by Karen Swan
‘Poor guy? Poor guy? Hump, she’s his mate’s girlfriend!’ Ro cried in outrage. ‘What he’s doing – it’s just wrong!’
Hump sighed wearily. ‘Yes and no. There aren’t many ethics in this tale. It’s complicated – Todd stole Erin off Greg in the first place.’
‘What?’
‘They were a couple at Penn. It was serious. Greg was going to propose to her the night she broke up with him. Had the ring in his pocket and everything.’
‘Oh my God, poor Greg!’ Ro’s hands flew to her mouth.
‘He went completely off the rails – boozing, sleeping around, failed his senior exams and had to retake the entire year again. Trust me, you wouldn’t recognize him as the man he is today! He managed to turn it round, but at the time, everyone was surprised he didn’t drop out altogether. He just couldn’t accept that he’d lost her.’
‘I can’t believe it. How can Greg even bear to be in the same room as Todd? Or her?’
Hump shook his head. ‘Maybe he decided to play a long game. Todd’s the heir to some agricultural-plant company in Minnesota; Greg’s just a regular guy who’s good at everything he turns his hand to. My brother always said it was so obvious Todd was jealous of Greg – he was the guy everyone loved, top of the class. He’s got the golden touch, but he didn’t have enough of the golden stuff – not back then, anyway.’
‘Is that why Greg works so hard? To try to win back Erin?’ Ro asked, seeing how his parallels with Fitzgerald’s Gatsby went further, much further, than just sharp suits and smooth manners. She remembered his distracted behaviour that night too, when Erin and Todd were at a gala – ‘a couples thing’, he’d said – and he couldn’t stop checking his phone.
‘I reckon so. He’s up for MD this year, and if he gets it, he’ll be made.’ He was quiet for a second. ‘It’s probably no coincidence that it’s only now that Todd’s proposed to her, just when she’s within Greg’s reach again. He’s a sick bastard like that. It’s just the kind of power-trip bullshit he’d pull.’ He peered over her shoulder. ‘You good?’
‘Yup, it’s pretty full now,’ she said, steadying the bucket as he pushed them away from the rocks again and steered the kayak towards shore.
‘So what should we do?’ she asked as small splashes of water off his oar speckled her shoulders.
‘There’s nothing to do. It’s their mess.’
‘But don’t you think we should tell him what I heard? I mean, if she’s getting engaged to Todd and stringing Greg along . . .’
Hump sighed. ‘Does he know you know about him and Erin?’
‘I don’t think so. And Erin doesn’t know I overheard her conversation with her friend either.’
‘Jeez, what a fricking mess . . . Hold on to the bucket – I’m jumping out,’ he told her, and she felt the kayak rock as he plunged into the water like it was a bath. Slowly, he walked them into shore, steadying the boat against the breaking surf, Ro holding on to the bucket of rockweed.
He took the bucket with one hand and held out another to pull her out of the kayak, his eyes falling to her forearms exposed in the T-shirt. ‘The seawater will have done the skin good, but you need to get a long-sleeved top on now,’ he said, no trace of jollity in his voice. He took his care of her way beyond duty.
‘Hump, it’s boiling!’ she protested, indicating to the clear blue sky above them. But Hump just shot her one of his stern doctor looks and she conceded. ‘Oh, fine, fine.’ She didn’t want to be relegated to the sofa again.
They stood together in the shallows, both of them ponderous as Bobbi shielded her eyes and watched them suspiciously from the beach. Whatever happened, she couldn’t know about it most of all.
‘So, Greg . . .’ Ro prompted.
Hump shook his head slowly, a worried expression on his usually happy-go-lucky face. ‘It wouldn’t do any good. He’d just think we were meddling. Everyone’s tried to warn him off her in the past; he’s better off without her, but he doesn’t see it. And at the end of the day, he’s a big boy. When he got involved with her again, he would have known it would get ugly, and someone would end up hurt. It’s obviously a risk he’s prepared to take. We’re better off out of it.’
‘But—’
‘No buts, Ro. My brother tried telling him once and it all but destroyed their friendship, so we’re not going there. Greg’s his own man. We’re just his housemates.’
Ro frowned, just as Bobbi stomped over. ‘Are you guys coming over or not? I’m just about fried from stoking that fire,’ she said with a look of annoyance.
‘You should try sitting in a damp kayak for an hour. That’d cool you down,’ Hump grinned, abruptly changing the subject and beginning to walk up the beach with the heavy bucket. ‘Has the wood charcoaled yet?’
‘Only about twenty minutes ago,’ Bobbi stormed. ‘I’ve been sitting on my own watching you two messing about on the water while everyone else on the beach is partying.’
Hump threw his arm consolingly around Bobbi’s shoulders, indulging her tantrum as he winked at Ro. Both of them knew her well enough now to understand that what she was trying to say was that she was lonely.
They stopped at the dug-out pit inside which the driftwood had disintegrated into smouldering cinders, revealing the super-heated rocks beneath. Hump and Bobbi started laying the seaweed over them, before carefully arranging the lobsters, clams, mussels and corn cobs on top, and covering that too with seaweed.
Ro watched on, transfixed. Hump ran down to the shore and soaked a tablecloth in the ocean before running back again and draping it over the steaming seaweedy hump in the middle of the pit and gently kicking sand over the edges to keep it in place.
He planted his hands on his hips and looked up at her, a satisfied smile on his face. ‘And that’s how we clam-bake.’
‘And to think that the Brits consider any food that doesn’t come out of a Marks & Spencer packet competitive picnicking,’ Ro said with a smile. ‘So what now?’
‘We wait . . . and we drink.’ He handed her a beer and sank down onto the driftwood log Bobbi had cleverly appropriated earlier as a bench.
‘How long will it take to cook?’ she asked, taking a swig and sitting down in the sand, hugging her knees.
‘About two hours.’ He shrugged with a Gallic ‘comme ci, comme ça’ air, his eyes on some windsurfers further out on the water.
Bobbi pulled her beach dress over her head and settled down on her Hermès towel in her bikini, determined to catch the last heat of the day.
‘Aaah, now this is how we do it,’ she sighed. ‘I love Independence Day.’
Ro rooted in her bag for a long-sleeved cover-up. ‘I thought it was going to be like Thanksgiving. I thought everyone spent it with their families,’ she said, slipping a kaftan over her swimming costume before lying down beside her, relaxing as she felt the sun on her skin and the wind in her hair.
‘That’s right,’ Bobbi murmured sleepily.
A few seconds passed.
And Ro smiled.
‘Now your turn,’ Bobbi said, slurring slightly.
‘OK, well . . .’ Ro took a deep breath. ‘When I was eleven, I stole a car.’
‘Shut the front door!’ Hump exclaimed, falling off the log bench. ‘You did?’
‘Yeah!’ Ro giggled.
‘I never saw that one comin’,’ Bobbi muttered, shaking her head. ‘Nope.’
‘What was it?’ Hump’s eyes were alight with fascination across the campfire. He had used the remains of their woodpile to get the flames going again after their shellfish feast, providing them with light, as well as heat, on the beach.
Ro grew a little taller, revelling in the infamy. ‘A red Mini Cooper with white stripes.’
‘Shut up!’ Hump yelled. ‘You never can tell!’ he said to Bobbi, who was still shaking her head.
‘It was a one-to-fourteen-scale Tonka model from my local toy shop,’ Ro admitted, laughing madly at their expressions as they realized they’d been had. ‘Gotcha!
’ she shrieked.
‘You . . . ! You . . . !’ Hump laughed, out of words and almost out of beer. He passed the girls the last two bottles. They were all out – the entire box of beers depleted and the empty bottles clunking around on their sides in the sand.
‘I’ll go get some more from the bar,’ he said, rising.
‘No! I’ll go,’ Ro insisted, handing him her untouched beer. ‘You’ve done everything today, Hump.’ She saw Bobbi’s mouth open in indignation and hurriedly corrected herself. ‘Both of you have. It’s the least I can do.’
‘You sure?’
‘Well, you’re sure they’ll let me in the clubhouse?’
‘Yeah, I signed us all in for the day. But don’t go up to the clubhouse itself. Use the beach bar.’
‘You think of everything!’ Ro sighed, slurring a little, clapping her hands on her thighs.
‘I am the clam-bake pro!’ he replied, thumping his chest, Tarzan-style.
‘Toodle-pip, peeps,’ she said merrily, walking in erratic zigzags on the sand as Hump and Bobbi collapsed in fits of laughter behind her.
‘Toodle-pip!’ they echoed, sounding like Monty Python characters.
Moving felt good, the soft crush of sand cool beneath her bare feet as she made her way past the neighbouring parties that were strung along the miles-long beach like Chinese lanterns, fiery speckles of ash whirling into the night sky. Everyone’s food had long since been demolished, and music drifted on the breeze, conversation drowning out the thump of the surf, people beginning to wander between encampments now, the night but young.
Ro smiled as she passed by, wondering to herself how it had come to pass that her life had been hijacked by this version – a glossier update with glamorous settings and new friends. The last time she’d asked these questions on this beach, she’d doubted the wisdom of her actions in coming here, but now, tonight, even in spite of the past week’s horrors, she didn’t want to be anywhere in the world but here.
Was Matt having as much fun? Was he as happy as he had hoped? Or more so? What if it was even better than he’d dreamed? A spike of anxiety pricked her happy bubble as she wondered suddenly, What did it mean for them if they were both so happy apart?
A peal of laughter made her turn and she saw a guy running towards the water, a girl in a miniskirt over his shoulder. Ro turned and looked back along the twilit beach scene: people were dancing, playing with fluoro frisbees . . . She had never felt more removed from her leafy suburb, working out of the spare room and catching the bus to the local studio, feeding the fish at five on the dot and nipping into the corner caff once a week for a flapjack treat. How could the life she shared with Matt stay alive or real if neither one of them was living it?
She turned in from the beach, her head hanging low as the questions knocked against her and her beer-induced merriness slunk into familiar melancholy – even feeling happy made her feel sad.
She walked on the boardwalk between the dunes towards the low-lying hulk of the private club. It looked more discreet from the beach side, with none of the witch’s-hat peaks of the grand front facade.
The members were having their own Fourth of July party on the terrace around the pool, with the underwater lights flickering ambiently, a live band set up beside the steps as men in dinner suits and women in jewel-coloured cocktail dresses whirled past in a blur of thrown-out arms and kicked-up legs.
Ro hesitated at the sudden sight of the crowd and made herself take a few deep breaths. She watched the heaving mass, trying to break it down, process it in bite-sized chunks. It was clear no one would be interested in her here. It was Gatsby again – this smart, WASP world she kept bumping into and was never once dressed for. She looked down at her bare feet, denim cut-offs and coral-coloured swimsuit (Hump had let her take off the kaftan when the sun set) versus all the Louboutins and Michael Kors dresses. She should have let Hump do the beer run after all. He would have just ambled past, squeaking in his yellow flip-flops, smiling easily, bare-chested, his baggies hanging so low on his hips all the women’s eyes would have followed him.
Why hadn’t she anticipated this? Of course there would be a crowd here tonight.
She closed her eyes and tried to think like Bobbi: this was the Maidstone. You couldn’t even pay your way in here. It was the club of all clubs. The coffee-thrower had no chance of getting her here.
She stepped warily into the mass, her eyes darting rapidly, processing every movement in her peripheral vision, turning slightly too sharply as strangers approached – and passed on by.
She saw the white-painted beach bar and picked her way over to it quickly, making sure no one came too close. It was surprisingly quiet in there and she was served promptly.
While the barman filled a cardboard crate with beers for her, she watched the party through the folded-back glass doors. On the outer flanks of the pool were smart blue and yellow painted cabanas, and almost all of them were open tonight – members hosting parties within the party. The mood seemed to be different over there, she thought – more louche and cliquey (if that was even possible) as the VVIPs lounged elegantly on the expensive wooden benches, a few important metres away from the pool’s hoi polloi. Society out here was as tiered as a Vera Wang wedding dress.
The barman handed over the crate and she paid cash, eager to get back to the cool, dark beach and her happy-go-lucky friends.
‘It’s heavy. You going to be OK with that?’ the barman asked her. Ro suspected he modelled too.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she smiled, her arms straining as she took the weight. ‘Thanks.’
She walked quickly, keeping her eyes on the ground and off the crowd as she made her way towards the beach again. If anyone lunged for her, she’d simply drop this on their toes.
‘Rowena?’
She looked up in surprise.
Ted Connor was jogging towards her from one of the cabanas. He was wearing cream trousers and a crumpled white linen shirt, and looking like the drink in his hand wasn’t his first. Five-o’clock shadow darkened his cheeks. ‘I thought it was you.’
‘Oh. Hi.’ She stopped where she was, the beer crate banging painfully against her knee. She hadn’t seen him since the attack, since she’d embarrassed herself so badly, and as always in his presence, she felt an overwhelming urge to get away. It would just be easier if she could avoid him altogether. Their relationship was so stiff and creaky, constantly shifting in ways that left them both awkward – hostile, angry and aggressive one moment, kind and even heroic the next. It would have been so much easier if he could have just left her hating him, but he had made that impossible and now . . . well, now she didn’t know what to feel about him or how to act. He was clearly a gentler, funnier man than she had wanted to admit – the home videos had shown her that over and over again – and she couldn’t deny she’d felt a stab of hurt pride that he had been to visit Florence and not her. But still, if they could have just stuck to hating each other . . . A simple life was all she asked for.
‘So how are you?’ he asked, stopping just short of her, one hand in his pocket. She saw him taking in her beach-ready outfit – clearly not at one of the club’s parties – and she badly wished she’d kept on her kaftan.
‘Fine. Yes, fine, thanks. You?’
‘How are your burns?’ he asked, ignoring her question about his own well-being, as though the answer interested neither one of them.
‘Oh, all healed now. Hump was a good doctor.’ She smiled nervously. ‘Strict.’
He nodded, watching her. ‘He’s very protective of you. A good housemate to have – you chose well.’
‘Yes.’
‘You haven’t had any flashbacks or . . . ?’
‘No, no, nothing like that,’ she said quickly, the lie falling off her tongue easily. ‘Um, but Florence . . . I looked in on her yesterday.’
‘Yes. I’m worried about her.’
Ro relaxed a little. So it wasn’t just her, then? ‘Me too. I was wondering whether she might be s
uffering from PTSD? I mean, not that I really know about these things, but . . .’
‘No, I agree. I’m trying to talk her into seeing someone.’
‘Oh, you are? That’s good.’ She nodded, looking around vaguely at the cabana scene. Everyone seemed very tall. ‘She said you’d been looking in.’
There was a short silence. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t look in on you too. I wanted to, but I wasn’t sure whether you would—’
‘Oh no, no problem. I mean, I wasn’t expecting it or anything.’ She gave another nervous smile, itching to go, but knowing she hadn’t acknowledged what he’d done for her yet, not even a thank you. ‘Uh, but I did want to say thank you, you know, for what you did that day with the . . . first aid . . .’ She couldn’t bring herself to mention the T-shirt ripping. ‘And then . . . after . . .’ She tried not to think about how much she had humiliated herself in front of him in her bedroom either. Pounding the floor? Seriously?
‘It would have been more helpful if I’d gotten to him first.’ He frowned. ‘I should have realized when he walked in; he looked so jumpy and out of place in all those clothes. I mean, it was a hot day. I should have realized.’ He shook his head, clearly frustrated.
‘God, no, no! You were . . . What you did . . . The paramedics said my injuries would have been a lot more severe if you hadn’t acted so quickly. I’m very grateful.’
They stared at each other, the party jumping around them, music booming from the speakers.
‘So anyway, thank you.’ She shrugged, trying to fill the silence that surrounded only them in the middle of the thumping party. ‘Um . . . but I’d better get back. The others are waiting for these.’ She indicated to the beers, just as someone dashed towards her and she gasped, her body frozen all over again.
‘Hey, it’s OK,’ Ted said, instantly stepping between her and the drunken dancer who’d overestimated his abilities and was now picking himself up from the floor, six feet away from her. ‘I’ve got you. Here, let me take that for you. It looks heavy.’
She looked back at him, her body rigid with tension, only vaguely aware of the weight leaving her arms as he easily took the beers. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you back. Are you on the beach?’
