of the spare room and catching the bus to the local studio, feeding the fish at five
on the dot and nipping into the corner caff once a week for a flapjack treat. How could the life she shared with Matt stay alive or real if neither one of them was living it?

She turned in from the beach, her head hanging low as the questions knocked against her and her beer-induced merriness slunk into familiar melancholy – even feeling happy made her feel
sad.

She walked on the boardwalk between the dunes towards the low-lying hulk of the private club. It looked more discreet from the beach side, with none of the witch’s-hat peaks of the grand
front facade.

The members were having their own Fourth of July party on the terrace around the pool, with the underwater lights flickering ambiently, a live band set up beside the steps as men in dinner suits
and women in jewel-coloured cocktail dresses whirled past in a blur of thrown-out arms and kicked-up legs.

Ro hesitated at the sudden sight of the crowd and made herself take a few deep breaths. She watched the heaving mass, trying to break it down, process it in bite-sized chunks. It was clear no
one would be interested in
her
here. It was Gatsby again – this smart, WASP world she kept bumping into and was never once dressed for. She looked down at her bare feet, denim cut-offs
and coral-coloured swimsuit (Hump had let her take off the kaftan when the sun set) versus all the Louboutins and Michael Kors dresses. She should have let Hump do the beer run after all. He would
have just ambled past, squeaking in his yellow flip-flops, smiling easily, bare-chested, his baggies hanging so low on his hips all the women’s eyes would have followed him.

Why hadn’t she anticipated this? Of course there would be a crowd here tonight.

She closed her eyes and tried to think like Bobbi: this was the Maidstone. You couldn’t even
pay
your way in here. It was the club of all clubs. The coffee-thrower had no chance of
getting her here.

She stepped warily into the mass, her eyes darting rapidly, processing every movement in her peripheral vision, turning slightly too sharply as strangers approached – and passed on by.

She saw the white-painted beach bar and picked her way over to it quickly, making sure no one came too close. It was surprisingly quiet in there and she was served promptly.

While the barman filled a cardboard crate with beers for her, she watched the party through the folded-back glass doors. On the outer flanks of the pool were smart blue and yellow painted
cabanas, and almost all of them were open tonight – members hosting parties within the party. The mood seemed to be different over there, she thought – more louche and cliquey (if that
was even possible) as the VVIPs lounged elegantly on the expensive wooden benches, a few important metres away from the pool’s hoi polloi. Society out here was as tiered as a Vera Wang
wedding dress.

The barman handed over the crate and she paid cash, eager to get back to the cool, dark beach and her happy-go-lucky friends.

‘It’s heavy. You going to be OK with that?’ the barman asked her. Ro suspected he modelled too.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she smiled, her arms straining as she took the weight. ‘Thanks.’

She walked quickly, keeping her eyes on the ground and off the crowd as she made her way towards the beach again. If anyone lunged for her, she’d simply drop this on their toes.

‘Rowena?’

She looked up in surprise.

Ted Connor was jogging towards her from one of the cabanas. He was wearing cream trousers and a crumpled white linen shirt, and looking like the drink in his hand wasn’t his first.
Five-o’clock shadow darkened his cheeks. ‘I thought it was you.’

‘Oh. Hi.’ She stopped where she was, the beer crate banging painfully against her knee. She hadn’t seen him since the attack, since she’d embarrassed herself so badly,
and as always in his presence, she felt an overwhelming urge to get away. It would just be easier if she could avoid him altogether. Their relationship was so stiff and creaky, constantly shifting
in ways that left them both awkward – hostile, angry and aggressive one moment, kind and even heroic the next. It would have been so much easier if he could have just left her hating him, but
he had made that impossible and now . . . well, now she didn’t know what to feel about him or how to act. He was clearly a gentler, funnier man than she had wanted to admit – the home
videos had shown her that over and over again – and she couldn’t deny she’d felt a stab of hurt pride that he had been to visit Florence and not her. But still, if they could have
just stuck to hating each other . . . A simple life was all she asked for.

‘So how are you?’ he asked, stopping just short of her, one hand in his pocket. She saw him taking in her beach-ready outfit – clearly not at one of the club’s parties
– and she badly wished she’d kept on her kaftan.

‘Fine. Yes, fine, thanks. You?’

‘How are your burns?’ he asked, ignoring her question about his own well-being, as though the answer interested neither one of them.

‘Oh, all healed now. Hump was a good doctor.’ She smiled nervously. ‘Strict.’

He nodded, watching her. ‘He’s very protective of you. A good housemate to have – you chose well.’

‘Yes.’

‘You haven’t had any flashbacks or . . . ?’

‘No, no, nothing like that,’ she said quickly, the lie falling off her tongue easily. ‘Um, but Florence . . . I looked in on her yesterday.’

‘Yes. I’m worried about her.’

Ro relaxed a little. So it wasn’t just her, then? ‘Me too. I was wondering whether she might be suffering from PTSD? I mean, not that I really know about these things, but . .
.’

‘No, I agree. I’m trying to talk her into seeing someone.’

‘Oh, you are? That’s good.’ She nodded, looking around vaguely at the cabana scene. Everyone seemed very tall. ‘She said you’d been looking in.’

There was a short silence. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t look in on you too. I wanted to, but I wasn’t sure whether you would—’

‘Oh no, no problem. I mean, I wasn’t expecting it or anything.’ She gave another nervous smile, itching to go, but knowing she hadn’t acknowledged what he’d done
for her yet, not even a thank you. ‘Uh, but I did want to say thank you, you know, for what you did that day with the . . . first aid . . .’ She couldn’t bring herself to mention
the T-shirt ripping. ‘And then . . . after . . .’ She tried not to think about how much she had humiliated herself in front of him in her bedroom either. Pounding the floor?
Seriously?

‘It would have been more helpful if I’d gotten to him first.’ He frowned. ‘I should have realized when he walked in; he looked so jumpy and out of place in all those
clothes. I mean, it was a hot day. I should have realized.’ He shook his head, clearly frustrated.

‘God, no, no! You were . . . What you did . . . The paramedics said my injuries would have been a lot more severe if you hadn’t acted so quickly. I’m very grateful.’

They stared at each other, the party jumping around them, music booming from the speakers.

‘So anyway, thank you.’ She shrugged, trying to fill the silence that surrounded only them in the middle of the thumping party. ‘Um . . . but I’d better get back. The
others are waiting for these.’ She indicated to the beers, just as someone dashed towards her and she gasped, her body frozen all over again.

‘Hey, it’s OK,’ Ted said, instantly stepping between her and the drunken dancer who’d overestimated his abilities and was now picking himself up from the floor, six feet
away from her. ‘I’ve got you. Here, let me take that for you. It looks heavy.’

She looked back at him, her body rigid with tension, only vaguely aware of the weight leaving her arms as he easily took the beers. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you back. Are you on the
beach?’

‘Yes, but—’ Over his shoulder, she saw a glamorous blonde in black silk walking towards them. Ro couldn’t see her clearly in the dim lights, but she knew who it was, of
course.

She straightened up and braced herself to meet Marina at last. She must have spent over forty hours going through the videos already and she felt strange that she was going to be introduced as a
stranger when she already knew her so intimately.

‘Hi, darling,’ the blonde smiled. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to.’

‘Oh.’ Ted was startled by her silent approach, distracted momentarily by her hand snaking around his hips. ‘This is Rowena Tipton, the photographer I was telling you
about.’

Ro couldn’t speak.

‘And Rowena –’ he looked back at her, a new expression in his eyes ‘– I’d like you to meet Julianne Starling.’