Page 45 of One Summer

He freezes, his whole body goes rigid, and for a second, I think he’s realised too, then he does the most enormous sneeze into his elbow.

‘Bless you,’ I say, and he turns and walks back to the steps leading down to the beach house, exhausted again and dragging his feet like a toddler after a particularly exhausting playdate.

‘I’ll just pack my bag and get out of your way,’ he says. ‘If I’d known you were coming today, I’d never have taken a nap in the bed and subjected you to the sight of me half naked.’

‘Don’t sweat it,’ I say, even though he is sweating it. Copiously.

‘I never make a great first impression, but this must be one of my worst ever.’

It’s true: he hasn’t made the best first impression. He’s proven himself to be a snotter, a snorer, a panicker and a pedant when it comes to the ecology of beaches.

He’s also very worried about infecting other people with his viruses, which speaks to a considerate nature. And he’s wildly protective of a tiny Ewok dog that doesn’t even belong to him – a dog that appears to adore him.

And finally, and perhaps most significantly in my impressions, he has, and I hate myself for noticing this, a bum that perfectly fills out his jogging bottoms.

Thirty-Seven

Giants

I wait in the garden until he’s finished packing his bag, which only takes him a few minutes.

When he emerges, wheezing and sneezing, he’s wearing a T-shirt that says GIANTS CAUSEWAY – a place that I’ve actually visited, during a shore-larking mini-break with Max. Maybe this can be some obscure form of bonding that will help us get through the next few excruciatingly awkward minutes until he feels up to tackling the garden steps again; a shared enthusiasm for beloved Irish landmarks is not the traditional icebreaker, but it’s something.

‘Have you been?’ I say, nodding at his T-shirt.

He looks behind him, in the direction of the house. He’s left the front door open, and I can see the bathroom door ajar, several blowflies slowly making their way across it.

‘Weird question,’ he says, ‘but okay.’

He frowns at me, and then in answer to my look of confusion, he continues, ‘I actually don’t need to go right now. I went earlier.’

‘I didn’t mean have you been to the loo,’ I say. ‘I meant the Giant’s Causeway.’

He tilts his head, not seeming to understand a word that I’m saying.

‘The what did you say?’

‘It’s on your shirt,’ I say, pointing. ‘I assumed it was a souvenir from a trip.’

He looks down at his chest, baffled. Obviously, he has absolutely no idea what clothing he’s put on his body.

‘Oh, that. I’ve been to Ireland for work and stuff,’ he says. ‘But not in a long time and never to the Giant’s Causeway. I’m not really much of a traveller these days…’ He trails off and sounds distinctly uncomfortable about something.

‘You travelled to Loor,’ I say, distinctly wishing he hadn’t.

‘I don’t do planes anymore. Or boats either, generally. Unless it’s for work and I can’t get out of it.’

‘What is your work?’

He’s mentioned it twice in the past minute, which I assume means he wants to be asked about it, but a momentary flash of alarm appears on his face.

‘I’m mostly, um, retired.’

‘Retired already? What were you – a Russian figure skater?’

‘Can’t you tell by my elegant physique?’ he says, dodging the question.

‘Not really.’

---