by Megan Tayte
By now my eyes were dry – and wide with shock. And hope. But I didn’t tell him that.
‘Go on,’ I whispered.
‘You came to Twycombe all on your own. You went in that water all on your own. You were so scared to surf, but you did it – you fell off that board I don’t know how many times, and every time you got back on. You kept trying; every day you keep trying. You think you hide it, I know, all that pain you’re carrying around, but you can’t hide it from someone who’s been there.
‘When my parents died, when Cara got hurt…’ His arms tightened around me. ‘After that, it was black for so long. Everything I did was under a shadow. I know grief, Scarlett – I know how you’ve been hurting. I’ve wanted to be there for you, but how? I’ve wanted to be with you, but you didn’t need that pressure too.
‘I told myself it was pointless. You don’t even live here; you’re passing through – there’s no future in it. At best it’s a summer fling.’
I winced at his last words. What was it I had said earlier at the pub? ‘There was this one guy in Tuscany last year, but just a summer fling, you know.’ Surely he knew he meant more to me than that? I opened my mouth to put him right, but he was talking again.
‘Still, how could I help but fall for a girl like you?’ he said. ‘It’s like you have this inner light that brings the people around you to life. You make me feel alive. You make me feel like the guy I was before, before...
‘Then, the other day, when you called me after hitting that deer… I will never forget that. I drove like a maniac through those lanes, Scarlett, and when I found you in the road, there was so much blood and you were so white and still, and I couldn’t wake you up and I thought, I thought…’
I twisted in his arms, then, quickly; I wouldn’t leave him alone in baring his soul like this.
‘It’s okay, Luke,’ I said. ‘I was fine – I am fine.’
‘I know. But the thought of losing you…’ He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, opened them again and said, ‘So you see, you’re not the only one who’s afraid here.’
For a long moment we stared into each other’s eyes. And I remembered the first day we’d met, how I’d looked into his eyes and thought how much nicer it would be to drown in that kind of blue. And I decided then and there, on that grassy hill with Luke, I would do it. I would let go.
I stood up.
‘Scarlett?’ He sounded alarmed. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…’
‘Shhhhh.’
I reached down and grabbed his hand and pulled him up. ‘C’mon.’
Gently, I tugged him toward the folly.
‘But your vertigo…’
I looked up at him. ‘Luke Cavendish,’ I said, ‘it’s time to face the fear.’
The crumbling stone steps inside the folly were treacherously steep, and behind me Luke kept his hands on my hips as I climbed. At the top a window cut into the stonework framed a breathtaking view. I leaned forward and looked down. One wrong move and we’d be on the rocks far, far below.
We stood together, looking out, on top of the world and a step from death, and then… then I did a Scarlett. Not the Scarlett I saw in the mirror but the one Luke had described.
‘You know earlier,’ I said. ‘At lunch, when we were talking about music?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you said you liked Ed Sheeran.’
‘Yes.’
‘The Plus album.’
‘Yes.’
‘Track eleven.’
‘I don’t… Hang on.’
Luke rummaged in his pocket, pulled out his phone and tapped a few times on the screen. I felt his arm tighten around me as he found the track.
‘Kiss Me.’
He hit ‘play’, and slowly, as the verse began, I turned to Luke. Our faces were so close, barely a breath of air between us, but there was no rush, no urgency. We watched each other, listening to the words – and then, as the chorus began, I pushed up onto my toes and his head sank down and our lips met. And though my feet were planted firmly on stone that had stood solidly for centuries, in that moment I fell. I fell for him, I fell in love. I fell, and I didn’t want to be saved.
24: DEAR SCARLETT
We kissed again on the walk back to the ferry, and again on the boat, and again in the van. And then at Twycombe on the beach, larking about paddling in the twilight surf, and then back in the cottage, curled up on the sofa watching another cheesy romance film. And then at the front door, as we said goodnight. And then nine hours later, at the front door, as we said good morning. And then as Luke cooked Sunday lunch. And then as we washed it up. And then as we sat on the roof terrace. And then on the beach, before surfing – and during surfing – and after surfing. And then back at the cottage, in the garden, in the sitting room, in the kitchen, until, finally, we were down to one, two, three goodbye kisses at the front door as Luke headed off for an evening shift at the pub.
Once his van went out of view around the hedgerow, I sank to sit on the step and just focused on breathing for a while: in, out, in, out.
I missed him already.
God, how was it possible to feel this much this fast? I ached for him – the way he made me feel; it was addictive, altering. There was no better rush than kissing him. But it was more than that, more than the thrill of intimacy. He got me. He knew me. And who I was with him, it was who I wanted to be.
Dreamily, I combed my fingers through the long grass trailing over the step and let memories meander through my mind.
Luke at the restaurant, waxing lyrical about a mouthful of cheesecake, eyes dancing, hands waving, knees firm and warm against mine.
In the van, on the drive home from Royal William Yard, unthinkingly rubbing my eyes and Luke glancing over and declaring that really, pandas are adorable.
On the beach, walking in the surf, feet sinking into the gritty sand, legs stinging from the salt, fingers intertwined.
On the roof terrace, eyes closed, side by side; his clumsy invitation: ‘So this All That Jazz thing of Si’s. You’ll come with me, right?’
His fingers twirling a strand of my hair; his eyes searching my face as he asked, ‘Are you tired? You look tired.’
His patience as I ‘helped’ him in the kitchen; the smell of burning gravy; sieving out the lumps; his head thrown back with laughter.
The feel of him behind me, holding me – before the mirror, at the folly; like an impenetrable shield at my back, solid and comforting.
In a little over a day with Luke, I’d amassed more happy memories than the past month, year – lifetime? – had given me. I would always look back on this summer, I knew, and live in these memories. This was my summer of discovery, of growing up, of self-definition. This was the very best of summers. If only I could freeze time, stay here, stay like this for ever. But time was an unstoppable force. Autumn would come, and with it a farewell to the cove. To Luke. To Cara. To Bert and Chester. To surfing. To the peaceful little cottage on the cliff.
‘I don’t want to say goodbye,’ I told the sea, the sky, the flowers.
There was a rustling nearby, and a frantic scampering. I had frightened an animal. I scanned the wild land beyond the drive. There, all but camouflaged against the gorse and the sun-scorched grass, stood a small deer. Even from this distance, I recognised the white patch on its rump. It was the fawn I’d hit with my car.
It eyed me for a long moment, and then darted off. Leaning my head against the porch, I watched it go, leaping gracefully over the uneven ground, and I wondered how I’d ever thought it badly injured, let alone dead. All that drama, for a perfectly healthy deer. It ran in the family, unfortunately. All my life I’d dealt with Mother’s and Sienna’s tendency towards the dramatic. I smiled as I remembered one of their rows:
‘You’re making a tempest in a teapot, Mother!’
‘I am not, young lady! And the expression is “storm in a teacup”.’
‘Storm in a teacup? But that makes no sense!’
‘Of course it does! Much more than your ridiculous tempest in a teapot!’
I’d attempted to intercede then and point out that they both were making a storm in a teacup/tempest in a teapot about a storm in a teacup/tempest in a teapot, but from their high horses, neither saw the funny side. The problem was, they were always too lost in emotion to be level-headed.
But then, couldn’t the same be said of me now? I’d just been thinking of a huge, wrenching farewell to the cove, but maybe it didn’t need to be that way. University terms were short, and I could spend the long holidays in Twycombe. And perhaps Luke would consider a long-distance relationship during term-time… Okay, that was thinking way too far ahead considering we’d had only one official date. Still, the idea put a smile on my face and sent me inside to look up travel options from Plymouth to London.
*
The Luke high couldn’t last forever, I knew that. Still, it would have been nice to have got through the rest of the weekend, at least, in a dreamy haze before bumping down to earth. Note to self: when feeling good, steer clear of contact with anyone who can change that.
Having set up my laptop on the coffee table in the lounge and Googled route options from Twycombe to Chelsea, I scanned the emails in my inbox. I read Father’s first, because it was such a shock to receive one from him – this was the first in memory. It was blunt and confusing:
Dear Scarlett,
No doubt your mother’s been in touch and explained the situation.
I’m sure you’ll agree that, in the circumstances, there’s nothing to be gained by our continuing with some semblance of a father–daughter relationship. Your mother detests me and says she wants me nowhere near you, and you understand that I must respect that.
I wish you well.
PS – I have attached contact details for a psychiatrist on Harley Street who once treated your mother, just in case.
Slowly, reluctantly, I double-clicked the next email, whose subject line read, SCARLETT!!!!!
Dear Scarlett,
I tried to ring you SEVERAL TIMES THIS WEEK, but it’s gone to VOICEMAIL. I know you usually ring every fortnight now, but REALLY, would it hurt to answer the phone?
Since I can’t get hold of you, I’ll just ‘OUT WITH IT’, as Sienna would have said:
Hugo has left me. We’re getting a divorce.
I’m sorry it’s a shock for you, darling. But the TRUTH – which I have tried all these years to protect you from – is that Hugo is a COLD-HEARTED BASTARD. Leave him to his BLOODY golf and his BLOODY Hooray Henries and his BLOODY money and his BLOODY secretary with her BLOODY implants. I’m better off without him.
He wants a quick divorce to keep gossip to a minimum, so we’ll split it all down the middle. He’ll have the London and Edinburgh apartments and the villa in Portugal, and I’ll keep Hollythwaite. So you’ll still have HOME, darling – AND ME!
Come home and see me soon, Scarlett. PLEASE. You’re ALL I HAVE NOW.
Your mother
I sank back onto the sofa and let the feelings come:
Anger, that as usual Mother was dumping her emotional burden right onto my shoulders; that she was determined to entangle me in her dramas; that she was casting herself in the role of the victim.
Guilt, that while I was all loved-up Mother was clearly in a bad way. The shouty email wasn’t her usual style, and told me she’d been off her head as she typed – on tranquilisers or booze or, more likely, both.
But the overriding feeling was one of relief. Yes, this was a shock, but not a wrenching one, as Mother assumed. About bloody time was the thought running through my head. For if my mother’s intention all these years had been to protect me from the knowledge that my father was a bastard, she’d failed spectacularly. I had no happy childhood memories of words of encouragement or bedtime stories or loving hugs. His Dear John letter dumping me as his daughter was evidence enough that the man was emotionally warped. ‘Good riddance’ was my reaction – at least I’d never again have to look at him and wonder why I was such a disappointment as a daughter.
This was a good thing, I thought. Once Mother got through the unpleasant intricacies of the divorce, she would come to see that. I felt a fizz of hope in my stomach. Perhaps this would be the turning point for her – now she’d be forced to take responsibility for herself, and that would mean an end to wallowing.
Determined to send the right – level-headed – signal to both parents, I deleted Father’s email and shot a quick one back to Mother, telling her I’d come to visit the following weekend – Saturday I was out at the Drake’s Island party, but Sunday I could manage a trip to Hollythwaite.
Checking emails had left a bad taste in my mouth, and I scanned the remaining ones quickly, keen to close the laptop, go make a sandwich and curl up in front of the TV. But the word Sienna jumped out at me on the page, and my eye flew to read the sender’s details: [email protected].
I clicked.
Hey Scarlett.
Hope yr OK.
I lkd in the trash folder on my email and it was there – the picture from Sienna of her with the surf lot. I dunno whether one of them’s the guy she liked. But hey – take your pick! Some hotties, eh?
K xx
I thought back to my meeting with Katie in the coffee shop – it seemed an age ago. Then, everything had been dark and painful, and my mind had been consumed with why, why, why – why had Sienna done it? The discovery that Sienna was seeing a surfer had been meaningful. I’d intended to get close enough to the surfers to find out who that guy was. What he knew. Whether he’d done something, perhaps, to push my sister over the edge.
Now that I knew why Sienna had drowned, I felt differently about the ex-boyfriend. He’d gone from being a sinister shadow to a regular bloke who’d cared about my sister. I doubted very much she’d have told the guy that she was dying; Sienna never wanted to be perceived as weak. So perhaps she’d shared some happy times with him towards the end. It would be good to find him now and ask him about those.
I clicked the attachment and the photo opened on my screen.
Twycombe Bay. An overcast day – misty white sky and grey waves rising high behind a large group of surfers in black wetsuits. There were plenty of unfamiliar faces, but I made out Geoff and Duvali and Lucy and Andy and Big Ben and Si and Kyle. And Luke: he was there in the back row, smiling easily like he was quite at ease in this ensemble.
In the colourless setting, though, it was Sienna’s bright-red hair that most drew my eye. She was in the centre of the bunch, smiling widely. As well she might, given that she was flanked by two handsome guys.
The first looked like he’d just swapped military fatigues for a wetsuit. He was tall and muscular; imposing, formidable. His hair was so severely cropped its colour was indeterminable; his face was symmetrically perfect and somehow all the more attractive for the angry scar dissecting one cheek. He wasn’t looking at the camera; he was looking at Sienna. Seriously. Intently.
The second was an altogether different breed to the first. Too much soul to be a soldier – he exuded it, no more so than in the look on his face as he, too, watched my sister. Like she was not the fiery hellcat I knew her to be, but something better, brighter. He stood a little awkwardly beside her, one hand holding the opposing forearm. There, I knew, beneath the thick neoprene, a single word was inked onto the skin.
Serviam.
It was Jude.
25: FRIENDS OR FRIENDS?
‘Hey, sexy lady,’ sang the camp-as-Carry On bartender tunelessly. ‘What can I get for you?’
‘What are the options?’
‘Beer, lager, wine, cider, cocktail, rum, vodka, tequila, whiskey, gin, brandy, liqueur…’
‘Er, how about Coke?’
‘Coke Regular? Coke Zero? Diet Coke?’
Someone elbowed me in the back, hard. ‘Er… Diet?’
‘Regular, Cherry, Vanilla or Lime?’
Seriously? ‘Um… Lime. Two Lime Cokes, please.’
No
t only was the boat impressively stocked, but it was impressively packed. It had taken me a good five minutes to work my way here from the upper deck, where I’d left Cara sitting on a bench seat soaking up the sun. I’d never seen so many people in one space – it was rather like the ‘how many people can you fit in a Mini’ challenge, but with revellers instead of record-breakers, and a fifty-foot party boat complete with dance floor and decks instead of a micro-car. There were young people in every corner, on every surface, dangling over the guardrails – shouting, laughing, dancing, generally having a blast. I recognised the usual crowd from Twycombe, but many of the people around me were strangers.
Quite how Si knew all these people was beyond me, but the more I hung around with him, the more I got the sense that he was just one of those blokes who knew everyone. Take the skipper, for example: mate from his uni course, Cara had told me, who’d cut a good deal for the boat. And the DJ: mate from his five-a-side team. And the bartender: mate from his charity work. Si was like a spider in the middle of a web, the ultimate networker.
As I weaved my way back through the throng to Cara, trying not to slosh Coke down my white sundress (yes, a dress; Cara had insisted), I scanned each face. Black guy. Chinese guy. Short guy. Girl in a thong. Geezer with a dodgy mullet. Woman in a wig.
Cara was sitting right where I left her, easy to spot even across the deck in her psychedelic-print maxi dress. I slumped down on the bench beside her with a ‘Phew!’ and handed her a plastic beaker.
She took a swig and her eyes lit up. ‘Cuba Libre?’
‘Nope, Plymouth, actually.’
My wit earned me a punch on the arm. ‘You know what I’m saying – this got rum in it?’
I shook my head.
‘Scarlett! It’s a free bar! Never look a gift horse in the arse.’
‘It’s mouth, Cara – why would you be looking a horse in the arse?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Sayings like that are all nonsense anyway. The point is, bring on the booze!’
