by Jenny Oliver
‘You are lost?’ the man on the motorbike said, lifting one leather-clad leg over his great red Yamaha. He was fractionally taller than her, cropped haired, receding slightly, week old stubble on his jaw, nose like a Roman soldier.
Jessica glanced surreptitiously behind her to check he was talking to her before saying, ‘No,’ and pulling her sunglasses off her head ready to slip them on and walk away. But she’d forgotten her hair had started to curl, had forgotten that sunglasses caught in curly hair. And as she tried to untangle them she fumbled her hold and they dropped to the ground. Taking a step back to pick them up from the gravel she lost a flip-flop and had to steady herself on the barrel propping the door open as she slipped it back on again. The fumes from the bike were making the sun somehow hotter and she had to fan herself as she finally stood up straight and pushed her sunglasses on.
There was a smirk on the guy’s lips as he watched the whole little routine while pulling one leather glove off, then the next, and tucking them under his arm. ‘You’re not looking for the bar?’ he said.
‘No,’ she said, retying her hair. ‘I’m just walking. This way.’ She pointed ahead about to walk away but she was caught by his expression; his eyes looking her up and down. Never before in her life had Jessica felt someone so clearly imagining having sex with her from just a look. She was momentarily stunned. Felt like she should tell him to stop looking. And then to her horror she found herself blushing.
‘You want to come in for a drink?’ he asked, his presence like a looming shadow beside her.
‘No,’ she said, annoyed with her blush, annoyed that he’d had any effect on her at all.
His mouth quirked as he watched her with his lazy gaze. ‘Do you ever say yes?’
‘Yes,’ she said and then turned away to carry on along the boardwalk.
She felt him still watching.
It was like being stalked by a tiger. He was somehow primal. The word made her snort as she strutted away.
Primal. It was a word her mother had used once about the new postman. She would refuse to open the door to him when he knocked. Jessica had never understood what she was on about.
‘Are you staying at the Limoncello?’ she heard him call after her but she didn’t reply.
She heard him laugh and kicked herself for not just saying yes.
She could hear her mother, ‘Say one thing to him and he’ll be in your bedroom window at night.’
Jessica hadn’t thought about her mother so much in years. But it stood to reason that as soon as she lost her sense of self the insidious voice would creep back in. All her good work ruined. She caught sight of one of the bright red curls that had come loose from her ponytail, remembered her mother pulling one like a spring when she was naughty and telling her it was the devil inside her. She pushed the curl back into the elastic band and blew out a breath.
It was holidays. She blamed holidays entirely. They made the mind run wild with too much free time. Really, she hadn’t allowed her mum into her head since she’d walked out of the door to the sound of her pleading, ‘You can’t leave, Jessica. You can’t leave us.’ Then, ‘You always were a bad girl. We tried. Leave and you won’t be coming back. You hear me? You won’t be welcome.’ To finally, ‘I’ll pray for you.’
Jessica shuddered. Then to make matters worse an image of Miles arriving popped into her head and was only dispelled by the guy shouting, ‘It was a pleasure to meet you. Hopefully I will see you around.’
Jessica turned and walked backwards a couple of steps on the boardwalk. ‘Not if I can help it,’ she shouted.
And he laughed, loud and booming, hard enough for her to see his shoulders shake.
EVE
Until she saw it again, Eve had forgotten how much she adored the Limoncello Hotel. If, at that moment, she had been asked to list her top five places in the world the Limoncello would fight for one of the top spots.
She remembered the summers she’d spent here with Libby, as she followed her up the steps to the entrance hall. She could picture the red and gold wallpaper, dark and imposing, the wooden chandeliers flickering with fake candle lightbulbs, the blackened oil paintings of shipwrecks. She remembered the wide-armed welcome from Libby’s eccentric, outspoken, lovely aunt Silvia who was desperate to know the gossip, to know who they were having sex with, what their ambitions were for the future—always probing, always pushing. Here they played at being adults. Straight out of school they sipped Campari on the terrace and pretended to like it.
Eve knew that for Libby it was a welcome escape from the chaos of her family, a chance for her to lie on her back in the lake and talk to no one, to spend evenings in the kitchen with her aunt as she worked—hissing up clams and squeezing lemons so the pan smoked—to make a spaghetti vongole that left diners lifting the bowls to their lips to drain the last of the sauce, or preparing tiny tortellini packed with sweet tomato ragu.
But, for Eve, it was a wonderland. A lesson in possibilities. They trawled antique markets together, lazed in the sun by the lake getting drunk, swam into the derelict boathouses—the water pitch black and the broken rafters filled with bats. Eve would stroll the corridors peering at the art on the walls and Silvia would appear by her shoulder saying, ‘I won that in Monte Carlo, idiot couldn’t pay his debt. Do you want it? Take it, I’ve looked at it for far too long.’ Eve would never dream of taking anything. It belonged there, at the Limoncello. But it wasn’t just the art, it was the smells; the scents of the place. Silvia would lead them into the lemon grove and make them smell the bark of the tree, the leaves, the fruit as it hung gnarled and pitted on the branches. She would give them neat lemon juice to drink that made their eyes water. She would wake them up in the middle of the night when it was raining and make them stand on the terrace to sniff the air. Everything was a sense: a taste, a smell, a mood. Silvia would waft down the corridors, the scent of warm wax polish and lemons heady in the air, the dust swirling in the sunlight and say, ‘If I could bottle this, girls, I’d be the happiest woman alive.’
Now, though, when Libby pushed open the big wooden front door and said proudly, ‘So here we are,’ Eve found herself rigid, frozen to the top step in horror.
What had they done?
‘Little bit different to how you remember it, I think,’ Libby said with an expectant smile.
Eve felt her hand go up to cover her mouth.
White walls, white tiles, no pictures.
‘It makes such a difference, doesn’t it? Opens the place up. Makes it look much bigger, don’t you think?’ Libby went on, seemingly talking until she got a reaction from Eve. ‘Just all clean lines. That’s what we were looking for. Why are you looking at it like that? Don’t you think it’s lovely? We really like it.’
We.
We. We.
Eve knew it wasn’t we. This was Jake. It was Jake all over. If Jake could whitewash the whole bloody world, he would. He hated mess. He hated clutter. He had to have everything just so.
‘Yes, it looks lovely,’ Eve said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster when all she really wanted to do was shout, What have you done? You’ve ruined it, you idiots!
Libby tipped her head, could clearly sense Eve’s reticence. ‘Eve, look at it. Come further in. It was so dated before. No one had touched it in years.’
‘I believe you, I know. I said, it looks lovely.’ Eve nodded and smiled. ‘Really lovely.’ She didn’t need to look at it. She knew what it looked like. Cold and white.
‘Honestly, Eve. It needed freshening up,’ Libby pushed. ‘People don’t want that kind of décor any more.’
Eve nodded but all she could hear were Jake’s opinions in Libby’s voice. ‘Libby,’ she said, ‘if you’re happy with it, that’s all that matters. You don’t need to persuade me. And I really like it, anyway,’ she added, an unconvincing afterthought.
Libby swallowed and turned away. ‘Well, yes. Yes, we like it,’ she said and started to walk forward, leading Eve to her room.
They walked up the stairs in silence, Eve staring at the walls willing the pattern of the wallpaper to come out from under the paint.
‘Where are the pictures?’ she said.
‘In the garage,’ Libby replied. ‘With the carpet.’
Eve could concede on the carpet. It was old and swirly and fairly hideous, but the rest of it … She looked up at the light fittings and winced when she saw long metal strips of halogen bulbs. The surfaces were bare, trinket free. The windows were curtainless, now just covered with simple white blinds.
‘I put you in your old room,’ Libby said as they reached the furthest room along the corridor. She put the key in and turned the door handle. ‘You’ll be happy—it hasn’t changed.’
Eve could remember it perfectly. Lying on the bed like a penniless monarch, her grandeur falling down around her. She’d left the plaster bare in her ramshackle conservatory at home and let the ivy grow in through the roof to conjure up the feeling of this room.
She glanced inside and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the huge wooden wardrobe, the damp patches on the peeling wallpaper, the big bed with the chipped gold paint, and the heavy brocade curtains. And then the wind rustled the trees and she smelt the lemons waft in through the open window.
‘Libby, I’m sorry if you think I’ve offended you somehow,’ she said. ‘I do really think it all looks nice.’
‘But …?’ Libby said, arms crossed.
‘But nothing,’ Eve replied. Then when Libby looked at her, almost willing her to carry on, she couldn’t stop herself adding, ‘Just remember that people don’t always know what they want, what they like, until it surprises them. I agree it all needs updating but this place always had character. Style. You know, just maybe you don’t need to get rid of it all.’
She walked over to the window when Libby didn’t reply and looked out to see the lemon grove, the familiar image of the waxy leaves winking in the sunlight. She wondered how it was that people could be so close at one point in their lives and then become so distant. Eve was as wide open as they came, but Libby, she took some chipping away to get beneath the polish. Especially now that she too had a great stamp across her saying, ‘Jake’.
Sometimes, when Eve had put the kids to bed, she would sit down with a glass of wine and read Libby’s blog. There was always some gorgeous looking lemon and basil drizzle cake to salivate over or a plate of something delicious that Libby said she’d thrown together because she was feeling peckish but would take any normal person hours.
Eve knew it was all gloss. All shine. But slowly she would feel herself prickle with jealousy, like pins and needles starting in her neck. She found herself jealous of the life made quirky and cool through the many filters of Instagram. Of the parties Libby catered, of the selfies with famous guests, of the Rainbows and Roast Beef Supper Clubs that she held at her flat with Jake there sipping red wine from a glass as big as a bowl.
Eve had lived in the flat below Jake for three years. She knew he was an arrogant pain in the arse half the time; she had eaten batches of Libby’s mistakes, she had been to the pillar-box tiled kitchen and seen the beautiful hand-thrown bowls the colour of oatmeal and the lovely little white enamelled saucepans and thought they were lovely, if a bit impractical, but, in the pictures, in the lifestyle, she coveted them like no other. Because they seemed to symbolise this other life—where everything went right.
And over the years it had made Eve start to stay away. Because somewhere along the line, her friend Libby had become lifestyle blogger Libby Price, while Eve was a scruffy, haphazard mother of two who struggled to run a business and fit into her countryside lifestyle and be an interested wife and not believe that everyone else was doing marvellously while she was just keeping her head above the surface.
So in the end there was no point seeing Libby because, while it was all aesthetically lovely when she did, they never had the time to get beneath the facade to make it worthwhile. It was all just too nice and polite to bother.
But what was so frustrating was that she knew the truth of Libby. Eve knew what was under there, had seen her drunkenly dancing in her bedroom at three in the morning, had seen her laughing so hard that she snorted lemonade out her nose, had seen her stuffing her mouth so full of chocolate that she couldn’t breathe, had seen her sobbing on the doorstep because she couldn’t take the pressure of all her brothers and sisters and her mum out of a job, but over time the walls had gone up and now it was just that bit too high to reach.
Peter had done this whole lesson at school on entropy. He used pictures of the crumbling disused ballrooms of Detroit to show that everything falls into disorder in the end. The walls always came down. It was just a case of how long it took. And how much one was willing to try.
‘OK well …’
Eve turned to see Libby backing out of the door.
‘Anything you need just let me know. I’m thinking drinks on the terrace at seven and we can work out a plan,’ Libby said, starting to pull the door closed behind her. ‘I’ll leave you to settle in.’
Eve turned so her back was against the view and watched Libby leave, nodding at the instructions.
JESSICA
Jessica arrived back at her room slightly sunburnt and annoyingly still replaying the meeting with the cocksure Italian at the bar. She had planned on having a shower and doing some work to rebalance, but when she opened the door she found Dex sitting at her dressing table working on his laptop.
‘What are you doing in here?’
‘Work,’ he said without turning round. ‘I thought we were working.’
‘We are, but why do we have to do it in my room?’
‘Because I’ve got no WiFi in mine. Yours is bad enough—it only works here,’ Dex said, pointing to the dressing table. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get it done then we can be on holiday.’
Jessica frowned. She wasn’t used to sharing her personal space. She remembered the early days when Dex had shown her the plans for the new office—all inclusive and open plan—and she’d said, ‘No, this just won’t work. I need to be able to shut a door.’
He had prattled on about the merits of sitting together as a team, exchanging ideas, laughing together and building bonds.
‘My brain doesn’t work well as a collective force, Dex,’ she’d said. ‘It works well on its own. I am antisocial. I like to be on my own.’
Dex had stalked away with a shake of his head, rolling his eyes at the architect as they fudged a small office into the sleek design plans.
Now she wished she could portion off a section of her hotel room.
‘Come on, chop chop,’ said Dex, pulling over a spare chair so she could sit down next to him. ‘Get your laptop.’
‘OK, OK, hang on.’ Jessica took a minute, standing in the centre of the room, to get herself in the right mode. She went into the bathroom and splashed some water on her face—saw the extent to which her hair had frizzed and curled in the humidity and the pink tinge to her cheeks, and tried to channel First Day Holiday Jessica back into At Work Jessica.
She poured herself a glass of water then walked out of the bathroom, went over to her bag, pulled out her laptop, then set it up next to Dex.
‘You look very relaxed, by the way,’ said Dex as she booted up. ‘Very earthy.’
She glanced across at him with a raised brow.
‘What? That’s a good thing. It’s a good thing. I promise. Very …’ He looked her up and down.
‘Don’t go on.’
He laughed. ‘Very pretty.’
She shook her head. ‘No I don’t.’
‘You do, it’s a compliment. Take it as a compliment. You’re terrible at compliments.’
Jessica scoffed. ‘Because most of the time people say them to mask something else.’
Dex looked perplexed. ‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know.’ Jessica shook her head. ‘Like you think my hair looks bonkers but you can’t say that so you say something nice instead.�
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Dex snorted a laugh. ‘You really are an idiot sometimes. Anyway, right, enough of this nonsense, there’s a sun out there just waiting for me.’
Jessica took a sip of her water and then started to work. Her laptop was taking longer than Dex’s to open the files.
Dex glanced over. ‘It’s so slow! Seriously, I’ve told you to get a new one.’
‘I don’t need a new one. This is fine.’
‘It can’t cope with the software update. It’s too old.’
‘It’s fine.’
He peered over. ‘Do you still have that bit of plastic film over the screen, Jessica?’ He turned to look at her, aghast. ‘You’re meant to take that off when you buy it.’
‘It keeps it protected.’
‘Oh my god.’ Dex smacked his forehead. ‘We need to get you out of that office. You are getting away with some ridiculous behaviour.’
She allowed herself a little laugh when she looked at the plastic film. ‘I just like to look after my things.’
‘Your laptop is ancient, Jessica. If you’re not going to buy a new one, I’ll buy you a new one, for the sake of the company.’
‘You aren’t buying me a new laptop.’
‘Well, you buy it then.’ He got his wallet out and handed her a platinum card. ‘Charge it to my dad.’
‘I didn’t think you used this any more?’ she said, taking the card and holding it tentatively between finger and thumb as though it might burn her.
‘I don’t. But you can.’
‘You should cut it up,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘Then I’d want it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Like ex-smokers. Better to have a pack to hand just in case.’ Dex shrugged. ‘Makes me want it less knowing it’s there.’
