The Summerhouse by the Sea

by Jenny Oliver

  ‘When I was nine. She died of a heart attack when I was eighteen.’ Ava held her hand over her mouth. ‘This is no good.’

  ‘Carry on. Did you see her at all after she left?’ he asked, concentrating on the black abyss in front of them, the sea and the sky merged as one, grinning occasionally when they hit a particularly giant wave, clearly enjoying the choppy night ride but trying hard not to show it.

  At this point in the line of questioning, Ava would normally change the subject, but right now she didn’t have the wherewithal so she kept it brief. ‘Yes. A bit. Oh God, can someone stop these waves?’ She inhaled as much as she could but tasted only salt water spray. A great mouthful of sea water. She felt her whole body tense.

  ‘Talk, Ava!’ Tom shouted at her.

  ‘We saw her more to begin with. Then not so much.’

  ‘Why not?’ He clicked his fingers for more quick-fire answers.

  ‘She moved to New York.’ Ava leant forwards with her eyes shut, breathing like she was in labour. She sat up again, tried to swallow down the bile in the back of her throat. All she could taste was octopus.

  ‘And you went to New York? You and Rory?’ Tom was watching her.

  ‘Don’t look at me. Concentrate on the waves. Rory never came. I’d go with Val. On the plane. Please keep looking at where we’re going.’

  ‘That sounds like fun,’ he said. She felt as though she’d morphed into his child, his tone cajoling, buoying.

  ‘Yes,’ Ava said. ‘It was. I loved it. I thought she was amazing. We’d go to all her shows and she’d take us to tea. At The Plaza. Always at The Plaza. People would stop her for autographs. Oh shit . . .’ She stood up and vomited octopus and alcohol all down the side of Tom’s boat, just as they turned the corner and cruised into the safety of the marina. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said, wiping her mouth with a tissue from her pocket.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘The water will wash it off. I’m sorry I took you out there.’

  Ava sat down on the wood of the stern, lying backwards to stare up at the wisps of grey cloud, her body like it was made of jelly. ‘I’m sorry I suggested it,’ she said, her voice shaky.

  Tom steered them to the mooring. The party-goers on the gin palace whooped as they went past. A couple on a neighbouring yacht waved.

  ‘Bit choppy out there, Thomas,’ the man said.

  ‘Yes.’ Tom nodded.

  ‘Braver than me.’ The man laughed and ducked into his cabin.

  Ava rolled her head to look at Tom. ‘Just enjoy it?’ she said, tone sceptical.

  Tom grinned. ‘I don’t suppose you feel up to grabbing that rope, do you?’ he said, pointing towards the jetty.

  Ava heaved herself up. ‘Not really,’ she said, swaying her way to the front of the boat to loop the rope around the mooring post, then sitting down on the leather seats.

  Tom came to join her, handing her a bottle of water.

  ‘That was horrendous,’ she said, glugging down the water. ‘I’m sorry you had to listen to all that about my mother.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s fine. It’s quite interesting hearing it from the other point of view.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Well, Val would talk about it quite a lot. About you and Isabel. That was her name, wasn’t it? Your mum?’

  Ava nodded. Intrigued. Concerned that she’d been talked about. Wanting to know every detail that had been said. Wondering about the nuggets she didn’t know. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tom said, unscrewing the cap of his own water and gulping it down. ‘Loads of stuff. I can’t remember specifics.’

  ‘Well just have a think,’ said Ava, trying to sound nonchalant.

  ‘Alright,’ he laughed, holding his hands up as if under fire. He sat back, resting his ankle over his knee as he thought. ‘We mainly used to talk about it in relation to me. Not about me personally but about stuff with Lola.’ He turned his head to check that she wanted him to go on and Ava nodded, a little too eager. ‘Well, it was because I was ready to walk away cos I was so furious with the whole thing. Whereas Val’s belief was that a person should have as many people in their lives who love them as possible, and she would cite her daughter as an example, you know, Val making sure that your mum didn’t cut herself off from her family. She thought it was really important that she see you and your brother, and clearly it was. And in the same way, she knew Lola’s life would be better with all of us in it – getting along,’ he paused. ‘She actually forced me to see Mia’s side, which I don’t think I would have done otherwise. It’s Val who got us on vague speaking terms.’

  Ava looked at him a bit puzzled. ‘What do you mean, cut herself off?’

  ‘What do you mean, what do I mean?’

  ‘You said she made sure my mum didn’t “cut herself off from her family”.’

  Tom sat up straight, confused. ‘She left, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah, but we still saw her. I still saw her.’

  ‘Yeah, but I think Val would phone her telling her she had to get her act together,’ Tom said, and as he said it Ava saw the moment it dawned on him that he was talking to the daughter in question rather than to some interested bystander. That perhaps this wasn’t something to be relayed.

  ‘She wanted to see us,’ Ava said, a little more quietly than she’d expected. ‘She just wasn’t very good at keeping in touch.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tom nodded. ‘Of course she did,’ he added, trying to cover his tracks.

  ‘Yes,’ Ava agreed. Less convinced than she had been in the past.

  She turned to look out over the marina. In the distance music still thumped from the party boat. A sudden break in the clouds basked them in moonlight. Tom closed his eyes and stretched his arms out along the back of the seat. Ava sat where she was, still, conscious of his arm behind her. The closeness of his hand to her shoulder. The brush of his fingertips. The electricity. The amplification. The sense that her shoulder was suddenly the focus of her whole being. She could hear her heartbeat thrumming like wings in her head, drowning out any thoughts of her mother.

  Tom rolled his head her way and opened his eyes. ‘I’d probably kiss you now if you hadn’t just been sick.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ Ava tried not to smile.

  Tom looked away, across at the party on the boat, a grin on his lips. ‘There’s a spare toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet.’

  ‘Interesting,’ she said.

  ‘I thought so.’

  They sat for a few seconds. Champagne popped on the mega yacht.

  Then Ava stood up and walked down into the cabin to go and investigate the bathroom.

  She blanched at her wind-battered appearance in the mirror, skin pale with the residue of the sailing trip fear and sickness. She splashed cold water on her face to get rid of mascara smears then looked in the bathroom cabinet for a new toothbrush, surprised by how little stuff was in there; she’d expected evidence of vanity, imagined a plethora of men’s grooming products, once again resorting back to her Google version of him.

  As she stood, cleaning her teeth, looking at herself, she wondered how she’d gone from being hit by a bus to about to snog Thomas King. Her pre-bus self would never have even imagined such a thing.

  The thought struck her of how proud her mother would have been of her, mixing with Hollywood royalty. She imagined how it would have felt to walk into The Plaza, Tom’s arm around her, the look of pleasure on her mum’s face as people stopped to stare.

  Ava rested the toothbrush on the side of the sink, unable to shake the image. What was she thinking? Was that what she was doing this for? Because his fame would have made her mother sit up and take note. Hang off his every word, eyes widening when people asked him for an autograph. And in turn she would put her hand on Ava’s arm the moment they were alone and congratulate her. Maybe stroke her face and tell her how lovely she was, how happy she hoped she was, then giggle conspiratorially about this gorgeous new boyfriend.
/>   God.

  Ava covered her face with her hands. What was she thinking? What was her imagination doing? She was as bad as he’d thought her to be when he’d read the WhatsApp. She was the same as all the rest.

  Her heart was booming through the tiny bathroom. She held on to the sink and stared into the mirror.

  Or are you just making excuses, she asked herself, like Flora and Rory said, for fear of being left?

  No. She shook her head.

  It wasn’t fear of being left. It was a desperate need to impress. As it had always been. A desperate need to be noticed. And Tom fit the bill so perfectly it made her feel a bit sick. Again.

  She rinsed her mouth and tried to think of reasons to leave. Excuses she could give to jump on the bone-shaker bike and rattle away.

  In the end, when she couldn’t come up with a decent excuse – no phone to claim had rung with an emergency – she just walked fast up the cabin steps, out on to the deck and said, ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’ And jumping up on to the jetty, before Tom really had a chance to register what was happening, she pedalled off as fast as she could.

  CHAPTER 26

  Rory couldn’t sleep. Too much sangria, he decided as he lay in bed, heat filling the air, bursting the room at the seams. The sheet over his legs as heavy as lead. Max snoring softly in the bed next to him.

  He heard Ava come in, clatter around a bit, then when he was certain enough time had passed for her to be asleep, he got up, pulled his jeans on and creaked his way up the dark staircase. He could hear Ava’s breathing from the living room, the occasional murmur and a turn on the squashy sofa. Outside it was quiet aside from the occasional gust of wind. The hallway clock ticked monotonously into the blackness.

  At the doorway of his grandmother’s bedroom he stood for a moment, looking around at the outline of the bed, the wardrobe looming in the shadows, the flicker of a streetlamp through the sides of the blind.

  He could hear his own breathing as he crossed the bare floorboards. Felt like a child, nervously trespassing, as his arm reached out to open the door of the little ante-room, to search around for the light switch, to smell the perfume as though she was in there waiting for him.

  Then he pulled the cord and the room blazed bright and he felt like an adult again. Almost. His hand touched the collar of one of the jackets. Lifted a cuff. Peered into boxes of handbags and purses. Stilled on the stack of programmes, Isabel Fisher as Carmen in her bright red dress on the front. He perched on the edge of a small set of shelves and looked through every one. Every picture. Every smile. Every dressing-room snap of her face turned, caught, lipstick in hand. Every posed laugh. Every spotlight shot.

  He stared through anger. Through frustration. Through pity. Through disappointment. Photos of her holding bouquets, radiant on stage, merged in his head with images of himself as a kid, when he’d spent so long trying to work out how to keep her. Coming home with pictures he’d drawn of the family, as if he could glue her to them with poster paint. Making dinner, learning recipes, while his friends played football. He’d tidy his room, take Ava out when she cried, wash up, dry up, close the curtains when she sighed at the familiar faces of the neighbours, open them again when she cried about the stifling suburban predictability, listen as she screamed in fury about his father, get her a towel as she retched, hysterical, after failing an audition. He would pour her afternoon martini and fetch the matches when she smoked secret cigarettes on the back doorstep. He’d read her bloody reviews out loud when she lay in the darkness. Even, he thought, pausing as the box of letters caught his eye, go to the post office to buy the stamps. The stamps that sent the letters that took her away.

  Rory stood staring at the tattered box in front of him. The blue and red chevrons on the airmail envelopes.

  ‘I bought the stamps,’ he said to himself softly. Then he kicked the box with his bare foot, the wedged-in letters unmoving. ‘Urgh,’ he shouted under his breath so as not to wake the whole household. But it wasn’t enough. So he smashed his fist into the wall and instantly regretted it.

  The pain was unimaginable.

  The thin wooden strut snapped on impact, collapsing the shelf that held the boxes of handbags, purses, belts, brooches, so they tumbled down like a jumble sale on to the floor.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, voice a loud whisper, sliding down the side of the shelves to the floor, clutching burning knuckles to his chest.

  Then, staring at the mess, he stood up and started to ram everything back into the boxes, hating himself for pausing his own frustrations to clear up. Hating that he was so measured he couldn’t even feel the thrill of a good wall punch. All the while terrified he’d broken all the bones in his metacarpus.

  The pile of programmes had slipped and his mother watched him like the Mona Lisa from her picture on the floor. He left the room and went to get ice from the freezer. Then opened the back door to the veranda and sat with it wrapped in a damp cloth around his hand, the geraniums in pots on the opposite wall craning to see what was going on.

  Rory stared out into the dusky night. White clouds in the moonlight stilling as the wind died. He thought about all his errands, all his attempts to please his mother. And they merged almost seamlessly into his life with Claire. The haste with which they’d had to marry never properly acknowledged. Just stride on forwards. Why had he never paused to think: I want this. I choose this. Of course it was something that should have been said. That should have been spoken about. Why had he not realised? Because, with the stubborn rationality of his father, it had simply been something that had to be done.

  He thought about his dad, all calm and measured. Did he ever punch walls silently in the night? No. Even now he was stable, traditional. Still calling it the wireless. Shaking his head when Ava said she cried during acupuncture. Still happy to dismiss the entire canon of film and television with a downward turn of his mouth. But kind, Rory thought. His father’s saving grace. Always kind to them as children. Kind to them as teenagers. Practical. Patient. But watching from the side lines. The cool observer. All of them butterflies he’d collected.

  Rory thought about his own marriage. How much of it he had spent absent with work. Coming and going through their life, dipping in and out. There but not there. A marriage that he filled with things: Audis and loft extensions, bi-fold doors and hot-off-the-press iPhones.

  It felt suddenly like all of it was a trick. Too similar to a way of life with his mother that had been proven not to work. A trick to make sure that she stayed. To keep buying, to keep making sure they had more to cover up what they lacked. He was finding it hard to pinpoint the time they spent together, the honesty, the fun. All he could see was Claire loading the dishwasher, Max lost to his laptop, him trying to grab five minutes on his phone. Where was the passion? The now? The I-can’t-live-without-this? Where had it gone? Was it ever there? Was he just his father, watching as wings flapped furiously in a jar?

  Rory bashed the table, then immediately remembered his injured hand as the pain shot up his arm.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled. The scent of jasmine and fig sickeningly sweet in the darkness. The tiles cold under his bare feet. He thought of all the pensioners in the café. Gabriela bashing him with her wooden spoon. Rosa piping churros. The man with the white moustache bantering with the cheating chess players. They didn’t have swanky new iPhones and they were much happier than him.

  As he sat and thought about it all, the loneliness of dark windows all around him, he wished his father had realised that the responsibility of propping up his mother was too much for him as a kid. Wished that his father had pushed him to go to New York so his memories weren’t severed on a whim. Wished that somewhere along the line one of them had ranted and raved and been listened to and understood and wishes had been acted on.

  And he wondered if he was just repeating it all. Repeating it now with Claire because he had never confronted it. How do you break a pattern if you’ve always refused to acknowledge it exists?

>   He got his phone out and scrolled back and forth through Claire’s replies since he’d been there:

  Hello. That’s a good start.

  He held the crappy old Nokia to his chest, his eyes shut.

  He breathed in, he breathed out.

  Then he opened a new text and wrote, I have always loved you.

  Then he immediately deleted it because it felt too corny.

  Then he typed it again.

  Then he sent it.

  Then he waited.

  But there was no reply. It was four thirty in the morning.

  CHAPTER 27

  ‘Aunty Ava, Aunty Ava!’

  She woke to a hammering on the living room door. All bleary eyed and no idea where she was, coming up from an abyss of sleep and head sore from sangria, Ava fumbled about with the sheet as Max’s little voice shouted through the door, ‘Aunty Ava, Aunty Ava, Dad’s gone.’

  ‘Oh shit.’ She jumped out of bed, stumbling to pull on a pair of shorts, tripping over the glass coffee table, stubbing her toe. ‘Hang on, I’m coming,’ she shouted, running her hand over her face and through her hair to force herself awake. ‘OK,’ she said brightly, opening the door to a panicked-looking Max, his eyes already damp with the threat of tears. ‘What’s this about your dad? Tell me what’s happened,’ she said, arm round his thin little neck, ushering him inside, sitting him down on the end of the sofa.

  Max sniffed, wiping snot away with his sleeve.

  Ava pulled out one of the lavender tissues from the box on the coffee table and handed it to him. ‘Blow your nose,’ she said.

  Max blew his nose. ‘Dad’s missing,’ he said, through a torrent of snot.

  ‘He’s not in your room?’

  ‘No, and I’ve called Mum and he sent her a text at four in the morning and now he’s not replying and I’ve been down to the café—’

  ‘You’ve been down to the café? Without anyone Max, why didn’t you wake me up?’