She’d tried dating again, hoping that might help. The first man had been a waiter in the restaurant she worked in. He’d been very keen, inviting her out time and again until she’d said yes. They’d gone to see films together, bands, comedy, and at first she’d thought that perhaps it might work between them. Until she realised two things in the same night, six weeks after they started seeing each other: he never asked her any questions and she hated the way it felt when he kissed her. Six months later, she tried again with a different man, a fellow volunteer at a community festival she was working on. That lasted two months, progressing from casual dating to being lovers, until the night he accused her of being constantly distracted, even when they were in bed together. ‘There’s someone else, isn’t there?’ he’d said. He was right.
Tom. She now knew with certainty it had been something special with him. Regardless of their age, regardless of the length of their relationship. Would it have been different if they’d been together longer, if imperfection and impatience had crept in? If she had unhappy memories to dwell on? If he hadn’t stayed frozen in her mind, in her heart? If she knew something, anything, about the man he had become?
She still missed him, every single day. She missed him so much it hurt, long after any pain from the accident had gone, long after she’d given up hope that the postman would bring a letter, even a postcard, from him. She knew he blamed her for what had happened. Nina blamed her. They had every right. It was her fault. Nothing could change that. Nothing could ever get it completely out of her mind. No music, no magazine, no view from a train window. She lived with it always.
It was after six by the time she got back to the small flat she rented on the top floor of a terrace house in Kensal Green. She didn’t make herself dinner, change out of her interview clothes or ring her mother to let her know how she’d got on. She needed to do something else first. She’d made a decision on the train. If she couldn’t get rid of her memories, she could get rid of other physical reminders.
She went to her wardrobe and reached up to the highest shelf. The box was nestled behind her winter jumpers. She lifted it down, opened the lid and moved aside the bundle of theatre tickets, newspaper clippings and postcards from her father that had served as a kind of weight on it for years, keeping it pushed down and out of sight. It was still in its envelope with the Australian stamp and Melbourne Mail Centre postmark.
She didn’t need to read it one last time. She knew every curve of Nina’s handwriting, every word of those two stark sentences off by heart. She took the letter out of the envelope and crumpled it into a ball. Placing it on a saucer on her windowsill, she struck a match and held it against the paper, watching the flame slowly lick across the letter, blazing for a second before turning to ash. Then she opened her window wide and watched the wind take the fragments and blow them out across the garden.
Her only other reminder of him was in her bag. The antique whistle. She traced the lettering again now. For Gracie with love from Tom. She always carried it with her. In the days after the accident, back in London, she’d even slept with it clutched in her hand. It had gone from being a good luck charm to a talisman to something more. She’d held it as she made her way to the first day of every new job, called on it for luck every time she sent off an application, held it in her hand whenever the sadness threatened to overwhelm her again. She’d needed it as recently as that morning, before her interview.
It hadn’t brought her luck today, though, had it? Perhaps that was the sign she’d been waiting for. The proof it wasn’t good for her to have kept it for this long. But what could she do with it? Put it into one of the bins outside on the street? If she did, this time tomorrow it would be collected, gone from her life.
She held it in one hand, then the other, tracing the engraving one last time.
She couldn’t do it. It was all she had. She put it back in her bag, pushing it right down to the bottom, out of sight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sligo, Ireland
‘Spencer, wake up.’
‘I am awake.’
‘Wake up, get dressed and get in the van, I mean. You’re late.’
‘I’m not late. I’m hungover and I need more sleep.’
‘Spencer, come on. Donal just rang. He hasn’t got the key, the morning class is there and that guy from the newspaper is due in half an hour.’
‘Tell Donal the key’s on the key ring. You talk to the newspaper guy. You’re much nicer than I am.’
‘He doesn’t want to talk to me. He wants to talk to you. Come on, Shark Boy. It took weeks to set this up. Don’t blow it on me now.’
Spencer sat up, pushed his curls off his face and stretched noisily. The white scar on the left side of his chest stood out against his brown skin. He patted the bed beside him, leering in cartoon fashion at the pretty, dark-haired woman glaring at him. ‘Come back here first, my little Ciara. I’m awake. I’m in bed. We may as well make use of it.’
Ciara threw the pillow at him. ‘Spencer, get up and get ready. I’m leaving in ten minutes. You come with me or you can walk.’
He stretched again. ‘You’re turning into a nag, did you know that?’
‘And you’re turning into your father.’
The phone on the bedside table rang. Ciara stepped in front of it. ‘Leave it, Spencer. Let it go to voicemail.’ Seconds later, the mobile on the floor beside the bed rang. Ciara reached down and snatched that up, pushing it into her pocket. ‘If it’s urgent, they’ll ring back. Hurry up, Spencer. Get up and into the shower before I drag you in there myself.’
‘You’ll get into the shower with me? Now you’re talking.’
‘Spencer, move.’
Ten minutes later they were in their small blue van, pulling out from the driveway of the old farm cottage they rented on the outskirts of Sligo town. Ciara was driving. Spencer fiddled with the radio controls before deciding against any of the talk programs and switching it off. He reached across and put his right hand on Ciara’s left thigh. She shook it away. He did it again, tiptoeing his fingers across, touching her leg, retreating, then moving close again. She pushed it away again. A few minutes later, he made a third attempt, exaggerating the slow movements of his fingers across the seat, making a whining noise like a forlorn puppy, until his hand reached her jean-clad leg again. That time she let it stay there, shaking her head, but unable to stop a small smile.
‘You’re incorrigible, Spencer Templeton. You know that?’
‘I know. I can’t spell it, but I agree.’ He smiled, squeezed her leg once more and then reached into the glove box, took out a pack of tobacco and some papers. After rolling a thin cigarette, he wound down the window, lit it, took a deep drag, sighed in satisfaction and then turned towards Ciara again.
‘That wasn’t very nice earlier, you know. Comparing me to my father.’
‘I didn’t mean to be nice.’
‘You’ve only met him once, haven’t you? That time he was in Galway for that antiques fair?’
‘Yes, but I’ve talked to him on the phone several times, and seen photos, and read those postcards he sends you. Spencer, any fool, and especially any fool like me who happens to stupidly find herself in love with and for her sins living with you couldn’t help but notice the similarities between you and your father.’
‘Thrill me.’
‘Good-looking. Articulate. Charismatic …’
Spencer pretended to preen.
‘Conceited. Unreliable. How many times has he said he’ll come and visit and cancelled at the last minute?’
‘He’s a busy man.’
‘Yes, Spencer. He’s also far too charming. Only a fool would believe a word either of you had to say.’
‘Ciara! Ciara, my one and only love! You mean this loving passionate two-year-old relationship of ours —’
‘It’s fourteen months.’
‘— isn’t based on a bedrock of trust? Of mutual respect? It’s only about lust and convenience? A marria
ge of business minds rather than one of bodies, hearts and souls?’
‘Shut up, Spencer. Save the smooth talking for the journalist, would you?’
Five minutes later they were driving through the village of Strandhill, past the Strand Bar and turning left onto the esplanade. It was a crisp, cool morning, the huge sky a light blue, only a bank of clouds to the east. The sea flickered with silver and blue flashes of sunlight, the long rows of foaming waves already dotted with early morning surfing students. Two more groups of learners were on the beach itself, dressed in wetsuits, standing beside their boards. Ciara pulled into the closest parking space, just a metre from the sign she’d only finished painting a week previously: Shark Boy Surfing School this way, the jaunty arrow in the shape of a shark fin. She was glad to see the front door of the brightly coloured building open. Donal had obviously found a spare key somewhere. Their morning group of students was gathering in front of the storage shed, pulling on wetsuits, taking out the boards.
Before she and Spencer had time to get out of the van, another car pulled in beside them. A young man climbed out from the driver’s seat, a middle-aged man holding a camera bag from the passenger’s seat.
‘Damn it. They’re early,’ Ciara said. She hastily reached for some peppermints in her bag and thrust them at Spencer. ‘Eat those and make it snappy, Shark Boy. A surf hero stinking of smoke is not the right image.’
An hour later, Spencer had finished being interviewed and was posing for photographs, first standing in front of the Shark Boy premises with a surfboard under one arm, then leaning against the landmark cannon on the Strandhill esplanade. Ciara watched from a short distance, hoping Spencer would manage to stay serious. The last photo session she’d organised had to be scrapped when she discovered Spencer had pulled faces in nearly every shot. So far, so good today. He definitely looked the part of a surfing instructor, his blond hair a tangle in the buffeting wind coming off the water, his bright-blue wetsuit a contrast to the white of the board.
Spencer had just laid the board on the ground and was doing some mock surfing positions on top of it when his mobile phone, still in Ciara’s pocket, started to ring. She took a step back out of hearing range, saw the name and answered it. ‘Hi, Charlotte. You’re up late.’
‘Ciara? Are you Spencer’s secretary now? The sooner you and I meet in person and I put you straight about my brother, the better. Or have you stolen his phone? Good for you. And no, I’m not up late. I’m up early, trying to round up my siblings before Hope attempts a takeover. Has she cornered Spencer yet? Don’t tell me he said yes.’
‘Charlotte, I’m sorry, but I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Aunt Hope. Our Blessed Aunt Hope who’s now more trouble than she ever was when her only friends were a bottle of wine and her own evil mind. She hasn’t rung Spencer yet? That’s either a good sign or a bad sign.’
‘She might have. We got in late last night and we haven’t checked our messages yet.’
‘Good. If she’s called, tell him not to ring her back until he’s spoken to me. She’s up to something and I don’t want anyone to agree to it until I’ve got the whole story. Actually, Ciara, there’s an idea. Can you ring Hope back and tell her —’
‘No way. I have enough trouble with one Templeton without starting on a rogue aunt.’
‘But she’d love you. That accent of yours, the beautiful way with words you Irish have —’
‘Stop your patronising right there,’ Ciara laughed. ‘I’ll get Spencer to phone you back. He’s just getting his photo taken.’
‘For a police line-up?’
‘A national newspaper, actually.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. Not more Shark Boy nonsense. He still hasn’t been found out?’
‘What do you mean, “found out”?’
‘I haven’t time to even begin to tell you. And tell him not to phone me back after all. I’ve got a graduation ceremony today and I haven’t signed the certificates yet. I’ll call him back later. Thanks, Ciara.’ She hung up before Ciara had a chance to say goodbye.
Back in the office after the journalist and photographer had driven away, she and Spencer had a post-mortem on the interview.
‘I was stupendous, if I say so myself,’ Spencer said. ‘Witty, self-deprecating. If I didn’t already own the business, I’d sign up as a student myself.’
‘We own the business, not you. You told them about the increase in our student numbers? How we get students from all over the world?’
He hit his hand against his forehead. ‘Oh, no. I forgot. I spoke about the price of gold and England’s World Cup hopes instead.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Ciara, I did mention the subject of the interview a couple of times. You would have been proud of me.’
‘And they got all they needed, photo-wise?’
‘They asked for one of me surfing but I explained about my pulled muscle, to their great sorrow. So they asked if we could send them a scan of the Shark Boy article instead. They wanted to take it with them but I said it was too precious to leave our sight. That was the right answer, dearest Ciara, wasn’t it? Or should I have checked with you first?’
Ciara ignored his sarcasm, reached up and took the framed article in question off the wall. The photograph of Spencer at nineteen was a great one, she knew. It was the headline above the photograph that also gave the surf school its name: Shark Boy! Now nearly twenty-six, he hadn’t changed that much, Ciara thought – he still had the tousled curls, boyish face and cheeky grin. Her mother had dubbed him the Artful Dodger, straight out of Oliver! when Ciara first brought him home to Sligo to meet her family, just a month after their meeting in an Irish pub in London.
Spencer had responded in kind, amused. ‘Artful Dodger? Very nice, thank you. The sweet and mischievous film version or the cunning baby-faced criminal from the book?’
‘I’ll reserve my judgement,’ Ciara’s mother had said.
Ciara passed on the news of Charlotte’s call as he sat behind the desk, opening their mail. He just shrugged. ‘Charlotte’s always had a problem with Hope. She probably just wants to meet up for a drink or elderberry cordial or whatever’s taking her fancy these days.’
‘I’d like to meet Hope.’
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ Spencer said.
‘I’d like to meet all of your family, actually.’
‘Believe me, you wouldn’t.’
It wasn’t until Ciara had finished scanning and emailing the Shark Boy photo to the newspaper that she brought up the rest of Charlotte’s conversation. ‘You get on okay with Charlotte, don’t you?’
He laughed. ‘No one “gets on” with Charlotte. We do what Charlotte tells us or feel the whip of her steely tongue. Or the steel of her whippy tongue. Why?’
‘She said something to me on the phone about “this Shark Boy nonsense”.’
‘Ignore her,’ Spencer shrugged, midway through rolling another cigarette, even though he was sitting directly beneath a No Smoking sign. ‘She just thinks I’ve milked it too much.’
‘She didn’t say it like that. She said, “He still hasn’t been found out?” ’ She did a very good impression of Charlotte’s clipped British accent. ‘What is there to find out? That it wasn’t you who had the run-in with that shark?’
‘Charlotte’s just a trouble-maker, Ciara. She always has been. Can I go home and back to bed now? Haven’t I been a good boy? Shown my face, charmed the press —’
‘You don’t want to have a surf first? You’re dressed for it, for once.’
‘In this weather?’ He did a mock shiver. ‘You’ve got to be joking. Now, if I had my surf school in Hawaii, maybe, under a blazing sun and swaying palm trees —’
‘You know, Spencer, I had the funniest thought last night in bed.’
‘Did it involve a French maid’s costume?’
She ignored that. ‘I realised I’ve known you for over a year, lived with you for eight months, started up a surf school with you, done all I
can to help promote it, and yet the strangest thing of all is I’ve never actually seen you surf.’
‘You must have.’
‘Not once. When we met in London you had bruised ribs. When we moved back here you had that calf trouble. And since then you’ve either had more injuries or said you’re too unfit and it wouldn’t be good for any prospective students to see you in the water until you’re back at your peak.’
‘See how diligent I am about my students’ welfare?’
‘Seriously, Spencer. Don’t you think it’s funny that I help you run a surf school yet I haven’t seen you surf?’
‘Your uncle’s a surgeon but have you ever seen him operate?’
‘Well, no, but —’
‘Your mother’s a florist. Have you ever seen her plant any flowers?’
‘Spencer —’
‘Sometimes, darling Ciara, you think and worry too much. Can’t you just relax? Could our lives together get any more perfect? Who needs me in the water when we have assembled a team of the finest Australian and Kiwi instructors to do the work on our behalf? We’re already making a profit, after just six months in business. Due to your sterling efforts, we’re about to get more publicity and make even more profit. We have ourselves a USP – that’s Unique Selling Point, my dearest love – with me at the helm, Shark Boy himself, setting us apart from any other surf school on this majestic island of Ireland. What more could we possibly ask for?’
‘Are you talking to me or practising a courtroom soliloquy?’
He grinned. ‘You did ask.’
She carefully returned the article back into the frame, her face thoughtful. ‘It would be funny, though, wouldn’t it? If it turned out you didn’t actually know how to surf at all.’
‘It wouldn’t just be funny. It would be hysterical.’ He threw away the half-smoked cigarette, pulled Ciara close and kissed the top of her head. ‘Now, come on, my beautiful, over-worked, over-thinking, sexy, sweet girlfriend. If you won’t let me go back to bed, then I’m taking you out to breakfast.’
At Home with the Templetons Page 34
