by Jenny Oliver
Rory sat up straighter, his eyes widening with surprise. His fingers almost unable to believe they were holding the notes.
‘I kept it because I think I thought if I didn’t buy anything she might come back.’
‘Nothing we did would have kept her.’ Rory looked across at her. ‘It was never about us, Ava. It was about her.’
‘I know.’ She nodded. ‘I know it was. Or I know now that it was.’ Ava rubbed her eyes. Then she said, ‘Tom said I need to make sure that my life and her opinion of me are separate.’
‘That was very astute of him,’ Rory said.
‘Don’t sound so surprised.’
‘Well, he’s an actor.’
‘Rory!’
Rory snorted to himself. ‘Go on then,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Separate them.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know.’ Rory shrugged. ‘Maybe say it out loud? Shout it.’
Ava looked away from him to the faded rug on the floor, then lifting her chin shouted at the top of her voice, ‘I don’t care what you think of me!’
‘Jesus Christ, Ava, you’re going to wake the house up!’
‘You said to do it.’
‘I didn’t think you would.’
She did it again. Shouting at the top of her voice. Then smiling said, ‘You do it.’
‘No way.’
‘Go on. I feel much better.’
Rory ran his tongue over his top lip. Looked at Ava. Her cheeks did actually look like they were slightly glowing. He too stared down at the floor, then before his brain could stop him shouted, ‘I don’t care what you think of me!’, aimed more at his father than his mother. Then he laughed, taking himself quite by surprise. ‘Blimey, that was actually quite liberating.’
From downstairs he heard Claire’s voice call, ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing,’ he shouted back. ‘All fine here. Sorry.’
They sat for a second, the room seeming lighter, brighter, before Ava said, ‘Shall we get something to eat?’
Rory nodded, standing up and handing her the folded tenners.
‘No, keep it,’ she said. ‘Give it to Max for waterskiing.’
‘Ava, it’s not legal tender any more, you idiot.’
‘Oh,’ she inspected Charles Dickens on the old ten-pound note. ‘Really?’
Rory left the room, shaking his head, incredulous, but with the small hope that she hadn’t changed as much as she thought.
CHAPTER 38
The party at Café Estrella spilled right out on to the beach, fairy lights twinkling, people dancing barefoot in the sand, sloshing glasses of blood red sangria.
Next door at Nino’s, guests lounged on white sofas as torch candles flamed in the sand and waiters served oyster shots and beef carpaccio rolled into roses. It was a picture of contentment, but Rory saw the covert glances, all of them just a little jealous of the fun.
Tom arrived late with a crate of last year’s vintage and a leg of the finest acorn-fed Ibérico ham. Flora swished about the place dressed in a green silk dress with zebras on it that Rory was sure he’d seen before but wasn’t sure where. Gabriela was marching in and out of the kitchen with plates of fresh, piping hot tapas, refusing to listen when Flora told her to stop and sit down, while Everardo seemed quite at home behind the bar, expertly slicing the ham Tom had brought.
Rory took a moment to stare at his wife on the pretext of filming. She was so tanned, relaxed and happy, Rory could barely recognise her as the woman who had basically chucked him out of the house a few weeks previously. His sister on the other hand seemed on edge. Overbright. She was wearing the black silk dress with the green stripe of their grandmother’s and looked stunning, the material wafting about the place as she walked, all golden limbs and crazy curls, but the worry was still there in her eyes when she smiled, like she was struggling with the uncomfortable weight of uncertainty.
In retrospect he wished he’d gone over to her at that point, checked everything was OK, maybe made sure that she stuck with him and Claire, or at the very least got her a drink so she relaxed.
But he didn’t. He actually forgot about her. He got caught up slow dancing with Claire. He was called to the kitchen by Flora to force Gabriela into taking a break. He munched some little fried anchovies and sampled the chorizo and chickpeas. He partook in the sangria-downing competition and found himself at the microphone for some impromptu karaoke with Gael, Rosa and Gabriela, who clutched her little dog as she sang. All of it, he noted with pride, captured on film by his son.
That was until all of Max’s friends bundled in under a cloud of glitter hairspray and Lynx deodorant, a boisterous clique, half of them ignoring each other while the other half were draped all over one another. The camera was unceremoniously thrust back in Rory’s direction as Max, cool and cocky, started casually chatting-up a girl with a ‘Selena’ necklace and silver stars in her hair.
It was only when Rory took a turn round the room to film that he saw the bikini-clad blonde sitting with Tom. Lithe and sinewy, legs up to her armpits and eyes like a cat. Tom looked like he had the first time Rory had met him: cocksure, louche, like there was no way you’d want him shagging your sister.
Ava saw him at the same time Rory did. She was walking up from the darkened beach, the hem of her skirt damp from the sea. She paused. Tom looked up like he barely knew her.
Rory slowly put the camera down on the table. Over by the bar he saw Flora and Claire stop chatting and pause to take in the scene.
Ava’s eyes narrowed just a touch, but were quickly wide again with false brightness. He knew she was trying to work out how best to handle the situation. He watched as her step didn’t falter. She carried on past Tom like he wasn’t there. And just as she swept past his chair, she said, voice casual and uncaring, ‘Didn’t take long.’
Rory felt his whole self deflate as he realised she had been right. That this wasn’t real. It made a sudden mockery of his now-flighty-seeming decision to stay. He felt like a fool. Not only had he failed to see behind the veil, he had dragged his son and wife through with him. It was just a hollow holiday town. His tumbling Twitter feed was more real than this.
He couldn’t meet Ava’s eye, so looked down at the floor at the intricate twists of the newly revealed Spanish tiles, scoffed at their mocking authenticity, and in so doing missed the moment when Tom’s hand shot out and grabbed Ava by the wrist.
Rory glanced up when he heard her say, ‘Ow, what are you doing?’
Tom didn’t let go, just stood up and pointed to the woman sitting next to him. ‘Lola. This is Ava. Ava, this is my daughter, Lola.’
Ava’s whole stance changed in an instant. Rory watched her attempt to cover up her mistake. Her hand over her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry. God, I’m such a cliché. I can’t believe it, I’m so sorry. You look really grown up,’ she said to Lola, who could easily pass for a good five years older than sixteen. ‘You had brown hair in the photograph,’ she added, scrabbling for a viable excuse.
Lola reached up to self-consciously run her hand through her peroxide crop. ‘It’s new,’ she said.
‘And it looks fabulous. You look stunning,’ Ava gushed, all the while completely avoiding eye contact with Tom. She put a hand on Lola’s arm. ‘I really am so sorry. I thought you were your dad’s date. Ridiculous.’ She shook her head, then held her hands in the air and said, ‘I am ridiculous.’
Lola giggled.
And Rory’s opinion of the world instantly resumed to its original state. He strolled over to stand next to his wife, arm resting casually over her shoulder as, together with Flora, they silently chuckled, cringing at Ava’s faux-pas.
CHAPTER 39
The karaoke was in full swing behind Ava, Igor belting out Elvis Presley, sangria sloshing on the floor.
She could see Rory’s camera trained on her, Flora pretending not to eavesdrop behind the bar. She extricated herself from her embarrassment with Lola by introducing her
to Max and promptly running off to talk to anyone she could, all the while avoiding eye contact with Tom at every opportunity.
Her inner turmoil, she noted, was now personified in Max, who, having been introduced to Lola, could barely speak, Selena et al forgotten as his crush changed immediate allegiance and she heard him stutter out, ‘I can mono-ski.’
Ava managed to flit about the party for about fifteen minutes before Tom cornered her by the olive tree and bundled her out through the kitchen and into the pitch dark vegetable garden.
‘What is going on?’ he asked, standing hands on his hips, legs apart like he was getting ready to wrestle.
‘Nothing.’ Ava kicked a stone out of the way with her sandal.
‘Come on, Ava. Why are you being so completely weird?’
‘Because I’m leaving,’ she said, looking up at him for the first time since she’d been hauled into the garden. The only light from the kitchen window. The music flooding what should have been quiet darkness.
‘You want to leave,’ he said, unmoving.
She paced the broken path, confused. ‘I know. I just don’t know if I do or not.’
Tom held his hands out wide. ‘So stay,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘So why don’t you want to leave?’
‘I don’t know.’ It was sticky in the garden, the humid night heat close, pressing against her skin. She walked past him to sit on the rickety old bench. ‘You, a bit,’ she said, trying to tuck her hair behind her ears but the curls popping back into place.
‘Me?’ Tom looked chuffed.
‘Don’t look like that. I can’t stay for this.’
Tom frowned and came over to sit down next to her, far enough away that no part of them was touching, close enough that she could feel all the fibres of her being try to stretch across the gap like tentacles. ‘You want me to move back to the UK?’ he asked, like he was offering to pay for groceries.
‘No!’
Tom shrugged. ‘I can move back. Winters here aren’t anything to write home about. I’ll come back to London, we can get to know each other better.’ He was warming to the idea. ‘Fly out on weekends to see Lola. Fly her out to see me. No problem.’
‘No, no, no. No one is moving anywhere. No one’s moving for anyone. It’s too much. It’s stupid. I don’t want anyone to have to give anything up for anyone.’ Ava shook her head. ‘And anyway, you said you didn’t even want a relationship.’
He shrugged and rested his head back against the kitchen wall. ‘Well I didn’t.’
‘And now you do?’
‘Well I know you now. I mean, please, forgive me for not being that eager when it comes to new relationships.’
Ava looked blankly at him.
‘My daughter? The injunction? Royally screwed by my ex?’
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ he agreed.
The shadows of the peach tree leaves looked like monsters on the ground. Ava stared out at the sickly tomato plants, the huge plate-like leaves of the courgettes. She thought for a second that she would like to see this in bloom, see it fixed and healthy and abundant again.
She sat forwards on the bench, cupping her cheeks with her hands. She felt Tom’s hand rest lightly on her back and it made her want to cry. When he had mentioned coming back to England with her, her immediate feeling had been that he would realise it was a mistake, that she wouldn’t be enough to make him stay. It was a belief so familiar to her that she clutched on to it without even thinking – the belief that she wasn’t worth staying for.
She thought of all those relationships she had fled before the other person could leave. All that time wasted. Habits were hard to shake.
‘So why don’t you want to stay?’ Tom asked, tone intrigued rather than questioning.
‘Because it feels weak. It feels weak to be the one making the sacrifice.’
‘But didn’t I say that I would leave?’
‘Yeah, but you’ve clearly got the better life.’ She had to laugh at her own logic.
Tom shook his head, bemused.
‘I just don’t know if I can leave my life. My job. My flat. My friends . . . It’s my life.’
‘I can see that,’ he agreed. ‘Me, I have nothing to lose, I’ve essentially lived all the hassles in my life. I’ve had my fresh start.’
Ava didn’t reply. After a pause, still focused on sacrifices, she said, ‘And there’s my pride, I suppose. My respect. The fact that I’ve only just worked out how to be me, and I’m running into the arms of the first guy I meet.’
Tom blew out a breath. ‘Thanks a lot.’
‘You know what I mean.’
He made a face like he wasn’t completely sure.
‘I’ve just learnt to be alone, I can’t stay for the possibility of a relationship.’
Tom nodded.
There was whooping and cheering inside. Ava sat back, knowing his arm was draped along the back of the seat. His hand slipped down, warm on her shoulder. She shut her eyes for a second.
Inside someone called Tom and Ava’s names.
‘We’d better go.’ He pulled her close into his side for a second and, kissing the top of her head, said, ‘Ava, things aren’t weak if they feel right.’
Untangling herself from his hold, Ava sat up, turned to look at him and, shaking her head, said, ‘You’re so self-righteous.’
His smirk was just about visible in the darkness of the garden.
Back inside, Rory, Claire and Flora were all poised at the karaoke. Fairy lights glinted in the warm, humid air. As Tom and Ava strolled back in they shouted, ‘Come on! Come over here, we’re waiting for you.’
Flora was holding out two mics.
Everyone was watching, except for the teenagers who were milling about out the front, Max hovering adoringly round Lola.
‘This is not my thing,’ Tom groaned, as he was handed a microphone, shaking his head but willing to be dragged up to the stage area.
‘Ava, get up here,’ Rory shouted.
Ava stood where she was.
Tom was laughing, beckoning her up with a wave of his hand.
Flora leant forwards and thrust the microphone at her. ‘Come on Ava, darling!’
Ava stared at the proffered mic.
She thought about whether it might cure her – to stand up and sing on her own terms. But she realised she didn’t need curing. So instead she said simply, ‘No thank you,’ and walked away to stand by the bar.
There followed further cajoling attempts that Ava politely dismissed, but the crowd started to get restless so in the end the music started and the motley crew belted out the most terrible rendition of Sinatra’s ‘My Way’.
And Ava watched, sangria in hand, smile on her face, content to enjoy the view from where she was sitting.
CHAPTER 40
Rory lay in bed unable to sleep. The luxury of his new-found heavenly slumber gone. The embers of the party at the café still burning outside.
‘Ava’s so annoying,’ he said, nudging Claire to wake up. ‘What can I do to make her stay?’
Claire yawned. ‘I don’t know, Rory.’
‘That’s no help.’
‘Maybe do what she did for you,’ she said, snuggling down under the sheet.
‘What’s that?’ he asked, thinking this was no time for riddles.
Claire sat up and replumped her pillow, then lay down again to go back to sleep. ‘Think about what Ava needs to hear,’ she said, as she closed her eyes.
Rory stared down at his wife, her breathing immediately slow with sleep. He stared at the familiarity of her face. Her features softened as she gently snored, her hair tangled on the pillow. He felt the comforting reassurance of her hand resting on his arm. And he thought how it didn’t matter any more who had chosen what ten years ago, whether they married for the baby or because they’d found The One. What mattered was that they were The One now. That they had grown together, irreplaceably. That life itself had made each of them the oth
er’s One. And if he was able to see his life played back, he would see that it was fuller, happier, kinder with her in it.
Rory got straight out of bed and went rummaging around in Claire’s bag for her laptop, then he sat in front of the blue glow for hours until finally he had earned the luxury of deep, exquisite sleep.
CHAPTER 41
Ava woke up with the sunrise and lay on the sofa, her eyes open. She understood suddenly the meaning of solitude.
She was OK here. Lying staring at the ceiling. The heat was still stifling, but she was calm enough to enjoy the feeling of being hot. To bask.
She had been OK, she thought, before she had stepped out in front of a bus. She had been OK. She had just needed to believe it.
Her phone pinged with a new email. She dug down the side of the sofa to find it. The email was from: [email protected].
Dear Ava,
This is what I would have said if indeed you had lost your life to a bus.
I’d have said you were kind. And funny. And that you always think of other people. And I’d say that you were almost the sum total of my family and that I was truly gutted you had gone, but that I was proud of the person you had become.
I would have said that I loved you very much.
And I would have said that you were most definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, good enough.
Rory
Ava had to dab her eye with the corner of her sheet. Then, when that wasn’t enough, she had to sit with her fingers pressed into her eye sockets.
She almost didn’t see the little P.S. that said: Café Estrella, 10 o’clock.
CHAPTER 42
Everyone was a little the worse for wear at breakfast. Gabriela arrived in huge purple diamanté sunglasses, having overdone the sangria the night before, the pug wheeled behind her a touch slower than usual. Rosa was struggling to summon the energy for the churros. Rory had skipped his six a.m. run for the second time that holiday and the second time in fifteen years. Every new arrival registered the same shock at there being no croissants, Everardo having never made it home.
