Page 5 of One Summer

I squint down the river in both directions, trying to pick out his figure. It’s low tide and there are lots of mudlarks at work. This stretch of the river is on his usual patch, so Max could be any one of them.

So close and yet so far. I could go down there, keep walking until I found him, surprise him with cannoli and coffee. That’s the sort of thing a good girlfriend would do. But that would make me seriously late back with Scotty’s order. He’d hand me a cardboard box and ask me to clear my desk right there and then. It’s not like I could even plead a long queue. I’d be ankle-deep in squelching Thames mud, and even if I rubbed off the worst of it with paper napkins so that he didn’t see it on my Chelsea boots, he’d smell it. God, how he would smell that mud.

Even so, my heart tethers are twitching for Max. I don’t always tell him what he means to me and maybe I’ve been taking him for granted. After three years together, it’s naturally going to be hard to keep the magic alive. The passion. The interest.

Which is why, two days ago, I finally made the purchase I’ve been agonising over for months. He doesn’t have the right kind of mudlark permit to use a metal detector on the Thames foreshore, but he’s been making noises about wanting to go metal detecting in Norfolk, perhaps getting lucky and finding some Celtic or Roman coins that would set his YouTube channel ablaze. So, I did it. I made the grand gesture. Even though I can’t afford it, I went on eBay and bought a second-hand machine: an XP Deus 2 – used only a handful of times and in perfect working order. A snip at only three-fifths of the retail price, but still many hundreds of pounds that I should not have put on my credit card. I’ve never done any kind of grand gesture for Max before, or for anyone, in fact, and I don’t know why I have now.

Yes, I do: deep down, I’ve sensed I’m failing at my relationship, as well as my job.

My mum’s cheery voice rings in my head…

Lindy, don’t focus on the negative; think about the positive. You have enough. You are enough. Whatever happens, be satisfied.

Be satisfied. That’s all very well and good coming from my mother – who is the most naturally cheerful person on the planet, and the most at peace with herself. It’s easy for her because she found her great love at the age of seventeen and she and my father are still wrapped up in passion for each other twenty-seven years later. They still go on sunshiny picnics. My dad makes his homemade pasties and elderflower cordial, and my mum makes the cakes. They have a special yellow blanket and matching melamine cups. They read long-cherished passages of poetry to each other and take literal snoozes in wildflower meadows. How can anyone’s relationship compare well to that?

When I make it to the coffee stand, there’s a huge queue, at least twenty people deep, and I open my YouTube app, just to take a quick glance at Max’s channel, in case he’s posted any teasers for the next episode. I know I shouldn’t, because I’m technically working, which means I’m on ‘Scotty time’ as he likes to tell me every day, but I can’t resist.

Huh. Max is live streaming right now.

Four

Buttons

Which is… weird. Max almost never bites the bullet and live streams to his audience because he likes the control he gets from editing his videos, and he’s never confident of his tech holding up in the weather conditions. Once the Thames wind starts to really blow, it’s hard for the clip-on microphone to pick up his commentary. And of course, he feels it’s essential that viewers can hear his every word, otherwise there’s nothing but complaints about the sound quality in the comments section.

But the truly weird thing is that he didn’t even mention that he was doing this today. Live streams are a special event, and he usually talks about them for weeks in advance, trying to get me to feel as giddy with apprehension and excitement as he does. He drones on to me, his channel subscribers, the world at large, people in the pub, clients. Whoever will listen to him, really. It’s a big deal and he always lets me know about his big deals. So why hasn’t he mentioned this one?

I join the live stream and see that it’s a collaboration with another channel, a YouTuber called Gothic Girl Greta. According to her bio, she’s a mudlark who specialises in the ornate and baroque, with ‘an intense interest in buttons’.

I imagine her walking around my bedroom, peering down in fascination as she presses all the buttons on my TV remote control. But, of course, she means the sort of buttons attached to ancient garments hundreds of years ago that somehow fell into the Thames. Max is always bringing home historical buttons. Clearly the historical tailors didn’t sew very well, because Max has dishes overflowing with ones that have pinged off into the mud.

Therefore ‘an intense interest in buttons’ seems like a weird thing to write on her profile, since buttons are not even remotely rare. Why not write an ‘intense interest in pebbles’?

Oh god, I have to stop being so snidey about other mudlarks. Just because I don’t get the appeal, that doesn’t mean I have to look down my nose at those who do. They found their passion, which is a good thing!

My eyes slip down her page and land on her personal motto.

The greatest finds are the people you meet in the mud.

Right.

My brain cuts to hordes of zombie-mudlarks, waist-deep in claggy Thames dirt: a horror version of the children’s game Stuck in the Mud. What a truly bizarre thing to write. She’s obviously one of those hippie-dippy mudlarks who believe in the healing power of the ‘found in the ground’ movement. Fair enough. Everyone has to believe in something, I suppose.

Greta.

Somehow, I feel as if I’ve heard of her. Maybe in one of Max’s long rambles on the joys of his hobby and its monetisation via YouTube, he’s mentioned her name? Greta. What he didn’t mention, however, is that she is just breathtakingly lovely. I can’t stop staring at her avatar. She has long, dark braids and eyes like a baby cheetah. Sort of deep amber with a dark outline of kohl and a curious expression. Eyes that say, ‘I might be cute now, but when I reach my ultimate power at the age of twenty-seven, I’ll be unstoppable.’ Or, I don’t know, maybe I’m reading too much into it.

Suddenly, I’m at the front of the coffee stand queue, being asked for my order.

I leave the app and try to focus.

What did Scotty want again? I can’t even remember, so I hazard a guess and go for his usual order, which will probably suffice.

I carry the coffee back to the office, my thoughts full of Max, and don’t drop it, which I consider a win. When I put my hand out to give Scotty his change, he immediately counts it, and then mutes his headset.

‘Where’s my cannoli?’ he asks, brusquely.

Shit, I knew I was forgetting something.

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