In the Summertime (19 page)

‘Not at all. I’m loving that you’re filling in the time gap.’

‘Yes, but that’s just me. What about you?’ Miranda asked. She’d finished the linguine and was picking at the rocket salad. She felt slightly nervous, suddenly convinced that Steve was about to tell her about his amazing girlfriend (please,
not
Cheryl) and their plans for a fabulous future. She couldn’t grudge him that, she told herself. She would make sure she sounded
very, very
pleased about it.

‘Not a lot to tell,’ he said softly, looking out at the sea. The cries of seagulls mixed with shrieks from children jumping the waves at the sea’s edge. ‘I owned the ferry and the right to run it and managed to sell it to a bidder who came knocking with a ridiculous offer. Which is how I bought the house you’re staying in. And the fish thing, well, like I said, right time for the sushi boom.’

‘But … what about the other stuff?’

‘Am I married and so on?’ He smiled. ‘No, not any more. Just for a couple of years, early on. It’s what you do down here – all your mates are getting married so you sort of just do it. She wanted children.’

‘You didn’t?’

‘Oh, I did. I do, even. But not that young, no. And I’d got it wrong. I realized in time for her to go and be with someone else that it wasn’t going to work. She just … she wasn’t my lobster.’

Miranda looked at him, wondering if she’d heard right. ‘Your
lobster
?’

‘That’s right. My lobster. A lot of people think they mate for life. I now know they actually don’t but I believed it for a long time. Ridiculous, no? You’d think I’d know better.’

There was silence for a few moments and Miranda watched a toddler pick up a beach ball that was almost as tall as herself and throw it to a proud-looking father.

‘Is that why you don’t catch them any more?’ she asked.

Steve laughed. ‘Don’t go telling anyone what a soft old romantic I am, please! I’d never hear the last of it in the village. But yes, it’s partly why. Once I’d heard about the for-life thing, I just couldn’t lift a lobster out of a pot without thinking of its soul mate all alone in the ocean. And by the time I found out it wasn’t exactly true it was too late. The idea was stuck in my brain. But
hey, I might not eat lobsters but I do eat apple tart. They do a fabulous one here. Do you fancy it?’

Miranda looked at him and thought, yes, actually, I do. Very, very much. And some apple tart would go down well too.

If he opened his bedroom window and leaned out a little bit, Andrew could see most of Jessica’s creekside garden. Years ago when it had been the Miller family who’d stayed there he hadn’t bothered to do much staring out at them apart from when Clare had hung out a load of underwear on the washing line. He’d liked Miranda but she’d been a dreamy sort, drifting about in wispy vintage clothes and reminding him of an upright (and of course dry) version of Millais’s painting of the drowning Ophelia. Jessica, though, she’d been earthier: sporty and curvy, with so much energy that although he’d desperately wanted to find himself (magically) in bed with her, he was quite scared that the reality would damage him. She could have bounced him to death. The one time he’d actually thought (wrongly, as it turned out) that he might be in with a chance of seducing her, he’d had to go to Helston library to
research just how much alcohol it would take to get her to a state of languid calm. But the information had been confusing and the maths had been tricky and he’d given up, deciding it was a fine line between getting her mellow and making her comatose or sick.

Andrew sat on the window seat, looking out across the creek and down to the main estuary, checking out the boats. Or that’s what he would say if anyone caught him and asked questions. Really he was hoping to catch a glimpse of Jess who, although now very slender and quite fragile-looking with her strange spiky hair hidden under scarves, still had her stunning smile and a look of potential naughtiness about her. He felt seventeen again, furtively spying on his quarry, feeling the old guilty excitement. He almost leapt out of the window when his bedroom door suddenly opened and for a terrible second he was whisked back to the time his mother had walked in and nearly caught him enjoying a moment of private sexual delight.

‘So what’s this insanitary dump worth? Have you come up with a figure?’ Geraldine plonked herself heavily down on his old single bed. He turned to her and watched as a cloud of dust motes wafted up from the ancient floral eiderdown like tiny flying insects in a beam of sunlight. She was wearing khaki shorts that were surely big enough to make a tent for six boy scouts and had broad Birkenstocks on her strangely yellowish feet. He wondered if she’d heard that women tend
to shave their legs in summer. Still, each to her own.

‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Water frontage always carries a top premium but the second homes market is depressed these days.’

Geraldine sniffed and took a look round his room. ‘It could do with some work. Needs a thorough update, not to mention a scrub. I suspect mice, too. But then buyers often like a project, don’t they?’

Andrew had once told her that very fact but was surprised to find himself wanting to argue the opposite when it came to his own family’s house. ‘Depends. If it’s for full-time living in, then yes, they want to put their own mark on it. But if it’s a holiday home, they don’t usually want to spend a load of money on something they’ll only be in for a few months of the year. They want a lock and go situation.’

She gave him a look, the same one she’d treated him to when she’d been moving to Esher and he’d told her one house she was viewing was ‘deceptively spacious’. ‘If you mean poky, just bloody well say so, Andrew,’ she’d said. He couldn’t blame her. Sometimes even he felt irritated by his own jargon, and he’d once wanted to leave a room and come back to start afresh after hearing himself telling a client they weren’t only buying a flat but a ‘lifestyle option’, just because the block had a concierge and a basement swimming pool.

An idea was trickling its slow way into his head and he wasn’t going to keep it to himself. Geraldine could
approve or not, whatever she liked. This wasn’t her house and never would be, so consulting her wasn’t an issue. He’d got London friends and his little flat in Wandsworth but it didn’t feel like
home
the way this cottage did. He glanced out of the window again and saw Jessica, Eliot and Lola come into the garden with oars and a basket. He watched as they went through the little gate in the wall and down the steps into a rowing boat, untied the rope and set off down the creek.

‘Actually, I’m thinking of buying it myself,’ he said, the decision suddenly made. Geraldine sprang up from the bed, disturbing the dust cloud all over again. He flinched. For a scared moment he thought she was going to attack him.

‘Best idea you’ve had in your life,’ she boomed, which almost floored him. He’d once thought it a good idea to accept his father’s offer to pay to send Freddie to Andrew’s old school (but she’d put her foot down, and when he thought about it, she was right. He’d hated it), and to let him go with his mates to Glastonbury (she’d won that as well) and to get him a drum kit (no argument, just NO). This had to be a one-off.

‘You think so?’ he said, suspecting she was going to come up close and bark ‘Of
course
not, you imbecile’ as she’d been known to do in the past (the time he’d suggested Freddie might prefer a puppy to a pony).

‘Yes, of course. A bit of paint and a new kitchen and bathroom and this could be a little gold mine.
Then
you
can sell it and make a nice fat profit. Freddie’s going to need a lot of funding for university in a couple of years. Good thinking, for once, Andrew. I’ll get some paint charts. You won’t have a clue on colour, obviously.’

Obviously. Andrew looked out of the window again, across at the thousand shades of green on the hillside trees, at the ever-changing grey-brown ripples on the creek, at the delicate pinks and creams of the roses in his father’s flower beds. She could get all the paint charts she liked, he thought to himself, but, somehow and whatever it took, this was going to be
his
project, and his (and Freddie’s whenever he wanted) home.

Miranda wasn’t sure this was a good idea but Harriet insisted she needed an urgent bikini wax and her nails, according to her, were ‘beyond dire’. So the two of them were in Miranda’s car, driving round the headland to Tremorwell and the Pengarret hotel where Pablo the errant footballer might or might not still be in residence. It was a risky venture, Miranda thought. Was Harriet softening towards Pablo, now that, although he was still in the area, he didn’t seem to be so passionately pursuing her? Or was she planning to run into him ‘accidentally’? She hoped not. From what she’d seen of him, the man was little more than an overgrown yob. Harriet could do much better than that. Miranda could only hope he, and the reputed cohort of press, had chosen this day to leave.

‘We could go to Truro, you know,’ Miranda said as they went up the lane and out of the village, ‘Or to the spa at that hotel across the water. It’s won awards.
And
they’ve got a lovely pool and you can get a cream tea. I could call them right now if you like.’

‘We’ve got a lovely pool here at the house. And a cream tea will make me all swolled up. Anyway, this is nearer.’ Harriet had her determined face on. ‘I wouldn’t want you to drive miles just for
moi
.’

‘Very considerate of you,’ Miranda said, trying not to sound as sardonic as she felt. ‘So do you know whether he’s still actually there or not?’

‘Who?’ Harriet asked, her eyes wide and faux-innocent. ‘Oh, you mean Pablo? I have
no
idea. I expect he’s gone back up to Manchester for training or whatever they do.’

‘I thought he was banned for a while.’

Harriet shrugged. ‘Yes, but he has to keep in shape. But anyway, it’s nothing to do with me. I don’t give a flying one, frankly.’

Miranda drove in through the ornate gates of the hotel and took a quick look at Harriet. For a woman who didn’t give a flying one she’d certainly pulled out all the don’t-care stops and was wearing a silky little white wrap dress that showed off both her tan and her cleavage, and a pair of sky-high pink platform shoes. Car-to-bar shoes, Miranda had thought earlier as she’d watched Harriet totter down the house steps and pick
her careful way to the car. She’d also piled up her hair into a messy but sexy bed-hair arrangement and curly tendrils of it wafted prettily around her face.

‘It’s just as well you’re not here for a facial,’ Miranda commented as she parked. ‘It would take half the appointment time to get your make-up off before they even started on you.’

‘
What
make-up? Harriet said, looking mightily affronted. ‘I’m not wearing any. Hardly.’

‘Whatever you say, darling, and you know I was only joking. You always look fabulous, make-up or not,’ Miranda said as they went in. Harriet hesitated on the front steps of the building. The place was a popular local wedding venue and Miranda couldn’t help thinking that Harriet, looking around in a quite nervous way, resembled a jilted bride with her white dress and anxious face. There was no scarlet Ferrari among the parked cars and no sign of any photographers. Miranda felt suddenly sorry for her. Where
was
she going to live when these few weeks were over? Did she really have nowhere to go? It wasn’t that long since she’d left her girly Manchester flat-share; her old room was probably occupied by someone else but it could be worth checking, in case the new person hadn’t worked out. So far she’d refused to discuss it beyond some hints that she ‘might try London’, job-wise. That would probably mean the end of Miranda’s spare room in Chiswick but it would be a pretty dreadful woman who refused to
accommodate her homeless, unemployed (see also untidy, fractious, demanding …) sister.

Harriet spoke to the receptionist and vanished down a corridor in the direction of the spa. Miranda hadn’t booked any treatments for herself. She didn’t want some masseuse’s hands on her body at the moment. Like a teenager who’s had her arm signed by her favourite rock star, she could still feel the touch of Steve’s fingers as he kissed her goodbye after their lunch. It was only a small kiss, nothing that suggested anything more than that he’d enjoyed her company, but something about his touch had felt it was setting her clothes alight and the heat went right through to her skin. Ridiculous, she told herself now as she went out into the hotel’s garden with a copy of
Vogue
borrowed from Reception, to order herself some tea and cake and sit in the sunshine taking in the gorgeous view across the water to Falmouth. Steve hadn’t said anything about seeing her again. But something had crossed her mind. When he’d originally invited her for the lunch he’d said he had to go to St Ives anyway, for some kind of meeting. But he hadn’t mentioned it again and he hadn’t so much as made a call to any possible client or colleague on the day. When she was feeling positive, she told herself that he’d only said the thing about the meeting to make it sound less of a date. When her confidence wavered, she decided that whoever it was must have either cancelled or changed the arrangements.

‘May I join you?’ Miranda, on the point of tucking into the chocolate cake the waitress had brought her, looked up at a man who was standing by her table.

‘Er … well, I’m not sure. I don’t know you, do I? Or do I?’ He looked slightly familiar, but she couldn’t immediately remember where from.

‘I was at your place with Pablo. You know, the other day?’ He looked embarrassed. ‘Name’s Duncan.’ He held out his hand, but as Miranda had a piece of cake in hers she had to offer him her left one to shake and the two of them ended up looking awkwardly as if they were about to go and dance. Duncan laughed. ‘Sorry, didn’t see the cake. Look, I’ll go. Sorry, this was a bad idea.’ He had a soft Scottish accent. Miranda remembered he’d had the good manners to apologize for gate crashing their barbecue. Unlike Pablo.

‘No, it’s fine. Sit down, please. We can get more tea. The cake’s good.’ She looked across at the waitress, who nodded and went back into the hotel.