Summer in the City: The perfect feel-good summer romance

by Emma Jackson

‘You didn’t bring any with you?’

  ‘I’ll go bankrupt if I have to keep you caffeinated on franchise coffee all day.’

  ‘Occupational hazard.’

  ‘I don’t think being addicted to coffee is unique to writers.’

  ‘You’re probably right there.’ I went into my bedroom and shut the door over, the noise of his rummaging in my kitchen while I stripped out of my pyjamas with only one wall between us, making my hands shaky. I went back out, pulling my hair up into a high ponytail. I was wearing a bright floral dress, because straight after going on our manhunt in Brooklyn Heights, I would be heading over to my parents in Flatbush for the family barbecue.

  Stephen glanced over at me, dark eyes dancing quickly and then averting again.

  Maybe things weren’t going to be quite so normal for us again.

  ‘What’s got you all tuckered out then? You stay up all night working or were you entertaining some lucky lady?’ I wanted to kick myself for asking the latter. Did I really want to know if he’d spent the night using those lips on another woman? The memory of how they felt had been haunting me. The tease of their minty taste, the glimpse of the sensations a full-on lip lock with him could potentially unleash… I knew I had to continue pretending I didn’t want it, but that didn’t mean I had to go asking for information that was going to make me jealous.

  Yes. Jealous. It was about time I admitted to myself that I wanted him to kiss me properly. That I wanted to feel his hands in my hair, on my waist, maybe sliding down to my ass to pull me closer…

  ‘Just work. Politicians will insist on making decisions that send the markets into a tailspin. How about you? How’s the book going?’

  The worst words in the world for a writer to hear. I mean, it was nice that he was interested, but there was no easy answer to that question. I had been making progress but usually there was a moment when things just clicked, and this book was still not clicking. I had one week left to get it to my editor on time and frankly, it was looking impossible. I joined him in the kitchen with a nonchalant shrug.

  ‘Oh great. And by great, I mean I’ve been eating takeout and playing RollerCoaster Tycoon for hours on end.’

  ‘I’m confused. Don’t you have a deadline?’ He found my packet of coffee and was searching for a spoon, looking mildly distressed by the mess. I bet he was one of those people who cleaned everything immediately and it all lived in a specific home. A desire to see his apartment filled me. I wanted to see him in his own domain. What was it like in his kitchen when he made coffee in the morning? Did he have a special pot for his spoons? Did he do it wearing just his jockey shorts?

  ‘Look, I don’t make the rules, this is just my process okay?’

  ‘…not working is your process?’

  ‘It’s a delicate balance of communing with my subconscious mind and then frenzied writing to get the stuff that’s in there onto a page.’

  ‘Hmm…sounds like an excuse for slacking off to me.’

  I prickled, even though I knew that I was the one being defensive and purposefully exaggerating. I took a deep breath and swallowed my first waspish response, giving him my second one instead: ‘That’s because you’re not creative. Stop judging and get on with that coffee, you heartless banker.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He gave me a little salute, filled the pot and set it to percolate.

  I opened a cupboard to grab a couple of clean mugs, going up onto my tiptoes to try to reach. His warmth flooded my back as he saw what I was doing and reached easily over my shoulder. He smelt of warm cotton and mint, and he was so solid; I wanted to turn and nuzzle into his chest. I planted my hands on the counter as he pulled down the mugs, thinking that would keep me out of trouble. All it did was mean that we were standing extremely close together in my little kitchenette until one of us decided to move.

  Neither of us decided to move.

  The lull in conversation made the tension between us obvious. We were both acting our little hearts out, pretending everything was normal. Or as normal for us as it ever was.

  I should be the one backing away though. I was the one who had friend-zoned him, and he was behaving now, so I should do the right thing.

  ‘I think you should take that one.’ I pointed to the mug in his left hand.

  He lifted it and read the words out loud. ‘A woman’s place is in control?’ His mouth ticked up at the corner and he glanced at me. ‘Suits me fine.’

  The heat in his dark eyes made my bones turn to lava.

  ‘Which leaves me with “boss lady”,’ I announced unnecessarily.

  ‘Perfect,’ he agreed and turned away to finish making the coffee.

  If only. If only I was in control of this, if only I was the ‘boss’, but I couldn’t undo the kiss I’d laid on him and the way it had left me craving more. I just had to hope that today he reminded me of all the reasons it would not be smart to kiss him again.

  The address was in Brooklyn Heights at a grey tower block that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Deptford. Inside the building was echoey and smelt of bleach. We took the stairs as it was only four floors up and I suppressed my ingrained habit to let Noelle go first. That way I wouldn’t be tempted to watch her bottom, or the way her summer dress floated around her thighs, as she climbed in front of me.

  Best behaviour. Best behaviour, was my mantra. I was not here to notice the curve of her hips or the way her hair smelt of citrus fruit or read into that moment in the kitchen when she’d most likely been waiting to see if I was going to keep to my word or pounce on her.

  We reached the apartment. Noelle was breathing heavily from chasing me up the stairs, her chest heaving in a very distracting—

  Best behaviour, Stephen.

  I rang the buzzer a couple of times. We could hear the TV coming through the door, but no one was answering. ‘Shall we write a note?’

  ‘Maybe. Let’s try once more,’ Noelle said. She was so good at keeping me going. That pep talk at Coney Island, when I was tired of traipsing around after the man who’d abandoned me, had been just what I needed. And it was the reason I’d brought her with me for this too. Or part of the reason. The other parts being made up of needing her inquisitive brain and…just wanting to be around her.

  I banged on the wooden door this time, the blue paint tacky in the heat. Finally, the volume of the TV dipped, and a woman appeared. Her hair was faded blonde, cut in a wiry bob around her face. She wore a tank top and long shorts and a pissed-off expression.

  ‘Yeah?’ If this was the woman my father had lived with, I had a feeling that she wasn’t going to be terribly helpful.

  ‘Sorry for bothering you – would you happen to be Lorna Smith?’

  Her eyes narrowed, her hand tightening on the doorjamb. ‘And who are yous?’ Her New York accent was thick. The kind I was familiar with from films.

  Noelle stepped in, introducing herself. ‘I’m a writer and we’re looking for a man called Trevor. We heard he lived here a while back?’

  ‘Why? What’s he done? And why is a writer looking for him? You gonna do his autobiography. Ha. I could write that. Born in England. Grew up to be a fucking jerk. Will die a fucking jerk.’

  And there it was. This was the other side of the coin I was used to hearing about him. Charming ladies’ man on one side. Despicable human being on the other. I’d definitely heard more of the latter growing up.

  ‘Wow,’ Noelle muttered, ‘that’s some character reference.’

  ‘Isn’t it just,’ I agreed distractedly. I was too busy trying to figure out what Trevor had seen in her that was anything like my mother – but then he hadn’t stuck around with my Mum and it sounded like he hadn’t stuck around with her either. Perhaps any type of woman was his type? Was that how it was for me? I appreciated that all women were attractive in their own way and I’d never really had a ‘type’, although I’d noticed recently that curvy redheads held a special fascination for me.

  Lorna sneered at our comments and then her eyes
narrowed on me with suddenly renewed interest. ‘Oh my fucking God. You’re his boy, aren’t you? The one he left behind in London?’

  Noelle’s head snapped in my direction, but I couldn’t look at her. I felt like a spider under a glass. Labelled as disgusting but at the mercy of the human peering down at me.

  ‘He told you about me?’ I asked. I hadn’t thought about that. I hadn’t thought it was possible that I’d played any part in his life at all, given that he’d walked out on mine.

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ She leaned her shoulder onto her doorframe and smiled mockingly. ‘He’d get drunk sometimes and talk. Said he felt guilty. Never made him put it right though did it? I mean, that’s why you’re here ain’t it? He never went back for you; else you wouldn’t be tryna track him down on my doorstep.’

  I didn’t know what to do with that information. I’d spent so long telling myself that I didn’t care. There was a box with my feelings about him locked up inside me. It meant none of them got out, but it also meant I didn’t know how to put any new ones in it.

  ‘You don’t have to sound so happy about it,’ Noelle scolded the woman. I didn’t want to know what she was thinking about this revelation. I should have told her before.

  ‘Misery loves company,’ Lorna retorted and shook her head, still staring at me. ‘Damn but you look like him. Better-looking in fact.’ Her eyes flittered to Noelle. ‘I’d keep an eye on him if I were you. If he’s anything like his father, he’ll be at it like a tomcat every time you’re not looking.’

  ‘It’s not like that—’ I started but she cut me off.

  ‘That’s what he always said.’

  The words dried up in my mouth.

  Noelle’s hand curled around mine, squeezing. ‘Look, fine. We’re obviously an unwelcome reminder of a man you had a bad relationship with, and it’s made you feel bitter, but Stephen’s done nothing to you to deserve your disdain, okay? Can’t you help us out? For solidarity’s sake or something?’

  ‘Oh, “disdain” is it? You are a writer ain’t ya.’ Lorna laughed, harsh and short. ‘Honey, you got it bad. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I got troubles enough of my own without worrying about someone else’s bastard. Don’t come here again.’ And with that she shut the door in our faces.

  Noelle’s hand was still in mine, somehow an anchor when I felt like pieces of me had scattered and weren’t coming back together again.

  ‘I’d like to mail dog mess through that letterbox,’ she said and then tugged on my hand to make me follow her down the stairs to the street again.

  Everything seemed unnaturally busy outside: all the bustle and the heat, blaring horns and chatter, shoes clattering on the hot pavement, the smell of suntan oil and food, the sun, relentless overhead and not a breath of air anywhere… It was getting to me. The city never got to me. London could be all this and more. The roads were even tighter, dirty pigeons picking at rubbish from skips and sticky, unmentionable substances over the ground. But it never bothered me.

  What had he done to that woman to leave her so angry for so many years? I’d always thought of him as someone who couldn’t commit but she’d confirmed he was a philanderer too. Had he done that to Mum as well? Anger rose like a wave and crashed impotently against the fact I would probably never know.

  ‘Stephen,’ Noelle’s voice sounded like it was coming at me from the other side of the glass. ‘Are you still with me?’

  ‘Yes.’ But I’m done, I wanted to say. I want to go home, back to my air-conditioned apartment and have a shower, so I didn’t feel so dirty. Lie on my sofa with a tall glass of iced water, in the quiet. I didn’t want to think about this anymore.

  She frowned at me as though she understood all that and more. I didn’t want that either. Her pity and, most likely, the dawning realisation that she was right about me being chronically promiscuous just like my father and utterly right not to want to touch me with a bargepole.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘I’m ashamed,’ I answered, my voice sticky and slow. I don’t know what prompted me to say it. It was more honest than I’d even been with myself.

  ‘He walked out on you and your mom? Or she had an affair with him? Either way, you’ve got nothing to feel ashamed about.’

  ‘He left us. I’ve not seen him since I was three.’

  ‘What a piece of work.’ She stepped closer so that I couldn’t avoid looking at her face as she repeated, ‘You’ve got no reason to feel ashamed. That’s on him, not you.’

  ‘Isn’t it though? What was it you said about me, Noelle? You’re not sure “guys like me” know how to do anything other than flirt?’

  ‘Flirting is not siring children and abandoning them to move halfway across the world. You wouldn’t do that, would you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s why I don’t get in too deep. I don’t want to hurt anyone.’

  Noelle pressed her lips together hard before she spoke again. ‘You know what we need?’

  ‘Please, God, don’t make me go on a Ferris wheel again.’

  She laughed and it sounded half like relief. ‘No, I promise. There’s a great place that sells lemon ice on the way to my parents’. We’ll get some, you’ll give me the full details and then I’ll take you to the barbecue and we’ll ask my dad for a favour.’

  ‘He’s not in the Mafia, is he? That woman was unpleasant, but I don’t want her offed.’

  ‘There’s my Stephen back.’ She reached up and patted my cheek, her grey eyes reflecting the expanse of clear blue sky above us.

  Her Stephen. That sounded so wonderful but so unobtainable. A gift I’d never really receive; she was just trying to cheer me up.

  She linked her arm through mine and led me towards the pedestrian crossing. ‘No. My dad is the opposite of the Mafia. He’s a detective. And if we ask him, really, really, nicely, he might do a little search of the official records for us. But I need you to be on your top charming form. So, what we need is lemon ice.’

  I needed it just as much as Stephen did. So much for priding myself on being observant; a regular Sherlock Holmes I was. That woman at the market had figured it out by looking at the old photo – the one I’d stared at for an hour while I made up the poster. And that hadn’t been the only clue; long lost ex-boyfriend of his mother’s, him insisting on finding the man himself rather than use solicitors, and his low mood seemingly instigated every time we got a step closer.

  But it wasn’t being a step closer that had bothered him, it was all the stories. All the casual words thrown around like ‘ladies’ man’ and ‘charmer’. Stephen and his mother had had their hearts broken by this man. He wanted to track him down and I’d been thinking we were just on a jolly mystery hunt that was helping me get inspired for my book.

  Oh my God, I was such an asshole.

  I took him to the little pizza place that sold ice-creams out of a hatch during the day and bought him an enormous lemon ice cone. It was the least I could do.

  He took a lick obediently and his eyes widened. Suddenly he was back in the room with me. It was like magic – that bittersweet kick.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ I took a lick myself, the cool sourness making my mouth water. Blue and yellow colours danced before my eyes as the world grew sharper.

  ‘It’s very good actually. Exactly what I needed.’ He took another couple of licks and smiled; his lips invitingly reddened by the cold. ‘So, all this time, you’ve had this card about your dad being a detective tucked in your back pocket?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess…’ I looked at him from the sides of my eyes as we started walking again, wondering where he was going with this. Was he mad?

  ‘Why did you want to go traipsing all over the city with me then? When you could just ask your dad?’

  ‘Well, first off, it isn’t that easy. He doesn’t do this sort of thing lightly. He’s a very good police officer. He cares. He does a good job and doesn’t abuse his power. Before, there wasn’t a good enou
gh reason to ask him.’

  ‘But now you have my sob story, you can?’

  ‘Don’t be offended, Stephen. My friend looking for some random guy is not as worthy as my friend looking for his biological father, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘And also. I was enjoying myself.’ I gave him a rueful smile. ‘I wish I’d known you weren’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘Yeah, I bet you are now. You could’ve gotten shot of me straight away.’

  He shook his head. ‘Panic attacks on fairground rides aside, I’ve been enjoying myself too.’

  His words slipped down, bitter and sweet as the ice-cream. Because now I knew the reason he didn’t get involved with women, of course, I wanted nothing more than to get involved with him. But he’d never want anything serious. He’d been honest with me about that and I didn’t want to settle for someone temporarily. I wanted someone who would be there for me, share my life and support me; otherwise, what was the point?

  Chapter Ten

  It was exactly the kind of house I’d imagined Noelle growing up in after she spoke to me about all her siblings at the funfair. That didn’t mean I was prepared for the sight of them all together, along with their partners, her parents, and other older people who I assumed were friends or aunts and uncles. Or the level of noise. They called to each other from different locations in the house, doors constantly opened and shut, feet pounded on the stairs, competing music playing in each room and sports on the TV.

  And there was laughter. Lots and lots of laughter.

  I’d thought Nick and I could be rowdy when we were kids, but it was nothing compared to this lot. Noelle by herself actually seemed quiet in comparison. I could feel her hand tightening on my elbow like she was worried I was going to bolt.

  She waved to a couple of people in the living room as we passed through quickly, but once we got to the dining room, there was a yell and she was basically abducted from my side and thrown over the shoulder of a tall, wiry redhead who looked about Nick’s age.

  ‘Put me down, idiot,’ Noelle complained.