Читать книгу A Summer to Remember - Victoria Cooke - Страница 18

Chapter 9

After a morning reading by the pool, I’ve actually made it down to the beach. There was a bustling little sandwich shop in the centre of town where I picked up lunch – a chicken and pastrami sandwich the size of my arm – and now I’m sitting on the sand eating it whilst watching some kayakers and trying not to ooze sauce all over myself. This is the life. It’s such a cliché even to say in my own head, but there isn’t a phrase more fitting. The sky is blue, punctuated with the odd fluffy white cloud – sky pillows, I used to call clouds like this when I was little. It’s such a far cry from my real life, my London life, where I thought lunch in the park or by the docks warranted the phrase ‘This is the life’. I think I posted an Instagram picture to that effect once, but here, I can’t even be bothered taking out my phone. I just want to enjoy the moment.

And so I realise that being here, despite the woes of work, certainly beats being in the mad rush of London. I can blow my nose and black stuff doesn’t come out, for a start. Obviously, there’s a lot I miss about London – my friends, the parks, the continuous stream of new places to eat and, of course, the shops, but Boston has plenty of those anyway. I pull the menu from last night out of my bag and look over the address that Harry wrote out. I should be able to find the place easy enough, and a friend of Harry and Barney will likely be as kind and helpful as they are. There were some fliers in the hotel showing a local bike trail which looks great.

I’m pretty sure I can still ride a bike. You never forget how, apparently.

***

The little clapboard shop is only a five-minute walk away from where I sat on the beach. It’s painted blue and white, and bikes in their abundance are racked up outside. I feel a little nervous as I walk in and see even more. What if I can’t ride? It’s been a while. I wonder if they offer incompetence discounts or stabilisers for adults. The place is shockingly quiet, and not a CCTV camera in sight. If this was central London, teenagers would have ransacked the place by now, and these bikes would be accessories to crime as yobs swarmed the city on them, snatching the Rolexes off unsuspecting rich folk. Or at least that’s what the press would have you believe. I run my hand along the smooth frame of a red and silver mountain bike.

‘Can I help you?’ A smooth, deep voice startles me, making me feel like some weird bike voyeur.

‘Er … I …’ I turn in the direction of the speaker and the familiarity of his face has the Medusa effect on me. ‘You!’ is all I manage to say.

‘I beg your pardon?’ He narrows those sapphire eyes and tilts his head ever so slightly in a cocky, arrogant way. He doesn’t recognise me, but then again, why would he?

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ But I certainly remember him, because other than Barney and Harry, a bubbly young lady in Abercrombie and, to some extent, my work colleagues, he’s the only person I’ve spoken to since arriving in the States.

‘I’m sorry, should I?’ His tone isn’t completely awful, but considering I’m a potential customer, it isn’t great. His eyes make small movements from left to right, searching mine for an answer but still, his face is blank.

‘I asked you to take a photo of me in Boston Harbor a fortnight or so ago.’ I cross my arms in front of my body defensively.

‘Oh, you’re that person.’ He allows his features to drop and begins polishing some bike part.

‘Yes. Yes, I am.’ My arms are still folded. I’m not quite sure why I’m pressing the issue, but I am, and I’m hoping the arm-folding strengthens my stance.

‘Well, are you here for a bike?’ His cocky nonchalance is infuriating.

‘Actually, yes. Harry and Barney sent me. They recommended you, but obviously you’ve hidden your arsey side from them, like some weird little anti-hero or something.’ I notice the corner of his mouth twitch a little. I can’t believe he finds this funny.

‘Are all you Brits this uptight?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Okay, admittedly, that didn’t help my cause.

‘Well, you’re on another continent, on the sleepy peninsula of Cape Cod, surrounded by beautiful beaches with whales breaching on the horizon, and you’re standing there like Mary damn Poppins wanting to correct my behaviour.’

‘I’m not uptight, I’m cross. There’s a difference.’

‘Fine. Do you want a bike or not?’

‘Well, of course I do! I didn’t hunt you down and come here for the pleasure of your company.’ God, I hope he doesn’t think that’s why I came. Now I’ve said it, he’s definitely going to think that.

‘Okay, good.’ He exhales noisily and it’s irritating. ‘Let’s get you hooked up with a bike then.’

He looks me up and down. I know it’s to size me up for a bike, but I’m still squirming with discomfort. I can feel his eyes on me, and it sends weird tingles down the back of my neck. I can’t ever remember being looked up and down before. Suddenly my fairly modest denim shorts feel shorter and my T-shirt much, much tighter.

‘I’ll get you a medium frame and put the seat up a bit.’ He doesn’t meet my eyes when he speaks, and it feels more like he’s talking to himself or thinking aloud. He disappears outside. The aircon is so cold I have to rub the goose pimples on my arms as I wait.

After a few minutes, he pops his head in. ‘You’re all set.’

I step outside, and it takes a moment for the warmth of the sun to penetrate my icy skin. He’s holding a silver mountain bike out for me, a black helmet hanging from the bars. I take the bike and thank him.

‘Do you know where you’re going?’ he asks as I fasten the clasp on the helmet.

Nope. ‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘Good.’

‘Yes, it is!’ I give him a pointed look and push the pedal hard to make my dramatic departure. I wobble a little but correct it instantly. I’m one part smug and two parts relieved.

‘If it’s the bike trail you’re heading for, you’re going the wrong way,’ he calls after me.

Great.

‘I know!’ I didn’t. ‘I need a bottle of water first. Leave me alone!’

‘Okay. There’s a map in the front basket, you know, for after you’ve got your water,’ he says. I wave him off, and away I ride.

God, I hate that guy.

I keep riding until I hit the safety of the beach where I can sit for a minute and study the map without arrogant arseface nit-picking. What are the odds of him being the bike guy? Of all the people in Boston and all the bike rental places in Cape Cod, it’s just my luck he is ‘the guy’. Bridget is going to love this story.

I figure out the route and set off. The breeze blows against me as I ride, taking my frustrations with it, and soon I’ve forgotten all about work, homesickness and unpleasant bike-rental people. The tarmacadam pathway is a biker’s dream. A yellow line down the middle separates the traffic, like a road. I swerve out of the way of an oncoming bicycle and shout ‘Sorry’ before realising I’m cycling on the left. The lady giggles and cycles on. Everyone seems so friendly here.

Soon, I find my groove. I take in the grassy dunes that line the trail and enjoy the feeling of the sun beating down on my skin. After a while, I find a deserted spot with sea views that is perfect for a rest. I lay the bike down and sit on the sand with my legs stretched out and inhale the briny smell of the air. Kev would have loved it here.

Without fail, if we were ever on a beach somewhere, he’d say we should give up our jobs, move away to the seaside and rent out pedalos for a living. I smile at the memory before sadness frays its edges. Perhaps if we had, he’d still be here today. ‘Oh Kev,’ I say aloud. I can remember the happy times now, and I no longer have the questions of Why him? Why us? circling my head, but every now and then a memory bats the wind out of my sails.

A zephyr whips up the sand, and a few grains fly into my watery eyes. I giggle. If we ever watched a sad film and Kev got a bit upset, he’d say, ‘I’ve got a bit of sand in my eye.’ This right now is what people don’t understand. They don’t understand the warmth of my memories and how I don’t need to meet someone else because the memories and feelings I have in my head and heart are enough. Some people spend decades in loveless marriages. How on earth can that be better than what I had … what I still have?

2007

‘I could get used to this.’ I’m lounging lazily on a swinging chair under the straw canopy of the hotel’s pool bar as Kev hands me a cocktail. Kev had surprised me with a last-minute trip to Mexico. My parents had thought we were mad as we’re supposed to be saving up to decorate and I hadn’t even had time to get my legs waxed but sitting here now, I know that Kev got it right. It’s a beautiful place.

‘Don’t get too comfy, it’s happy hour and you’re going up for the next round.’ He grins and I throw an ice cube at his bare chest.

‘Well, that was just uncalled for.’ He puts his drink underneath his chair and gives me a look filled with mischief.

‘Kev?’ I ask, nervously. I know something is coming, but I’m not sure what.

‘Sam?’ He mocks before straddling me on the swinging chair. ‘I wouldn’t do anything mean to you,’ he says. Slowly kissing my neck, he prises my drink out of my hand and puts it down on the floor.

Then, all of a sudden, he thrusts an ice cube down the front of my kaftan.

I scream and nearby sunbathers look up from their buy-one-get-one-half-price airport paperbacks and I feel ridiculous.

An almighty roar of thunder rips through the sky. Seconds later, the heavens open and torrential rain pounds the terrace. People scream and dart indoors or under the cover of the bar where we are.

Kev sips his drink and flashes me a mischievous grin.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Nothing!’ He mimics my higher pitched tone. Gently, he scoops me up and lifts me off the safety of my seat.

The rain is like stair rods and I know his plan.

‘Fine, take me out in the rain. See if I care,’ I say, hoping to suck the fun out of his wicked plan.

He laughs. ‘You can try working your little mind game on me, Sam. It’s cute, really it is.’ He edges towards where the rain sloshes inside the open bar. ‘But we both know that today is not a hair wash day and you only have a drizzle of that anti-frizz serum left – you can’t afford an unscheduled hair wash.’

Damn! I’m torn between laughing at how well he knows me and the sheer fear of him seeing his plan through. He pretends to swoosh me out in the rain and I scream again, digging my fingers into his back.

‘It’s so warm,’ he says, inching closer to the rain. ‘I think I need to cool off.’

‘Don’t you dare!’ As I say it, he runs from under the canopy of the bar and out into the torrential rain. Within seconds we’re both drenched through.

I’m furious. ‘I hate you!’ I shout over the lashing rain, but he just gives me that lopsided grin that melts my insides. Slowly, he slides me down to my feet and pulls me into his body and kisses me as the cool rain beats down on our hot bodies.

Almost as soon as it started, the rain stops and the sun comes back out, burning through my wet kaftan.

‘You’re an idiot!’ I say, whacking him on the arm.

‘Sam, it was a joke.’

‘You knew I didn’t want to wash my hair,’ I say, squeezing out the excess water from my ponytail.

‘Let me show you something.’ He takes my hand and leads me up to our room.

‘You’re such an oddball, why are we going inside now the sun’s out?’

He doesn’t answer, instead, he opens the door and puts his hands on my shoulders, positioning me in front of the full-length mirror in the hallway.

Slowly, he peels off my kaftan. ‘Look,’ is all he says.

‘Frizzy hair, bloated all-inclusive belly, red, sunburned chest and freckles.’ I fold my arms.

‘Gorgeous, natural hair, a beautiful body and cute freckles.’ He kisses my neck and my insides flutter, it’s amazing he can still do that to me after all this time. ‘I’m with you on the sunburn though, but that’s your own fault, I told you to wear a higher factor.’

‘Oh, shut up!’ I bash him playfully.

‘My point is; you don’t need that hair-frizz gunk. Your hair is stunning as it is, just like the rest of you.’

I turn to face him, and my lips find his. His body feels hot against mine, which is still cold from my soggy kaftan.

‘What do you say we have a little siesta?’ he says cheekily.