Page 96 of One Summer

‘For what?’

‘Everything. I’ve been a dickhead since you got here. I’ve been going through some stuff, and it hasn’t brought out the best in me.’

‘I haven’t exactly been having a jolly good time either,’ I say.

‘I know.’

‘I’m a failure who’s messed up her whole life – I don’t have a career or any real plan to get one; I’m still just drifting. Down even deeper.’

He goes quiet for a solid two minutes, and I wonder if he’s done a Goodithea and is sleeping with his eyes open.

‘I don’t think you’ve messed up anything,’ he says, startling me. ‘Maybe at this point in your life, it’s good to drift a bit. You don’t need to have worked everything out at twenty-six. Maybe not even at any age. This is life, not Instagram. You have work that you like, a roof over your head, enough money to pay your way. Where’s the failure in that?’

Maybe he’s right, but I can’t make myself believe it.

‘Easy for you to say, living in your fancy villa.’

He laughs, a little bitterly. ‘I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing.’

He goes to pick up the paper cup of water that Halloon gave him, and accidentally knocks it to the ground.

‘Sorry, passion fingers,’ he says, as if in explanation.

‘What?’ I say.

‘As in: everything I touch, I fuck.’

There’s a charged moment between us, when I almost want to reach out and touch him, whatever that leads to, but I can’t. We share another moment of intense eye contact, and for a second, I think he might be about to lean in and kiss me.

Then his phone rings and he looks at the screen.

‘I have to take this, but I’m sorry, Lindy. I really am.’

‘No reason to apologise to me,’ I say. ‘We’re neighbours. That’s it.’

He looks stricken, but answers his phone anyway, and walks towards the twilight beach.

Seventy-Nine

Atmosphere

The next day, I do nothing except work through my duties in the binder, and when they’re done, and 5 p.m. comes, I doom-scroll on my phone and crunch my way through two packs of breadsticks, only just avoiding the temptation to get out the vodka.

I fall asleep on the sofa without even getting undressed, but when I wake up a couple of hours later, close to midnight, I don’t even have to look outside to know what’s happening. The ocean is roaring and hitting the cliffs with such ferocity – even on this more sheltered side of the island – that the house rumbles.

My glass of water is trembling. There are ripples on the surface every time a new wave booms against the rocks. Panicking, I look for Nemo and see him curled up in his cave bed, on his back, hind paws in the air. I’ll make sure he has enough kitty litter, food and water, so that he has no need to go outside tonight.

I look for Ted but can’t see him anywhere. He’s not in the garden either. I search every corner, struggling to stand in the gusts, and retrieve Buttercup from her shelter to bring her inside, turning on the way to stare at the sea, which looks terrifying, an angry mass of swirling whitewater.

Caleb appears in his garden, standing silhouetted in the storm light, his face tight with anxiety and Ted in his arms. He takes off his beanie, and both he and Ted have wild hair standing on end. Ted looks as if he’s been aggressively backcombed.

‘You let Ted out in this weather?’ he asks. ‘I just found him on my patio.’

‘He must have gone through the cat flap and into the garden for a pee, then gone looking for you. It’s not like he can use a litter tray,’ I say.

He steps into my porch and places Ted gently on the ground.

He unzips his jacket, revealing a sweatshirt that says AHOY THERE, SAILOR.

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