The Summer Without You

by Karen Swan

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘I cannot believe you went ahead and signed me up for this just because you want to network and make new contacts. I mean, who does that? Your ambition has an almost psychotic element to it,’ Ro muttered, tugging at her form-fitting tennis dress again as she stared into the mirror disconsolately. The skirt barely grazed her bottom; the V-neck plunged like a waterfall, although it had been something of a revelation to detect actual muscle tone beneath the performance fabrics. All the cycle rides, yoga and sporadic kayaks with Hump were clearly having more than just a therapeutic effect on her. ‘And why is it that I wouldn’t wear a dress like this in a million years, not under any other circumstances, and yet because it’s white and I’m accessorizing it with a tennis racquet, it’s deemed OK?’ She bit her lip anxiously. ‘Be honest. Do I look like a porn star?’

  There was no reply.

  She turned back to Bobbi, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her long thighs flopped out easily as she frowned at some plans on the bed. ‘Mmm.’

  ‘You aren’t listening to me.’

  ‘Mmmmmm.’

  ‘I need your honest advice, Bobbi.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Ro humphed, planting her hands on her hips. ‘You know you look fat in those shorts?’

  ‘Mmm . . . What?’

  Ro grabbed one of her sweatbands – which she had honestly thought Bobbi had bought as a joke – and pinged it at Bobbi’s head. ‘Yeah! Now you’re listening!’

  ‘Sorry, I was—’

  ‘Working. I know! But you’re the one who got me into this mess. The very least you can do is listen to me whine about it.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Bobbi sighed, carefully folding the plans away, her eyes still scanning the drawings. ‘I just want so badly to land this deal, but I can’t think how to make the house work on the lot. The client wants to get five beds in, but . . .’ She blew out through her cheeks, squeezing her eyes shut and pushing her fingers to her temples. ‘New local law, which came into effect in April, means there has to be a 125-foot buffer between the building and the crest of the dune, right? But that pretty much squeezes the house into the top corner of the lot, which – would you believe it? – is triangular! And naturally the height of the roof can’t exceed thirty-two feet onto the road, and that’s not taking into account the two-foot flood zone underneath that we need to incorporate within that. I simply can’t get that many rooms in the cubic area when I’m squeezed front, back, above and below!’

  Ro pulled a face, hopelessly lost. ‘It sounds complicated,’ she offered weakly.

  ‘It is,’ Bobbi sighed, pushing away the plans and looking up at Ro properly for the first time. Her eyes popped. ‘Holy crap!’

  ‘I know! That’s what I was trying to tell you!’ Ro wailed, all her worst fears instantly confirmed.

  ‘No, no, no! You look great. You just . . . Wow, there really are no straight lines on you, are there?’ she chuckled.

  ‘That’s it. I’m not going.’ Ro stomped her foot as Hump hollered up to them both through the floorboards.

  ‘You are too . . . Here, I’ve got a cardigan you can put on as a cover-up.’

  ‘So then you agree I need to be covered up?’ Ro panicked, as a silky ecru cardigan sailed through the air and landed on her head.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Everyone’s in the same boat,’ Bobbi said, opening her bedroom door and pulling Ro by the wrist. ‘You’ll relax as soon as you’re there. It’s like having to put on a bikini for the first time after winter. Fine after the first five minutes.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Ro muttered miserably.

  ‘Oh, but—’ Bobbi stopped abruptly and turned back to her, one finger in the air, like she’d remembered something. ‘Whatever you do, avoid Wes Turner at all costs – especially looking like that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Slimy.’ Bobbi shook her head. ‘Just slimy.’ She turned and walked quickly across the landing, bouncing down the stairs two at a time.

  ‘But who is Wes Turner?’ Ro asked, jogging after her, panic-stricken as she held the bottom of her skirt down to stop it from flashing her knickers.

  ‘Finally! I thought you were never going to get dressed!’ Hump said, standing in the hall, his racquet in his hand, and swiping an impressive backhand through the air. He fell still at the sight of Ro, in her teeny-tiny dress. ‘And I see you still haven’t.’ He sighed, tutting, his eyes flitting briefly over her newly exposed arms. After he’d finished telling her off for her ‘Houdini act’ yesterday afternoon, Hump had agreed she could go without bandages today. The blisters had sealed now, but the skin was a bright, rosy foetus-pink and suspiciously shiny. He swallowed at the sight of them before turning away. ‘Shall we get on?’

  Ro held on to the roll bar of the car as Hump changed gear and they bunny-hopped through the decorative wrought-iron gates that owed more to Pacific Palisades than Bridgehampton. Her grip tightened along with her stomach as she saw the McMansion ahead – pink, turreted, moated, a parking area that was as flashy as the Maidstone’s was discreet.

  They drew quizzical stares as they rumbled along the drive – the Humper as loud as a tractor and alerting unwitting pedestrians to its presence behind them, making them hop daintily out of the way. The guests here, from the look of things, were most definitely not Hump’s clientele, and as Hump looked for somewhere to park, Ro looked for somewhere to run.

  But they were trapped – as locked inside the estate as any would-be attackers without five grand in their pockets were locked out. They all jumped down, the old yellow Defender looking comical beside the buffed, pimped-up sports convertibles and Italian marques. Something rustled suddenly in the hedge behind them and Ro jumped back, almost knocking Bobbi off her feet. A cat holding a bird in its mouth stalked past with an unimpressed glare.

  ‘Stop looking so shifty! Jeez, you look like you’re here to case the joint,’ Bobbi groaned, before affectionately nudging Ro in the side. ‘Come on.’

  Ro followed Hump and Bobbi, who strode ahead, arms swinging, trotting up the steps at the entrance of the house like they owned the place. She walked in, only able to absorb the scene in flashes: giant shiny ceramic black panthers just inside the hall; a split curving staircase that looked like a drug dealer’s attempt at class; a crudely painted oil of a nude woman that forced you to look away first; swagged silk on poles above the giant windows but no curtains.

  ‘Hideous, ain’t it?’ Bobbi murmured through one side of her mouth.

  ‘An abomination,’ Ro murmured back, her eyes struggling to adapt to such a radical departure from anything sludgy green or wainscoted. She realized now how spoilt she’d been these past few weeks.

  They marched straight through the central spine of the house and out onto the terrace at the back. From where they’d parked the car, Ro realized it would have been quicker to follow the path round the side of the house, but that clearly would be to miss the point. Today wasn’t about tennis or even charity – it was about showing off.

  Her stomach lurched as they took in the scene below them – Bobbi was looking for contacts, Hump checking out the women. Ro couldn’t see anything but the heaving, interwoven crowd, just hundreds of strangers all in one place, eyes beginning to notice their little group at the top of the steps, notice her. Ro looked around, scanning for an exit, just in case, her hands automatically covering the still-tender skin on her arms. She saw a huge open-sided marquee had been erected on the far side of the pool, and on the other side of the marquee was the tennis court. But why was it glinting?

  There must have been a hundred people there, wearing white and drinking pink, and throwing out dazzlingly bright smiles that indicated of all the many friends they had, the hundred here were truly their favourites. The ambient noise level was incredible, shrieks of laughter peppering a loud, urgent hum in which everyone vied to be heard. Ro wanted to be sick.

  ‘You OK?’ Hump asked, looking down at her with concern, and she wondered whether h
e too had been searching for the same thing in the crowd: a too-intent stare; tight-stretched lips; fisted hands . . .

  Ro nodded, trying to smile. Bobbi had been right about the security. Beefy guards were positioned at regular intervals, and she’d clocked a ‘dog-patrolled security’ sign on the gate as they’d come in. What was the worst that could happen? They couldn’t burn her with champagne. Would being pelted with ice cubes count?

  ‘Follow me, then.’ Hump winked reassuringly, resting his racquet on his shoulder and bounding down the steps. Ro followed after in mild bewilderment – she still couldn’t get used to seeing him in socks and shoes. She had half supposed he would play tennis in flip-flops too.

  The three of them made their way down one side of the curved steps, Hump and Bobbi greeting acquaintances and contacts as they passed. Ro kept her head down – she had no friends to greet here, but she could feel stares landing upon her anyway, and she was sure that anyone who was looking recognized her from the coverage of the attack in the papers. Her grip tightened on her skirt again; her palms felt sweaty. She didn’t want to be here, among all these bodies, all these strangers . . . Suddenly, her safe place on the sofa seemed like the perfect place to be.

  ‘Right.’ Hump stopped by a large easel upon which an order of play had been posted. His finger slid along the sheet as he searched for their names. ‘Ah, there we are. I’m first up against . . . Oh look! Greg’s playing too.’ He turned and looked into the dense crowd before giving up with a shrug. Unless Greg had been standing immediately before them, it would have been impossible to see him, as you couldn’t see even five metres back. ‘Well, he’s in there somewhere. I expect we’ll run into him at some point.’ As ever, Greg hadn’t come back to Sea Spray Cottage last night for their Fourth of July house dinner, infuriating Bobbi even further.

  Bobbi was peering closely at the order of play. ‘Hmm, Carolynn Young’s in your draw, Ro. Bad luck.’

  ‘Who’s she?’ Ro asked, taking her suspicious eyes off the crowd for a moment to lean in (as much as she dared with her skirt) and squint at the sheet.

  ‘Defending champion.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ro went straight back to eyeing the high-level mingling going on around them, shooting unfriendly looks at anyone who came too close. She didn’t like having her back to the crowd.

  She wished she could have brought her camera with her, but Bobbi had told her the Hamptons Magazine had the exclusive on the event and no other photographs were permitted. It was a shame, as it would have calmed her down. She always felt safe behind the lens. ‘So, you’ve got Emma Clarkson in the first round – fine, but erratic serve,’ Hump said, generously serving up some insider information. ‘Um, then either Nica Washington or Lauren Oliver in the second . . .’ He nodded interestedly. ‘Let’s hope it’s Nica. She practically lies down on the court and cries if you put any spin on the ball. I don’t know Lauren.’

  But Ro had stopped listening. Was that Melodie over there?

  A sudden piercing whine made them all wince, some especially delicate ladies covering their ears with their hands. They turned as one to see a short man with sandy-blonde hair the consistency of candy floss standing on the terrace with a microphone in his hand.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said in a deep, expansive voice that belied his small, round, tight body, ‘thank you all for coming to our tennis benefit today in honour of Long Island Cancer Care. I know each and every one of you is besieged with requests for patronage and funds to many other, equally needy good causes, and it gladdens my heart to see that you feel – as I do – that LICC warrants your support.’

  He held his arms out wide in an inclusive, clubby gesture and the crowd applauded, some whooping.

  ‘I know from personal experience, when my beloved Cynthia was struck down with the disease, just how valuable the services they provide really are. The moment that cancer diagnosis is confirmed, your life changes and suddenly you’re on the outside looking in. No one else can possibly understand the isolation you feel in a crowded room, or the terror you feel in the dead of night, not knowing if every cough or cold is just that, or the beginning of the next stage. But LICC did. With them, we weren’t alone, Cynthia and I, and I thank every one of those personnel who banished the darkness and made us smile. Even on the day Cynthia passed, I was able to smile. Yes, really,’ he nodded, drawing more applause. More whooping.

  ‘So today is all about giving back and helping them to continue to help the other poor souls who find themselves on the wrong side of the glass. Thanks to your generous . . .’

  Ro tuned out, doing another security sweep and looking around the crowd. Now that everyone was standing still and listening to the speaker, it was easier to make out faces. She could see now – it was Melodie on the far left. She wasn’t dressed for tennis, but was wearing a long, burnt-orange silk kaftan and giant, deep red beads at her neck.

  Ro gave a small wave, trying to get her attention, but she was looking straight ahead.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  Suddenly, the entire crowd shifted, their curious eyes coming to rest on Ro, some clapping politely, others slowly withdrawing their hands from the air.

  Ro froze. What?

  ‘What the fuck did you do that for?’ Bobbi hissed in her ear.

  ‘What did I do? What did I do?’ Ro asked desperately, trying not to move her lips as one hundred pairs of eyes settled upon her.

  ‘Jeez! I told you back at the house,’ Bobbi hissed. Everyone was clapping and appeared to be waiting for her to do something. ‘Quickly! You’d better go up, then,’ Bobbi said, pushing her into a walk.

  ‘What for? What did I do?’

  Oh no. Oh no. The crowd parted for her as Ro hesitantly stumbled through, gripping her skirt, her cheeks a neon pink, willing a sinkhole to open up, right here, right now. The applause strengthened as she climbed the steps and more people took in her scanty dress and fulsome curves.

  The man was standing on the terrace waiting for her, his arms outstretched like a preacher’s, and she knew she had no choice but to walk towards them.

  ‘What’s your name, honey?’ he asked creamily in her ear as he took her hand in his.

  ‘Rowena Tipton.’

  He turned back to the crowd. ‘This year, I am delighted to announce Rowena Tipton has kindly agreed to co-host today’s tournament with me.’

  More applause. Ro looked out over the sea of faces in mortification. She had agreed to do what? She saw Melodie looking back at her with disappointment, Hump with astonishment, Bobbi with a frown as she mimed to Ro in silent fury, ‘Wes fucking Turner?’

  Ro’s mouth formed a little ‘O’ as she looked across at her co-host in surprise. This was him? She knew nothing about him – other than that he was screaming rich and his wife had died – but as his thumb gently began caressing her palm, she could make a decent guess as to why Bobbi had advised her to steer clear.

  The touch revolted her and she pulled her hand abruptly from his, having to mask the gesture with a flurry of head tosses and pretending to bat away a wasp.

  A ripple of amusement gusted over the crowd looking up and watching her, and she fell suddenly still, eyeing them back with naked distrust, her scrutiny nervous and skippy as she scanned their expressions for the aggression she was braced for, ready this time at least. She was sure they could see her heart hammering against her sternum, such was the number of eyes fixed on her chest.

  A few lines back, she found Greg, the only other friendly face that she knew in this crowd. She could see him easily from her privileged vantage point, but he hadn’t seen her. He wasn’t even looking: he was oblivious to everything that was going on around them, so deep was he in conversation with the glossy brunette she’d met over Greg’s pancakes that time. Erin, was it?

  Ro continued to watch as the little man beside her talked on. She couldn’t take her eyes off her elusive housemate. Something about Greg and his friend drew her eye as they chatted to each other, first him bending
to her ear as he talked, then her to his, their bodies close, their eyes linked. And . . . somebody in front of them shifted and Ro saw their hands clasped – not that she’d needed the confirmation. It was all there, clear to see.

  She frowned, able to see Erin’s toothy boyfriend making his way over to them, only a few metres back in the crowd and carrying three fresh glasses. Greg and Erin, detecting the parting crowd, smoothly – as though they were well practised in the deceit – unlocked their hands, no sudden movements or guilty stares to give them away, the secret still theirs for another day.

  Ro felt her stomach tighten as she watched Greg chat easily, laughing at something Todd said, a viper in the grass. She looked away. The betrayal felt like a personal strike. It was none of her business who Greg did or didn’t sleep with, but it was a shock to realize that Bobbi’s estimations of him had been closer to the bone than hers. She’d been so taken in by his manners and intelligence and smooth confidence that she had never once thought there might be some justification in Bobbi’s violent antipathy towards him, as though the lack of vision about him was Bobbi’s limitation and not hers.

  She looked around her, wanting to get off this stage. She didn’t want Greg to see her up here and realize she’d discovered his secret. But before she could make her excuses, everyone erupted into applause again and she felt a hot, sticky hand close around hers once more. She looked across to find her co-host watching her inquisitively. Everyone was beginning to disperse, shuffling through the marquee and out the other side towards the tennis court lying behind it.

  ‘Come,’ Wes smiled, shaking her hand playfully so that her arm waggled limply. ‘As the emperors were wont to say, let the games begin.’