by Jenny Oliver
Libby ignored it. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think that would work.’
Dex popped the Prosecco cork, splashed the frothing bubbles into the five glasses, and then raised his for a toast. ‘To Sunshine and Biscotti,’ he said with a grin.
As Libby chinked her glass she remembered Jake making exactly the same toast when they had arrived in the spring, and wished for a moment that he was there. That it could all just have carried on exactly as it had been. She didn’t care what website he’d been using, just wished that she hadn’t found out.
When she saw all the others smiling at her, she forced a big smile in return, refusing to acknowledge quite how lonely she felt. Taking a huge gulp of bubbles, she picked up her phone and made them all chink their glasses again so she could snap it for her Instagram.
‘Hold it there. Jimmy, just move your glass up a bit. Dex, out the way. Yes, perfect. Brilliant.’
Perfect summer night toasting the Sunshine and Biscotti Club, she titled it.
And as the evening wore on and the sun set around them, the moths starting to flutter around the outside lights, the Prosecco oiled the chat and the Instagram likes came rolling in, the perfect distraction from her worries.
JESSICA
‘So, what do you think? We paint this white or we keep the wallpaper?’ Libby was standing with her hands on her hips, staring at Jessica, the morning sun shining bright behind her.
Aesthetically Jessica was a minimalist. She had grown up dusting a house rammed with knickknacks—little ornaments, crucifixes, cross-stitches—and in retaliation kept her décor to the absolute minimum. Her artistic talent was in graphics and was predominantly computer based. She spent her spare time redesigning album covers to suit her own vision. Home furnishings were not her thing. ‘I don’t know really. I like white, but the wallpaper’s also quite nice. Quite authentic. Libby …’ Feeling herself starting to sweat in the searing morning heat, Jessica paused to undo the top half of the boilersuit overalls that Libby had lent her for decorating. ‘I’m not sure I’m the right person for this. I really think Eve might be better suited—’
‘No, you’re fine,’ Libby said, only half looking in Jessica’s direction as she struggled to tie an old scarf around her head. ‘We’ll paint it.’
‘How’s it going?’ Dex popped his head round the door and snorted a laugh when he got a glimpse of their outfits.
‘I was just saying that I think Eve would be better for this job,’ said Jessica.
Dex took one look around the room and said, ‘Oh yeah, definitely. Jessica’s crap at interior design. If she had her way we’d all just be in pods plugged into our laptops.’
Jessica shook her head at him pityingly. Dex winked at her.
‘Why don’t you get Eve to help?’ Dex said. ‘This is just her thing, isn’t it? She was always wafting about with rugs and scarves and things at the flat.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Libby insisted.
Dex glanced down the corridor. ‘Hey, Eve! Come over here,’ he shouted.
‘Dex, what are you doing,’ Libby said, a little panicked.
‘What’s wrong?’ Eve asked, appearing in the doorway, one earphone in as she commented on some Lego construction one of her kids was showing her on FaceTime.
‘You have to swap with Jessica—she’s way out of her depth,’ said Dex, ushering her inside.
‘You’re so sweet together, you two,’ Eve said as she hung up the phone. ‘You’ve become like her big brother.’
Jessica snorted.
Dex puffed out his chest with pride. ‘I like to think I keep an eye out for her.’
‘You are unbelievable.’ Jessica sighed as she walked over and handed Eve her paintbrush.
Dex ruffled her hair.
‘Get off me,’ Jessica said, laughing, taking the opportunity to dart out of the room and down the stairs in case Libby somehow managed to get her way and summoned her back again.
The sun was burning bright as Jessica sauntered out onto the terrace. She breathed in the scent of the lemons, delighted to be working on her own in the seclusion of the pool area.
There was a bucket, soap, and a scrubbing brush ready and waiting by the gap in the olive tree wall that led to the pool area and she went over to pick it up. But, just as she was bending over, all her elation at having got away from the decorating was instantly dissolved by a voice saying, ‘Jessica?’
She paused where she was, her fingers gripping the handle of the bucket.
He was here.
She looked down at her outfit and thought, Why do I have to be wearing a boilersuit?
‘Miles!’ she said, standing tall, the water in the bucket sloshing slightly.
He looked exactly the same but completely different, standing there in a white linen shirt, top button undone, khakis, and navy espadrilles. His black hair was scruffy but in a way that suggested it wasn’t usually like that; as though he’d had a long journey and no mirror to check it in. His cheekbones were less visible, less sunken, like he probably ate better than he did but, from the fit of the shirt, he clearly worked out rather than lay on his bed for hours with his guitar scribbling down lyrics.
Her brain tried to superimpose the old Miles over this version. The black skinny jeans, the black t-shirt, the cigarettes, the dirty hair, and the sneer, but it was almost impossible.
‘You all right?’ he said, running a hand through his hair.
‘Yeah, fine. You?’ she said.
When Jessica had thought about seeing Miles again she had envisioned it for some reason at her office, where she was immaculate, groomed, sleek, successful, and emotionally untouchable.
Now she stood in a bright blue boilersuit, the arms tied around her waist, wearing a black vest, pale skin untouched by sun, hair curling of its own accord. And she found she had nothing to say. No casual chitchat. Just an overriding desire to back away.
Rescue came in the form of Jimmy, who loped up the garden, rake over his shoulder, and shouted, ‘Miles, mate! How are you? Christ I haven’t seen you since New York.’
‘Hey, Jimmy! Good to see you.’
Jessica watched them for a second, but the mention of New York left her wanting to escape even more, so, with a back step and a small wave of her hand, she walked quickly to the shelter of the pool.
She took the few steps down past the olive trees, and came out in a courtyard pool area that looked like it had been bottom of the list of priorities for some years. The crumbling patio floor was filthy, sticky with sap and lichen, with tiles missing like pieces of a jigsaw. The rusted table and chairs were strewn with olive leaves and spiders’ webs that looped from the metal to the olive tree branches like Christmas lights. The sailcloth shades that cast a triangle of relief from the sun were green at the edges from mould and mildew. And the tiny pool looked as if no one had swum in it for decades, probably preferring the wide expanse of lake just a stroll away.
Jessica stood for a moment, letting her heart rate get back to normal, her hand resting on the rusted table. She could feel the sun beating down on her bare arms, singeing the skin. She needed a hat but it was inside and she couldn’t go back while Miles was still talking to Jimmy on the terrace.
She crept over to the row of rangy, unkempt olive trees in an attempt to peer through the gaps to see what was going on.
She could see Miles’s khaki clad legs. They made her think of all the unsuccessful dates she’d had over the years, no candidate matching up to her vision of him.
She could hear Jimmy as she peered through the leaves, unable to get a very good look, the branches all overgrown. Then Miles’s deep laugh.
She reached up and moved an olive branch out the way as surreptitiously as she could. Then she caught Jimmy say something about Flo, and Miles saying, ‘Yeah, it’s better.’ And she immediately let go of the branch and stepped away.
Flo.
Flo Hamilton was a friend of a girl who’d been on Jimmy’s university course and had taken Jimmy’s room in the boys’ flat when he’
d left. She’d bounded in, all white teeth and American confidence. Jessica had made the mistake of not taking much notice.
Jessica heard Dex come out onto the terrace, and the sound of more back-slapping and guffawing. Then obviously Miles must have been shown inside and it all fell silent.
She rubbed her face with her hand and stood for a second before retying her hair and taking a proper look at the pool area.
It was an unloved little hideaway, enclosed on every side by olive trees whose branches snaked out in search of one another. Taking her bucket, Jessica went and sat in a big wicker chair in the one shady corner and stared across at the pool. It was just about long enough for two strokes of front crawl and was tiled in pearlescent black stones that made the water green and dark. It would be like swimming in twilight as the sun blazed overhead. Olive leaves scattered the surface like little boats.
She wondered if she could hide there forever.
It was the dirt that made her get up in the end. The desire to make this little area shine to its full potential.
She got to work with the scrubbing brush, the hard bristles scratching over the lichen-coated tiles. And the more she scrubbed, the more she fell into the monotony of the noise. It made her think of her parents’ house where she’d lived with sweeping and scrubbing as a background noise for years. Polishing and hoovering. Constant tidying. The dull thumping sound of the living room doors as their glass panels were dusted; the smell of white vinegar on surfaces and the sight of cloths soaking in bleach.
It was almost impossible to believe it had once been her life. Every time she thought about growing up in that house, which was as little as possible, she’d be astonished by her younger self, by her resourcefulness. Shut up in her room, every second of her life was accounted for. She was confined by the overwhelming fear her parents had of the world and the people in it. The mistrust of society. Straight back from school, straight back from work. Jessica had waited years to squirrel away the cash to leave.
As the sun blistered down, the sound of her scrubbing was interrupted by a familiar voice saying, ‘Ah, you have been put to work.’
She stopped to look up and saw the guy from the bar standing with his arms crossed over his chest, dressed in leather motorbike trousers and a bright purple t-shirt, a smirk on his lips. ‘This outfit, it is very flattering,’ he said, pointing to her boilersuit.
Jessica raised her brows. ‘Are you stalking me?’
‘Ha, no.’ He shook his head, then took the couple of steps down to the patio. ‘I am looking for Ms Libby. I help her out a bit last week and I am free today so I thought …?’ He shrugged. ‘She might need more help. I am Bruno by the way.’
‘Libby’s inside,’ Jessica said, starting to scrub again.
He cocked his head, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. ‘You know in most cultures it is polite to return a greeting. A person might even say their name.’
She paused, wiped her brow, and then leant her hands on the edge of the bucket. ‘I’m sure they might,’ she said, one eyebrow arched. ‘But I think it would also depend on whether that person wanted the other person to know their name or not, wouldn’t it?’
Bruno held his hands up to object. ‘I don’t know what that person’s problem would be with just wanting to know someone’s name.’
‘Jessica?’ Miles’s voice called from the terrace and he jogged down the steps to see if she was still by the pool. ‘Jimmy said you had the bucket. Oh …’ He paused when he saw Bruno. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise you were with someone. Hi.’ Miles held out a hand. ‘Miles.’
‘Bruno.’
Jessica stiffened and she could see Bruno notice.
‘You are all friends?’ Bruno said as he looked between them.
‘Kind of,’ said Jessica.
‘In a fashion,’ said Miles at the same time.
Bruno nodded.
The sun seemed like the fourth person in the conversation, beating down on them all, firing up the unescapable cicadas, a tinnitus hum in her ears.
‘Yes,’ said Miles. ‘Yes, we’re all friends.’
Bruno had his eyes still on Jessica, absorbing her reactions. She looked down at the dirty tiles.
‘Well, I erm …’ Miles pointed to the bucket. ‘I just came for that. I’m giving Jimmy a hand.’
‘I kind of need it,’ Jessica said. ‘Isn’t there another one?’
Miles frowned. ‘I don’t know. Jimmy just said there was a red bucket.’
‘OK, fine,’ she said. ‘You have it. I’ll find another one.’
Miles looked a bit hesitant.
‘Seriously, have it, I can do something else,’ she said, pushing the bucket his way.
Miles walked over and picked it up, the water sloshing over the sides in what seemed to be his haste to leave.
Bruno watched him go and then said, ‘I’ll go and find Ms Libby.’
At the top step he stopped and glanced back. ‘I’ve never met a Jessica before,’ he said.
‘Well, now you have,’ Jessica said, pushing herself up to standing, still distracted by the arrival and departure of Miles.
He nodded. ‘You look like a Jessica.’
She put her hands on her hips and sighed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Bruno shrugged. ‘An interesting challenge,’ he said with a smile, and sauntered off in search of Libby.
LIBBY
The sun was low in the sky, just brushing the line of trees as it tipped into late afternoon. Everyone was exhausted. The heat had sucked them dry of energy. Libby and Eve had done some fractious decorating, unable to agree on almost any of the renovation choices. In the end they had focused on ripping up the carpets with Bruno.
Jimmy and Miles had slashed half the garden. It looked like a first day haircut, no one quite sure whether it would settle into something good or bad. She was amazed Miles had flown all the way from the States to be there. He said he’d been due a holiday but she wondered if really he’d been craving something familiar. He hadn’t mentioned Flo so neither had Libby but in retrospect she wished she had. It was weird though, to know what to say to him, because he looked so unlike himself nowadays—all polished and smooth-edged.
She’d wondered what Jessica had thought when she’d seen him. But then she’d seen the sparkling poolside patio and, putting two and two together, Libby had presumed she’d been in need of hard-work distraction.
The terrace, on the other hand, was practically untouched, Dex having had a snooze in a lounge chair for most of the morning.
Now as Libby stood in front of them all in the outhouse she suddenly felt a bit stupid for cajoling them into a baking class. They were all there, standing reluctantly behind their benches like school children. Jessica had her phone on her table and was trying to surreptitiously scroll through her emails.
‘OK, so, what I’m thinking is that there will be scheduled baking times every day throughout the week. So, one day we’d make muffins and things for breakfast, another day bread for lunch, and then in the afternoon, like now, we’ll make a dessert or petit fours for after dinner with coffee. That’s how I planned it. It might change. That’s why you’re here. Guinea pigs. OK.’ Libby gave a small laugh and tied up her hair.
Miles tried to stifle a yawn behind his cup of coffee. ‘Sorry, jet lag,’ he said.
It was much easier when she did it to camera for her YouTube videos, with no one watching her.
Dex was leaning forward, chin cupped in his hands, elbows on the table, staring unblinking at her. The not-concentrating looks between Eve and Jimmy were equally distracting. All that as well as Jessica unsubtly tapping away on her phone. The worst, however, were the glares of complete disdain from Giulia at the back, who Libby had roped in to up the numbers and to try and win her round to the concept.
‘OK,’ Libby said again, then she felt her cheeks start to flush. She couldn’t work out how to start without clapping her hands together like a strict Home Economics teacher. These were her
peers, not people she could teach. They were people she had lived with, laughed with, fled the pub with after Jimmy was caught cheating in the quiz, sat in the hospital with when Dex got run over on his bike, lazed on the roof with as Jake’s barbecue puffed with plumes of smoke, squirmed with as the boys tried to convince Jessica there was a ghost knocking on her window at night, sat in darkness with as Eve hid from a pestering one-night stand, exchanged sniggering glances with as Miles took the stage in some grimy club. How could she now tell them all what to do like a teacher?
She looked down at her workbench—at the little bowls of flour and sugar that she’d measured out and prepared like a TV chef. ‘Oh god, now I’m getting hot.’ She pressed her hands to her face.
‘It’s all right, Lib,’ said Dex. ‘It’s only us. Just do it however you like.’
Libby exhaled. ‘You’re making me more nervous than strangers,’ she said, then she laughed.
In her head, in all the planning sessions, Jake had been in the room, maybe leaning against the wooden mantelpiece, a cup of tea in his hand, a cocky smile on his face. He was the chatter. The one who made people feel instantly at ease.
Supper clubs had got much better when he’d stepped in to help. On her own they’d been a complete disaster. The first one she held, her fingers had shaken so much from the pressure that she’d barely been able to prepare anything. Smoke from the sizzling chorizo had set the smoke alarm off. The kitchen had gone from boiling hot to arctic cold when she’d had to throw all the windows open. Then the boys upstairs had thrown an impromptu party—Miles’s decks in situ right above her beautifully laid table, the thumping of feet on bare floorboards, the wine running out, her beef overcooking, her cream over-whipping, and the stem ginger ice cream refusing to set. It had been an all-round disaster. The three couples had sloped out before the coffee had bubbled up on the hob.
The door had closed on her overly effusive goodbyes, and, needing to take it out on someone, she had stormed up the stairs, thrown open the door of the boys’ flat, pulled the plug on the speakers, and shouted, ‘Well, thank you very much. You destroyed that for me. I hope you’re proud of yourselves.’ All the achingly cool party-goers had stared with disdain and she’d wished she hadn’t gone upstairs at all.
