The Summer of Us

by Lily Morton

  “Glad you’ve realised it,” he says placidly, and ignoring my snort he reaches for the cup of coffee on the tray and settles himself comfortably on the corner of the bed cross legged.

  I stuff my face happily, watching him consideringly while he’s not looking. He looks startlingly at home on my bed relaxed and unshaven, drinking his coffee and chatting. I could get used to this comes the traitorous thought which I immediately ignore, instead taking a hefty mouthful of hot chocolate.

  When I’ve finished he moves the tray and takes from his pocket a vial of prescription medication along with a red cardboard packet. “Okay this is your choice,” he says briskly. “You can have either the painkillers from last night which undoubtedly work on the pain but lead to you being almost outrageously outspoken, or plain old ibuprofen which will allow you to keep your secrets.” He smirks. “And your dignity.”

  I stare at him in mystification. “What on earth are you … oh!” Memory shoots straight through me with the speed of a train, and I slide back down into the bed throwing my good arm over my face in mortification.

  “Yes, oh,” he sniggers. “I now know that I smell of blackberries and sunshine and hot skin, that you cannot produce poetry to save your life, and that you have a very talented penis that has driven many, many men to paroxysms of ecstasy.”

  I remove my arm cautiously. He doesn’t look angry, only amused, so I venture a comment. “Many many men?”

  “Yes, that was the message last night Casanova.”

  I shoot him a quick glance because I’m sure that I also remember telling him how much I liked him, but his expression as he stares back at me is bland with nothing showing at all. John when he wants to has very sphinx like qualities. “I think just ibuprofen,” I say in a small voice, and he smirks.

  “Good choice.” He hands me a glass of orange juice and I swallow the tablets. When I’m done he takes the packet and stands up stretching. Against my will my eyes flash down his muscled chest and that tight visible ‘v’ and the shape of his cock swinging loose behind his shorts. I swallow hard and when he looks up I’m drinking my juice in a virtuous silence.

  “I take it that you’re not going to work today?” he says and I look up.

  “Oh no I thought -”

  “I’ll rephrase the statement,” he says clearly. “I take it that you’re not going into work today?”

  I slump like a chastised child knowing that I’d be a liability on a building site today, and shake my head.

  “Good,” he says pleasantly, and I shoot him a warning glare which he ignores with a quirk of his lips. “So if you’re free for the day, you could lie out by the pool and sleep some more, or -”

  “Or what?” I ask, my disinclination to sit still rearing its head.

  “Or we could go out for the day and I could show you some bits of the South of France that don’t include building dust and plumbing.” His tone is coolly amused but underneath it I detect a hint of eagerness and a wariness that I’m going to rebuff the option. No chance of that. I wouldn’t do that to him.

  “I take the second option,” I say firmly, and he smiles eagerly looking like a young boy for a second.

  “Great. We’ll take it easy though. I don’t think that you’re up to too much today. Have a shower and meet me downstairs. Make sure that you dress comfortably and coolly and bring your swimming shorts.”

  “Aye aye Captain,” I drawl, and he laughs.

  “I like that. Make sure that you say it a lot today. You can intersperse it with comments like ‘Oh Johnny you know so much. You must be very, very clever’ and ‘Oh Johnny you do fill your shorts out nicely’.”

  “How about ‘Oh Johnny what a bossy jackass you are’,” I say sourly and he laughs, ruffling my hair.

  “See you downstairs.”

  When I meander downstairs half an hour later I feel loads better. The shower has cleared away the lingering cobwebs, and the tablets have reduced the pain in my arm to a distant soreness. I’m wearing navy board shorts with an old navy and white striped t-shirt and my yellow Vans as per my orders, and I’m ready and eager to find out where we’re going.

  He appears round the door of his study, mobile clamped to his ears as he shoots quick fire questions at whoever is on the other end of a legal problem. I slump a bit at the thought that our day might be over before it’s begun and at the knowledge of how much I was actually looking forward to it, but he shakes his head at me mouthing ‘five minutes’ before throwing me the car keys and motioning for me to wait in the car.

  I drop a lopsided curtsy and he snorts with laughter before saying, “No, I’m not laughing at you Conrad, don’t be ridiculous. Focus on the problem at hand.”

  I roll my eyes and wander out to the car. Five minutes later he walks out. He’s carrying a rucksack and wearing a navy polo shirt, burnt orange board shorts and old leather deck shoes. He looks cool and stylish as always. Even in pyjama shorts the man looks like a male supermodel.

  He starts the engine with a throaty purr which we both pause to admire, our heads cocked to the side like puppies. “Ready?” he asks with a grin and I nod, feeling my own grin wide on my face as exhilaration fills me.

  “Let’s go.”

  We drive along the coast road with the top down and the wind in our hair and I never once feel nervous despite the steep drop by the side of the road. He’s an extremely competent driver who handles the car with relaxed ease. His hair falls into his face and he gestures to the glovebox. “My baseball cap’s in there. Can you pass it to me?”

  I open the glovebox and take out a faded red cap with a Grand Prix logo on it. I pass it to him, watching him slide it on and angle the brim. “That’s better,” he shouts, and I spare a thought to wish that I’d brought my own cap.

  “You like cars?” I shout above the sound of the wind and Amy Winehouse’s ‘Back to Black’ album which is playing on the stereo.

  He shoots me a look and smiles, the lines at his eyes crinkling and lengthening. “I love them. I always have done. My grandfather had a collection of them when I was little, and he used to take me out in them sitting on his lap. Strictly illegal of course but it was a private estate.”

  I suddenly remember that his mother is the daughter of a lord which must be the grandfather that he’s talking about, and the collection that he’s talking about is actually a world renowned classic car collection of about one hundred cars. With anyone else I would make a sarcastic comment, but he’s just given me a glimpse into the private him and I won’t do it. Something about John brings out a very protective side to me. I don’t ever want to see him snubbed. The man may have an arrogant exterior but I’ve come to realise that inside he’s got a very soft underbelly.

  “So what would be your dream car?” I shout and he grins, looking eager and animated. The next fifteen minutes pass in a very animated discussion of the pros and cons of most of the world’s super cars and he shows a very keen love of all things retro.

  Finally, after a quick stop to buy coffee we pull into a car park full of other cars and I look around curiously. “Where are we?”

  “The old port of Cannes.”

  I look at the boat bobbing gently on the water that’s painted bright white and red and festooned with bunting. “We’re going on a ferry? I haven’t been on one of those in a long while.”

  “Is that okay?” he asks, a line appearing in his forehead. “I know Bram gets seasick. Do you get it too?”

  “Johnny, he’s my best friend. We’re not co-joined. Relax, I’m fine.”

  He smiles again quickly and then reaches into the back to grab his rucksack. “I’ll just go and get the tickets.” He throws something onto my lap. “Here take this. You’ll need it today because it’s going to be a scorcher.”

  I look down to find a cream coloured Panama hat with a blue coloured ribbon on the brim. I pull it on, tilting the brim at a rakish angle. “How very Merchant Ivory of you,” I smile, and he laughs loudly.

  “It actually s
uits you. Bella bought it years ago for me. She always persisted in trying to dress me like I was just about to read the cricket scores.”

  I laugh but to my ears it sounds hollow because while I’m feeling things about this man that I never have before for anyone else, he is still trying to get back with his ex-wife. You’re a fucking idiot Matty I tell myself. Pull back now or this is going to fucking hurt badly. The trouble is that I’ve never been good at listening to my inner voice as it usually wants to curtail any happiness and is heavily modelled on my father.

  Therefore, instead of listening to the wise advice I step out of the car smiling. I look at the water speckled with sunbeams and hear the cries of the gulls and the voluble French being spoken around me, and I fucking ignore that little bitch of a voice. Nothing ventured nothing gained, and if all I gain is his friendship and a broken heart then my life will always have been better for having had him in it.

  When John comes back with the tickets we board the ferry with only a handful of other people, most of whom look like locals, maybe travelling over to visit family or the markets. We make our way up the steps to the top level and position ourselves at the side, leaning against the railing and watching the bustling dock until finally the clock tower strikes the hour and the boat backs out slowly and then sets off.

  It’s a beautiful morning and the sun is already hot and I turn my face up to it, enjoying the warmth and feeling the judder and sway of the boat. Opening my eyes I see an old woman sitting on the bench opposite us dressed in the customary black that the old women seem to wear a lot around here. She’s smiling at me so I smile back and we exchange a few remarks in French about the boat and the weather and my injury. Looking up I see John looking at me with a smile on his face.

  “What?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Nothing. You’re just always so at ease in yourself and with others. I rather envy you.”

  “You? But you’re ‘Mr Lord of All He Surveys’,” I splutter, and he smiles a little sadly.

  “I’m confident enough in my work I suppose, but in real life I tend to be a bit reticent with people that I don’t know.”

  I stare at him. “I’ve not really seen many signs of that here.”

  He shrugs a little awkwardly and then hands me my coffee and we turn to lean on the railings in a comfortable silence.

  We pass villas gleaming white and pink and nestling into the green hills that frame Cannes, and sunbathers lying in brightly coloured rows on the sandy beaches. Yachts sail near us with their coloured sails jauntily swinging, and the spray from the water leaps up and cools our faces leaving behind a salty residue on our skin.

  Land nears and the ferry slows and I straighten. “Where’s this?”

  “This is the island of Sainte Marguerite, part of the Lérins Islands which are a group of four islands. Two of them are uninhabited and we get off at the next one which is Saint Honorat.”

  An announcement comes over the tannoy telling passengers to stay on for Saint Honorat and the rest of the passengers promptly get off chattering briskly, until we’re alone.

  “Perhaps they know something that we don’t know,” I murmur tongue in cheek and he smiles.

  “There’s not much on Saint Honorat for the locals.”

  I open my mouth to ask why but the ferry begins to back out and once we’re on our way again he distracts me by pointing out the cliffs. “Sainte Marguerite’s fort on the island has deep dungeons which are dug into the sides of those rocks, and that’s where the Man in the Iron Mask was imprisoned.”

  I’m amazed and turn to him curiously. “He was a real person? I thought he was a fictional character created by Alexandre Dumas.”

  “He was real. He was imprisoned here for ten or eleven years seeing hardly anyone. Legend says that he was the half-brother of Louis XIV, but other people say that he could have actually been a woman.”

  “Woman or man it would have been a lonely existence,” I muse, staring at the lonely view that the prisoner would have had, all sea and sky and with only seagulls for company.

  Hardly any time passes before the ferry approaches another island and I see a large stone building set back from the shore. “Saint Honorat,” John murmurs, and I shiver slightly at the feel of his breath in my ear.

  He’s standing close again and I can smell the scent of blackberries and bay mixed with his natural scent. It’s heady and makes my head spin slightly. I’m confused by him a lot. If he was gay I wouldn’t hesitate to say that he’s attracted to me, but with him being straight and not naturally inclined to the gossipy closeness that I share with the boys in the band, I wonder whether he’s just simply enjoying having a friend.

  I clear my thoughts from my face and turn to face him. “So this is Saint Honorat, your mystery destination. What’s here?”

  He laughs. “Not that much I’m afraid. It’s unoccupied apart from a community of Cistercian monks.”

  “I know that I haven’t been laid in a while but you’re not leaving me here.”

  He smiles. “Don’t worry, your monkhood is delayed.” He looks at the island drawing closer. “It’s just a beautiful place, a bit desolate. I come here every time that I’m at the villa. It’s one of my favourite places.” He hesitates, looking surprised. “I haven’t brought anyone here before.”

  I look at him, touched. “I’m sure that I’ll love it,” I say softly and he nods.

  We disembark and then stand to watch the ferry manoeuvre out past the rocks and when it’s gone the silence descends on us like a cloak. We stand still for a second and I look around curiously. The sun beats down on us and as far as I can see there’s the sparkling turquoise sea, endless pine trees and the bright coastline slumbering under the hot sun. I take a deep breath inhaling the scent of pine and eucalyptus and turn to John who’s watching me carefully.

  “There’s such a strong feeling of peace here,” I say, something making me talk quietly. “Like we’re the last two people on earth.” He relaxes and nods smiling widely, and I don’t think that I’ll ever forget the sight of him framed against the sea and sky.

  John

  I relax as soon as I see the look of wonder on Matt’s face. I’ve never brought anyone here before because I never trusted that they’d get the place. It would be awful to walk around here with someone who felt the need to fill every second with mindless chatter, but luckily Matt’s not like that at all. For all his ease and charm with people and his humorous sarcasm there’s something in Matt that’s at home with nature and the quiet like me.

  I point out the statue of the Virgin Mary that stands above us, her arms outstretched as if to welcome us. “Lérins Abbey is up there about a five minutes’ walk away. I thought we’d go up there and then circle the island and maybe have a swim before lunch, and then catch the boat back.”

  He nods, pushing the Panama hat back on his forehead showing his tanned clear features and deep brown eyes creased in a contented smile.

  We wander up the path and come to the honey coloured stone monastery where we push through some tall iron gates and find ourselves near the abbey shop. The quiet everywhere is palpable and we talk in low voices as we go into the shop. The normal voices of some tourists sound almost overloud in the room after the quiet outside, and he and I potter about browsing while they talk in loud voices about wine and soap.

  I choose some lavender oil and soap for Odell who loves the stuff and take them to the counter. Along the way I spot some rosemary honey and nab a bottle, holding it up to the woman on the till. “I love this. I try to buy some every time that I’m here.” She smiles at me as Matt comes up behind me brandishing a bottle.

  “What’s this?” he asks her with a smile, and like most women she melts instantly.

  “It is our herb liqueur monsieur. It’s famous in the area. Very -” She pauses and then smiles. “Very potent.”

  “I’ll take it,” he says instantly and she smiles before embarking on a conversation with him about where he’s from, smiling
and laughing while I lean against the counter smiling wryly. If we went to the end of the earth it’s almost guaranteed that there would be somebody there who would want to talk to Matt. He just exudes this natural scruffy warmth and people flock to him. I become aware that they’re staring at me and I smile hastily.

  “Ready?” Saying goodbye to the woman we leave the shop and stand looking at the old fortified monastery and the sea. “Shall we walk?”

  He nods and we roam the island talking about anything and everything, splashing in the clear warm water and watching fish judder and dart away. We plunge into shady areas that smell of lavender and a deeper herbal smell, and then back out into a sky lit by a sun that’s almost white.

  Finally we reach a little cove where the water is clear and the only sounds are that of birdsong and the wind in the trees that line the beach. “Here?” I ask him and he nods, looking around curiously. “How about a swim first and then we can eat the lunch that Odell prepared?”

  “Is that what’s in the bag?” I nod and he laughs. “Oh Johnny were you in the Scouts?”

  “Dib dib dib,” I say solemnly, and he bursts into peals of laughter.

  “I bet you ran that bloody Scout pack.”

  I keep a straight face. “It’s not my fault that the Scout Leader had his limitations.” He bursts into laughter again before reaching up and stripping off his t-shirt, revealing his wide brown chest and torso tapering down to his navy board shorts. I’m struck dumb for a second at how very good looking he is, his shoulders wide and his hips narrow, the bands of muscles stretching the skin tight on his body.

  He looks up and catches me looking. “Just looking at your tattoos,” I say quickly.

  He looks down at the line of script running across the inside of his right bicep that reads ‘Please don’t put your life in the hands of a rock ‘n’ roll band’.

  “That’s Oasis isn’t it?” I ask.

  He nods and laughs. “I got it when I went with Bram to get his griffin tattoo. I thought it was funny.”