by Jenny Oliver
And by the time the church bells chimed midnight, Ava wasn’t necessarily enjoying it as such, but she was beginning to understand it. She was beginning to feel the urgency, the togetherness, to enjoy the pain, to enjoy the fact that her brain zoned out and she’d find she’d been picking for an hour without realising, to relish the pause for sandwiches – serrano ham, manchego cheese and a drizzle of olive oil never tasted so good – and the hipflask brandy, and the collective turn like sunflower heads as they stopped to watch the sun set. She’d been cursing it for most of the afternoon but now, as it hovered big and bold and red in front of her, she could start to forgive it. Her burning skin cooling in the dusk.
On occasion she found herself chuckling as she picked. The lightness inside her escaping, like she knew a secret. A realisation that the past had been completely out of her control and as a result she could live a little freer. She tipped her head back and stared into the darkness at the million dots of light in the sky, she popped the odd little sour fruit into her mouth, she watched with satisfaction as her bucket filled up with fat, ripe bunches, and she made her peace with the last remaining bees.
At two a.m. Max was sent inside for a nap, but came back half an hour later with the camera and marched up and down the vines filming the workers in the moonlight.
Tom came to stand next to Ava, offering his battered hipflask. ‘Loving it?’ he asked.
Moths flickered around her head torch.
‘It’s bearable,’ she said, masking the tiniest of smiles with a brandy sip.
Tom nudged her on the shoulder. ‘I knew you’d come round to it.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘I so did!’ he laughed, and before she could counter, his hand was pressing warm between her shoulder blades, pulling her close, tight, and with the self-assurance of someone a bit drunk on brandy and high on grape-picking he bent down and kissed her hard on the lips, the heat of the night searing between them. The moment ruined only by a little cringe when she heard Max wolf-whistle and realised everyone had stopped picking to watch.
CHAPTER 36
They finished at seven o’clock the next morning. At five the sky had changed from black to blue to peach as the sun creaked its way above the horizon, the vineyard bathed in a morning mist that swirled around them like snow. It felt to Ava like magic.
Walking with her last bucket of grapes, legs cement heavy, eyes closing as she walked, skin chapped and burned and bitten, hands scratched, she felt a tired satisfaction fill her whole being, a sense of being alive that she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt before. She saw Gabriela and Rosa ambling slowly, arm in arm, to Gael’s Renault and realised that she too would want to do this every year. Would suddenly be the first in the queue, just to experience the feeling when it was over: the completeness, the memories.
They piled into Tom’s Jeep. Max, who’d gone to bed at four, gently snoring on Rory’s shoulder. Wrapped in a contented peace, no one said anything. Just trundled along down the hillside road, Tom glancing at Ava every now and then, tired eyes smiling.
Then into the nothingness came the sound of a phone ringing. Ava felt a creep of shame as she reached into her bag and pulled out her mobile.
Tom shook his head, incredulous. ‘Do you know what detox means?’ he asked, as she fumbled to answer.
‘I got it when Rory went missing. Hello?’
It was work.
‘Just a quick question,’ she heard Hugo drawl. ‘Nothing to worry about. Just wanted to clarify a price you’d quoted the Jamesons on the Murano chandelier. Bit of a pickle. They said you said five thou. Peregrine says that’s lower than cost. Any idea?’ he asked.
‘Hugo. The five thousand for the chandelier is if they take the pink marble console table as well. It was a deal, they know that. It’s all in my notes.’
‘Yes, yes, no, don’t worry, darling,’ he said. Ava could visualise his face puckered tight as he feigned listening like a Made in Chelsea extra. ‘Just wanted to double check. That’s exactly what I thought.’
‘Hugo,’ she said, uncertain, ‘have you looked at my notes?’
‘Absolutely. Never look away. They’re my Bible.’
He hung up.
Ava was about to put her phone back in her bag when it rang again. ‘Ava, darling!’ This time it was Peregrine.
She glanced around the Jeep. Rory was looking out the window, Claire had her eyes shut, Tom was concentrating on the road. It felt like she’d welcomed in a beast.
Peregrine was talking. ‘So basically it’s all a complete disaster and I’m about three grand out of pocket. We’re up the proverbial without a paddle and I think you’re just going to have to come back. Provided you’ve found yourself, of course,’ he laughed, deep and jolly but glib enough to make it clear that the holiday was over.
Ava swallowed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, absolutely, all present and correct. I’ll be back beginning of next week.’ She glanced round when she heard Tom sigh, but he appeared to be focused on the road, no obvious sign that he’d made a noise at all. In the rearview mirror she saw Rory open one eye and close it again.
‘Just what I wanted to hear,’ Peregrine drawled, and she imagined him reclining in his chair, twirling his fountain pen. ‘Right, I’d better go and sort out this fiasco. Ciao ciao.’
Ava sat with the phone in her lap. She couldn’t even muster what would once have been colossal delight for being proved indispensable. The car was quiet. Tom had pulled up by the café and turned the engine off.
After an awkward second or two, Rory made a show of yawning and said, ‘Righto, better go and get some sleep.’ Claire came round to help him with Max.
‘That was a great day, thanks Tom.’ Rory reached into the Jeep window to shake Tom’s hand as sleeping Max resettled himself on his shoulder.
Tom nodded.
Ava toyed with her phone.
The beach was starting to fill up. Sun loungers bagsyed with towels, toddlers waving spades about while teenagers basked in the sun, sleeping off the night before.
Tom’s hands were resting on the steering wheel. ‘So you’re going back Monday?’ he said, watching the view for a second before turning Ava’s way.
She swallowed. ‘Yeah, looks like it. They’re in a mess.’
Tom sucked in his bottom lip. Then he said, ‘I hate that phone.’
Ava chucked it in her bag. ‘Me too.’
The seconds on the clock counted on.
‘We’re really tired,’ Ava said, opening her door. ‘We should go and get some sleep.’
Tom turned the key in the ignition.
Ava had been expecting him to come with her. ‘You’re not coming?’
‘I’ve got work to do.’
‘You’re kidding. We’ve been up all night.’
‘Not loads, but still some work.’
She wasn’t sure if she believed him, but she shut the door and stood by the open window.
‘So just to check, with us, that’s it?’ he said, one hand on the steering wheel, as if it were some simple off-the-cuff remark.
Ava sighed. ‘I don’t know. I guess so. I think it has to be.’
Tom nodded.
‘You belong here. I belong there,’ she said.
‘No one belongs anywhere,’ he said, rubbing his eyes and staring at her, face impassive.
‘Come into the house with me,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘I can’t. I really do have work to do.’
Ava pressed her fingers into the corners of her eyes, tiredness encroaching, making her suddenly want to cry.
Tom tilted his head as he studied her. Ava could hear her heart beating in her ears. He reached his hand out the window and touched her cheek for a second. ‘OK,’ he said, putting the Jeep in gear. ‘I’ll see you later.’ And with a quick salute, he drove away, the throaty roar of the old exhaust like a rocket taking off.
CHAPTER 37
Rory finally understood the expression ‘slept like the dead’. At home
he slept lightly, the blackout blinds not quite obscuring the streetlight outside. The noise of the planes thundering over at four a.m. It was his belief that he’d never quite recovered from Max’s baby years, sleeping in short, sharp two-hour bursts, lying in his bed desperate for the wave to carry him from one to the next because if he missed he was up for good, whatever time of night.
The day after the grape-picking, however, he sank into a trance of oblivion. The world could have imploded and he wouldn’t have known. Shut in his little room with his wife and son, it felt like he’d bedded down in the most perfect cocoon. When he woke up he could have sworn he’d retreated to a younger form of himself, his eyes felt wider, his muscles lighter.
‘It’s all that sea air,’ Claire said, yawning and rolling over to go back to sleep.
But it wasn’t, he knew it wasn’t, it was more than that. It was contentment.
He went into the hallway expecting to find the house in silence but was surprised to find the living room empty and Ava already up.
He found her sitting on their grandmother’s bed, feet just touching the floor, a pile of possessions next to her on the satin quilt, the dusty air shimmering gold in the sunlight.
‘You alright?’ he asked, mid-yawn, trying to flatten his hair after catching sight of himself in the hallway mirror.
Ava glanced up at him. She looked worn out. From the dark circles under her eyes, he presumed she had not had such a luxurious sleeping experience as his. ‘I’m going to take these things. That OK?’
Rory walked over and examined the little pile next to her. A gold ring. A black silk dress with a green stripe. A pair of red dancing shoes.
‘Fine,’ he said, sitting down next to her on the bed, rubbing the sleep from his face. ‘So you are leaving then?’
She nodded.
‘Did you know there’s a party tonight?’ he said. ‘At the café. Apparently there always is after the grape harvest.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘I think we might stay,’ Rory said, lifting up one of the shoes and tapping it on the quilt.
‘For the party?’
‘No, in Spain.’
‘What do you mean, stay?’ Ava asked, frowning.
‘As in – stay.’ Rory leant back on his elbows. He’d never felt so relaxed in his life. ‘There’s a fairly decent international school half an hour away. Claire will freelance for a bit, set up her own thing maybe. I don’t know, actually, if you can believe that. Might do your airbnb.’
‘You know it’s not my airbnb, don’t you? It’s a massive international company!’
Rory snorted. ‘Whatever, I’m pretty confident the rent will cover our mortgage.’ He held his hands wide. ‘So. Who knows. Give it a try for a year and see what happens.’
‘Hang on a minute, where are you going to stay?’ Ava asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
Rory swallowed. ‘Here,’ he said a little sheepish. ‘At the Summerhouse.’
‘Oh it’s the Summerhouse now, is it?’ Ava said. ‘You never call it the Summerhouse.’
Rory shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant, knowing that not so long ago he’d refused to let Ava even contemplate the idea of not selling the house. ‘I’ve fallen for its charms.’
Ava raised a brow.
Rory scratched his head. ‘It’s not definite. I mean, we’d only stay if it’s OK with you. I know before I was a bit, you know . . .’
He watched Ava’s lips quirk up in a half-smile as he stumbled over his words.
‘It’s OK with me, Rory,’ she said. ‘I’ve never wanted to sell this place.’ Then after a pause she added, ‘You’re really lucky I’m not you, you know that?’
Rory grinned. ‘I know.’
‘I can’t believe you’re going to stay,’ she said.
Rory laughed. ‘I know. Amazing, isn’t it? Completely unlike me.’ He sat up and looked over into the little ante-room. ‘I broke the shelf in there by the way,’ he said, standing up to go and have a look. ‘By accident,’ he added.
When he opened the door he saw that everything had been neatly folded away into boxes, the shelf hammered back into place. ‘Did you fix this?’ he asked, turning to look at Ava.
She nodded.
He crouched down and had a flick through some of the packed-away stuff: the million pairs of sunglasses, the collection of spangly brooches all pinned to a square of black velvet.
Ava came over and knelt down beside him. She pulled a shoebox off the shelf and handed it to him. ‘These letters are interesting,’ she said. ‘They’re nice. I read them yesterday and they made me feel—’ she paused.
‘Feel what?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head.
Rory knew that look. He knew that vulnerability. He’d spent half his life telling that look that everything would be OK. ‘You do know.’
She skimmed her fingers over the letters like a xylophone. ‘I suppose they made me feel good enough about myself. You know, like Flora said in the bar about Ricardo, You spend your whole time thinking: why wasn’t I good enough?’
‘Did she say that?’
‘God, Rory, do you not listen to anything?’
‘I listen to the stuff that interests me,’ he half-joked, while inside he was thinking that this shouldn’t have been how she had felt. That she should never have had cause to doubt that she was good enough, and the fact that she had meant that he and his father had failed in their attempts to protect her.
He sat down, leaning against the doorframe, and watched as she folded and refolded a silky-looking blouse, tucking it in neatly with the other stuff.
‘I should have told you about Syd,’ he said. ‘We should have talked about it all more. I’m sorry about that.’
Ava sat down opposite him, leaning against the shelves. ‘That’s OK,’ she shrugged. ‘I don’t know how much I would have listened anyway.’ She pulled her hair away from the back of her neck and fanned herself with a theatre programme.
It was quite satisfying, Rory thought, to see the glossy booklet treated with so much less reverence than earlier in the holiday.
When the air was a fraction cooler, Ava stopped fanning and looked at the front cover picture of their mother in the red dress. ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘I mainly just wish that I had accepted a few more of her weaknesses. Maybe if I’d known more I wouldn’t have filled in all the gaps with her greatness. I don’t know. Who knows?’ she smiled, her face softening, then she put the programme back on the pile. ‘I wish I’d tried less hard to impress her.’
He nodded. ‘You should stay.’
Ava shook her head. ‘No. I’m not staying. I like my life.’
‘I thought you came out here to change your life?’
‘And I have changed my life,’ she said, closing the lid on the first of the boxes. ‘I will be going home with much less FOMO,’ she laughed, ‘and I will find amusement in the things around me. I’m reformed.’
Rory took over with the box as Ava struggled to get the flaps to slot into place to prevent it reopening. ‘What about Tom?’ he asked.
Ava sat down against the wall again. ‘It’s not real. I have a life at home. A job. Friends. A life. An existence.’
‘You’re crazy,’ Rory said, the box satisfyingly shut. ‘I’ll tell you who’s not real – that bloody Peregrine.’
Ava laughed. ‘He’s OK.’
‘He’s a charlatan. He always has been. And your friends, well, you watch.’ Rory started work on the next box. ‘They’re all getting married, having babies and they won’t be there on a Friday and Saturday night to go out with you, Ava.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I think you’re not giving my friends enough credit.’
‘Maybe not. But I’ll tell you something, they will be out much more rarely. Try adding forty-quid babysitting to every meal out. And they won’t want a raging hangover with a six-month-old at home.’
Ava stood up and went back over to sit on their grandmother’s bed, gatheri
ng her little pile of stuff together again. ‘You’re painting a very bleak picture of parenthood, Rory.’
‘No, I’m trying to make you see that you are at an age where the lives of the people around you are changing and you can’t make everything stand still.’ Box closed, he stood up and turned the light in the little room off. ‘Don’t go back in search of what you had, Ava. That’s all I’m saying.’
‘I’m not trying to make everything stand still. I’m just becoming a realist,’ she said.
‘There’s not that much joy in realism, you know,’ Rory said, walking over to have a peer out the window. The café was getting ready for the party, the terrace all dolled up with fairy lights. He turned back and, seeing Ava sitting all prim and small on the bed, threw his hands up in the air and added, ‘And why at the crucial time do you lose the bloody annoying part of you that would do something like stay!’
‘Hang on, I thought you’d be pleased,’ Ava said, stunned by his change of heart.
‘I know,’ he said, plonking himself down on the bed. ‘I guess maybe I was wrong.’
‘I’m sorry, what was that?’ She leant forwards as if she’d gone deaf.
Rory laughed. ‘I was wrong.’
After a minute or two of sitting side by side, staring at the closed door to the room of their mother’s stuff, Ava stood up and went down to the hall, coming back up with her bag.
Rory watched as she got her battered pink purse out and unzipped a compartment in the middle. He was still contemplating how she managed to exist with all those receipts and cards bulging out of her wallet when she handed him five folded-up ten-pound notes.
‘You know you asked me what I’d done with that money Dad gave us. You know when you got your trainers? I didn’t put it in my piggy bank. I put it in a book by my bed. And every night I put it under my pillow. For years.’ She shook her head at the thought, like she was crazy to have done it. ‘And when I stopped putting it under my pillow, I put it in my purse.’
