One Golden Summer

by Clare Lydon

  Wow. Fifteen years. Kirsty’s marriage had blown up at the archetypal seven-year itch. But 15 years? She couldn’t imagine it.

  “It could also be a great way of introducing yourself to the community. Embed yourself in the town. Give them free booze and a disco, and I’m sure you’d have a ton of friends for life.”

  Ginger cupped the back of her neck with her right palm. “It would also be a fabulous way to show my old friends where I’m living. Show off my new home. Show them Ginger is back and ready to party.”

  “It certainly would be.” Kirsty got up, grabbing both mugs. “Have a think about it, and let me know.”

  Ginger got up, too, picking up two bottles of the primitivo from the shelf. “I’ll do that.”

  Kirsty keyed in the purchase on her card machine, then offered it to Ginger. She inserted her card and entered her pin, placing her wallet on the counter.

  Kirsty glanced down. She was no label aficionado, but even she knew the wallet was Gucci. Wine selection wasn’t the only area where Ginger was seriously flashing her cash.

  “You need a bag?”

  Ginger shook her head, producing a rolled-up carrier from her handbag. “The more I think about this idea, the more I like it. Plus, if I invite all my mates, you could have a few new clients on your hands. If our 20s were the time of weddings, our 40s are when we’re all breaking up.”

  Kirsty smiled. “You’re preaching to the choir. I was 42 when I split with my wife.” At least now, when she said it, the words just felt like words. No emotion attached. It had taken a lot of work to get to that place.

  “If you split seven years ago, that means you’re 49?” Ginger’s eyes widened.

  “So the calendar tells me.” Fifty next year. She had no idea how it had happened.

  “You look incredible.” She gestured to Kirsty with her hand. “Smooth skin, and you’re in fabulous shape.” She peered closer. “Not a grey hair in sight! I would have said you’re younger than me, and I’m 42.” Ginger slumped, leaning her hip on the counter. “What is it about getting divorced at 42?” She didn’t wait for an answer, pointing a finger in Kirsty’s direction. “You’re my role model from now on. You’ve come through it, and you seem happy.” She stared at Kirsty. “Are you happy?” Panic danced around her eyes.

  Kirsty recalled asking something similar in the early days when she never thought that would be possible again. This answer was crucial for Ginger. She wasn’t going to lie.

  “I am. It’s taken me a while, but now I can talk about it like it happened to someone else. Like Anna was just somebody I used to know.”

  Ginger nodded. “Have you met someone since?”

  Kirsty stalled, then shook her head. “Nobody who counts. But then, maybe I wasn’t ready. I’m open to meeting someone now. Give it time, and you will be, too.”

  Ginger scrunched up her face and put her wallet in her handbag. “I’m not looking to meet a man anytime soon. I want to enjoy being single for a while and settle in here. Starting with a banger of a party.” She held out her hand, and Kirsty shook it. “Lovely to meet you, and thanks for the coffee and the wine. I’ll be in touch.”

  The shop door closed, and Kirsty allowed herself a smile.

  Her first possible divorce party booking and website help.

  Business might be looking up.

  Chapter 4

  Saffron killed the car’s engine in the assigned parking space of her new home. For the month, at least, although she’d booked the place for two, ever the optimist. But the thought of crossing the threshold of yet another temporary residence filled her with loneliness. The soul-sucking type that made her wonder what was the point to anything. She could have stayed with her sister, but Saffron had opted not to so she could have some alone time to figure out her life. Had she made a mistake?

  Not the best start to her holiday, and Saffron was fully aware it’d been her idea to take time off in Sandy Cove. It’d sounded like the perfect solution to snap her out of her blasé attitude of late. Now that her plan was in motion, she couldn’t ditch the sensation of drowning in angst, unwilling to dig deep to yank herself out.

  She reached for the script on the passenger seat, not to give the movie a chance, but to appraise the sketch she’d drawn on the back at lunch. A woman gazing out over the sea, done like the retro ads of the twenties when people were giddy about the end of the war, not knowing the depression and WWII were right around the corner. In the sketch, the woman on the page stood forlornly, yet Saffron remembered a whimsical lightness as her pencil flew over the paper, not a thought going through her head. Just the action and a sense of purpose.

  Saffron tossed the script into her shoulder bag and got out of the car, not wanting to haul her luggage inside. Maybe a walk along the beach would knock the cobwebs out. As soon as she was in motion, her brain whipped into hyper speed. The rest and relaxation explanation she’d given Pearl was only part of the reason she’d chosen Sandy Cove.

  On the promenade, she kept the water on her right-hand side, focusing on the water’s edge, a few white sailboats bobbing on the surface. At the periphery of her vision, there was a red and white striped lighthouse. A slight breeze wrapped around her flesh and ushered goosebumps to life, despite the sultriness in the air.

  Her mind flitted to her sister, who was going through a trying time after divorcing a man Saffron had liked. No. Saffron loved him like the brother she’d never had and couldn’t process the two of them splitting up. The majority of Saffron’s relationships hadn’t lasted beyond the shiny new object phase, but it had given her hope that her sister had found her Prince Charming. Surely that meant Saffron could find her princess. But had the possibility evaporated in a puff of smoke the moment she pursued acting when she was fifteen? And, if love wasn’t enough to bind her sister and husband, what chance did Saffron have for a happy ever after?

  She spied an artist standing outside one of the front row pastel-coloured beach huts on a grassy slope leading up from the water. The woman had a paintbrush behind her ear while she gripped another with her hand, making sweeping strokes on the canvas. From her angle, Saffron only spied blue and black paint, and it was easy to guess the artist was under a creative spell. There was much to capture. The rolling waves of the sea lapping against the pebbled beach. Two yellow labs sprinting after a tennis ball. A toddler wobbling between mother and father, exploring the shore. Everyone existing independently of each other, all the while providing the painter a cohesive scene.

  Saffron studied the woman, the way her hand moved, how she squinted with one eye to soak in the details, and then dove back to work. Saffron admired the artist’s easy-going vibe and the ghost of a smile on her lips, and instinctively understood the painter knew this was what she’d been born to do. What would it be like to do what one loved every day, creating art for others to admire? Not such commercial projects like Girl Racer.

  Her buzzing phone zapped Saffron out of her daze, and when she read the name of her agent on her device, she clicked the decline button and pocketed it, cursing the swirling sensation of bile rising in the back of her throat.

  After taking one last sweeping look at the beach, Saffron headed towards the High Street to locate the café for her meet-up. Wading through the people strolling here and there with not much purpose aside from window shopping, Saffron entered The Perfect Cup, pleasantly surprised it was also part bookshop. She’d been meaning to pick up something to read. Anything as long as it wasn’t that bloody script.

  “Can I help you?” There was a spark of recognition on the woman’s face.

  Saffron lowered her gaze to the menu on the counter and picked the first drink on the list. “Cinnamon dolce frozen coffee.”

  “Your name?” The woman’s hand shook as she held a pen to the plastic cup.

  Saffron’s mind went blank, unable to conjure up her usual plausible fake name, so she blurted the blandest name she could think of. “Pam.”

  “Pam?” the woman parroted, her eyes
wandering to the magazine rack with Saffron’s image blazing on three of the covers.

  “Yep.”

  “Okay.” The woman scrawled the three letters, set it to the side for her co-worker, and finalised the transaction.

  Saffron tapped her card, her head tucked down.

  “I’ll bring it out to you, P-pam.”

  Mumbling a thank-you, Saffron selected a table close to the counter, putting her right in the line of fire, but there wasn’t much that could be done since no other table was free. Someone had left a hardcover book they’d opted not to buy, and she cracked it open, holding it face level in an attempt to avoid detection. Peering over the top to scope out the scene, her shoulders sagged, as she spied two women browsing the books on a table, whispering behind furtive hands. Evidently, her Pam ruse had miserably failed.

  A woman in her sixties entered the shop and nearly gasped when her eyes landed on Saffron. So much for thinking people who flocked to Sandy Cove weren’t the Girl Racer types but more into art communes that cobbled masterpieces out of flotsam that washed onto the beach. Where did she have to go to be anonymous? A cave? Deserted island?

  The door opened, and Ginger, her sister, waltzed to the counter to order, along with a woman Saffron had never laid her eyes on.

  Ginger, not clocking Saffron yet, ordered.

  The woman with striking cheek bones, an adorable button nose, and a brilliant smile that warmed Saffron’s insides, followed suit, and then let her gaze wander, quickly locking onto Saffron, her eyes widening with recognition. “Don’t look now, but”—the woman, ignoring her own admonishment, goggled over her shoulder—“but Saffron Oliver is right behind us.”

  “Are you sure?” Ginger’s voice was playful, probably for Saffron’s benefit.

  The brunette turned back around. “I can’t believe it. Saffron Frigging Oliver is right there. I could touch her.”

  Ginger edged closer to the woman. “I take it you’re a fan.”

  “I might have a tiny crush on her. It’s even possible I’ve imagined what it would be like to take off her biker leathers.” She fanned herself, seemingly oblivious to how near she stood to Saffron. She stole another furtive glance at Saffron. Did the woman think Saffron was blind or deaf?

  “You should introduce yourself.” Ginger still avoided making eye contact with Saffron, instead focusing on paying the barista.

  “Are you mad? She’s a superstar. Also a lesbian icon. I mean, what the fuck is she doing here?”

  Saffron wasn’t sure what to make of the situation. Should she get up and let the woman know Ginger was goading her? Stop the brunette from even more awkwardness?

  “I’m serious. You should waltz up to Ms Oliver and ask her out. What’s the worst that can happen?” Ginger posed innocently.

  “How long have you got?”

  “I’ll do it for you.”

  The woman shook her head. “No! I wouldn’t know what to say.”

  “I would. I’ve known her all my life. She’s my sister.” Ginger flicked her fingers in a hello gesture to Saffron.

  The woman pulled back as if cold water had been dumped over her head. “She’s what?”

  “My sister. Let me introduce you.” Ginger hooked an arm through the woman’s, her hand on a hip.

  “Oh, no. I can’t. Not after…” The woman’s face went up in flames, and Saffron wouldn’t be surprised if smoke started to billow out of her ears. “This is so embarrassing.” Now, the brunette looked everywhere but in Saffron’s direction, although the tips of the woman’s ears deepened to a dark purplish colour.

  “Don’t be silly. She’s really quite down to earth.” Ginger tightened her grip on the woman’s arm.

  The dark-haired beauty’s legs didn’t budge, causing Ginger to implore Saffron with those kind blue eyes. “Come on, Sis; tell her you don’t bite.”

  Saffron was about to speak, but the barista bellowed, “Pam!”

  What happened to bringing it to me?

  Saffron rose to retrieve her drink. With each step, another chunk of her dignity cracked away. Mumbling a thank-you to the barista, Saffron flipped back around, with all eyes on her. She slinked back to her seat, wanting to hide behind the book again, but it was useless now.

  Ginger, shaking her head and still chuckling, guided the woman to the empty seat at the table, and then Ginger hooked a chair with her foot and yanked it over. “Let’s start over. Kirsty, meet my baby sister, Saffron.”

  Kirsty dipped her head, seeming as though she hadn’t regained her voice after jamming her foot down her throat.

  Not that Saffron was the super sophisticated woman she’d played to a hilt on more occasions than she could count. Real life had a way of crashing through the thin veneer of perfection, leaving Saffron to wonder if everyone was gutted to learn first-hand she wasn’t the Hollywood goddess her inner circle made her out to be.

  Ginger looked to Saffron and then her friend, a devious, playful glint in Ginger’s blue eyes.

  Saffron shot her sister, who loved to ruffle feathers, a silent plea for Ginger to strike a normal chord.

  Ginger moved her head to the left so Kirsty couldn’t witness Ginger sticking her tongue out at Saffron the curmudgeon and then launched into her news. “Kirsty is trying to convince me to throw a divorce party. She owns a wine shop, but is branching out into party planning. Isn’t that grand?”

  “A what party?” Saffron had trouble speaking, given she never considered Ginger would want something like that.

  “Divorce party.”

  Saffron swallowed. “I thought you said everything had been as amicable as possible between you and Dave.”

  “It has been, aside from him saying he didn’t see us together in our golden years, and he wanted to be free to find the right one. That still stings.” Ginger patted her heart.

  “I’m sure it does, but remember, the party isn’t about him.” Kirsty met Ginger’s eyes, flashing her a confident smile. “The party is about you proclaiming no matter what, you’ll be fine and it gives you the opportunity to embrace your independence with open arms.”

  “I like the sound of that. Not an end, but a rebirth.” Saffron turned to her sister. “I think it’s a great idea.”

  “You don’t think it’s petty?” Ginger craned her neck, taking note of Saffron’s drink. “You hate whipped cream.” Her crinkled nose relaxed, and she grinned. “Did you panic again?”

  Saffron shoved the drink over to her sister. “You know me so well.”

  “It’s amazing how simple things trip you up.”

  “I’m not used to getting my own drinks.” Saffron shrugged, knowing how bad that sounded. “Now, about this party. I want to pay for it.”

  “I can’t let—”

  “Don’t argue.” Saffron shook a finger in the air. “The guilt of missing your wedding has been eating away at me. No TV show is worth more than you.”

  “Turns out you made the wisest decision, because the marriage didn’t stick, but your career hasn’t let up.” Ginger slapped her hands together, her right one zooming off into space to demonstrate.

  Saffron placed a hand on her sister’s. “Let me help by paying for the party. No expense spared. Please. It’ll mean the world to me.”

  “I don’t know, Saff. I’m not the type to make a big to-do out of things.” Ginger tugged on her earlobe, dropping her eyes to avoid Saffron’s pleading expression.

  “Let’s turn over a new leaf together.” She lowered her head to gaze into Ginger’s eyes. “Don’t say no.”

  “Fine, but I don’t want anything super posh. I mean it.”

  “You can have whatever you want.”

  Ginger finally took a sip of the drink. “It tastes like cinnamon ice cream goodness. Yum.” She turned to Kirsty. “You should get one.”

  “Where are my manners?” Saffron rose. “Would you like one, Kristy? You two did order, right? It’s taking ages.”

  The brunette’s face crumpled. “It’s Kirsty.”

&n
bsp; “Oh, right, soz.” Now why had Saffron slipped into flippant millennial speak for sorry when she only did that over text? As if getting the woman’s name wrong didn’t matter at all, when in truth, unease strangled Saffron’s vocal cords.

  Kirsty bristled even more. “I’m fine with a simple coffee.”

  “You need one of these. Usually, I’m like you and prefer something plainer, but this is like drinking dessert.” Ginger smacked her lips.

  Kirsty gazed longingly at the drink, finally nodding in agreement.

  Pleased to see the brilliant smile back in place, Saffron headed for the counter. While changing the orders, she glimpsed out of the corner of her eye, Kirsty rising with a phone to her ear, meandering to the other side of the store, her fingers running over the top of some magazines.

  After paying, Saffron returned to her seat and nudged her sister’s foot with her own under the table. “How are you doing, really?”

  “Remarkably well despite a few wobbles here and there.” Ginger stretched her arms overhead. “Coming here was the best decision I’ve made. This place is freeing. The hustle and bustle of London made me feel trapped, and I constantly bumped into friends who knew us as a couple or kept wandering by the places we spent time together.”

  Kirsty dropped a stack of magazines on the table. “These will give us some party ideas.”

  Right on top was one featuring Saffron, as if declaring loud and clear the woman’s true intentions. “Is this the real reason why you want to plan my sister’s party?”

  Kirsty took a step back. “What do you mean?”

  Saffron knocked the magazine off the pile. “To use my name to boost your business.”

  “Saffie!” Ginger’s hand flew to her mouth, using the nickname from their childhood when Ginger thought her sister was acting like a brat.

  Undeterred, Saffron stared at Kirsty, noticing how her grey eyes had more sparkle than her smile.

  “In case you didn’t get the memo, I didn’t know you were Ginger’s sister until moments ago.” Kirsty pointed towards the till, where the embarrassing scene had played out.