Page 51 of One Summer

I blink, and feel a lump in my throat.

Apparently, the old spade had a lip that wasn’t working for him, so he upgraded to something superior.

I bought him that spade for Christmas, and he’s discarded it and got himself a newer, sleeker model that suits his needs better.

The irony is not lost on me.

I’m burning to play the video, but I can’t get it to load, which is a blessing, because why am I still doing this to myself?

I’m not used to being apart from him for this long; it’s as if my brain misses seeing his face, hearing his voice, and I need a new hit of him.

Unlike most other mudlarks, Max doesn’t just film what he’s seeing in front of him; he films his own tea breaks too, setting his camera on a tripod so his fans all over the world can have the joy of seeing him working through his neatly packed lunchbox of doorstop sandwiches, homemade biscuits and a Thermos of coffee. It’s like he’s setting himself up as the new Hugh Grant and has his eye on starring as the leading man in every romcom movie that will come out in the next ten years. It’s also undeniably adorable.

I know he’s done wrong by me, but even now I sort of want to reach through the screen and pat him on the head: congratulate him for quadrupling his subscriber numbers in a month, for getting the kind of respect and attention he’s always hoped for. Max has found a way to have his own show and turn himself into its star.

When he was drunk or tired, and his glossy surface persona softened, he would tell me about his big plans for his channel, how he wanted to turn it into a real TV career, to use it as a stepping stone to front a younger, hipper Time Team. How he dreamed of giving interviews to magazines, with artsy photos of his finds arranged next to even artsier photos of himself holding the Garrett Carrot – a nine-inch orange pinpointer probe that he uses to locate his finds once he’s narrowed down the main area with his big detector. He adored that little gadget and I loved that he could feel such enthusiasm over something so deeply uncool. His fans seem to feel the same way. They respond to the sheer joy he feels from following his passion, and it brings them vicarious happiness too.

I can’t help myself; I have to read the comments.

Forty-Six

Comments

Oh my god, you’re such a handsome dude! I love that accent! So sexy… Benedict Cumberbatch has nothing on you! Marguerite in Los Angeles.

I have a precious bead you can check out, just sayin’… Lina in New Jersey.

I can think of MUCH funner things to do with that pinpointer. Emily in Paris.

Really? Emily in Paris? Come on.

You can lark in my mud any time. Ella in London.

Ella has a clear idea of what she wants, at least, which is more than can be said for me.

Man, I wish you’d dig me up. Veronica in Maine.

What? What does that even mean, Veronica? You’re hoping Max will dig up your corpse? That’s not sexy, that’s just disturbing. That’s the worst flirting I’ve ever heard.

Max will read every one of these comments. Naturally, some of the commenters will have left their email addresses, so he’ll have a way to get in touch, should he want to, and I wonder if he will. For all I know, he’s turned his YouTube mudlarking channel into his own personal dating site.

Hundreds of eligible women but only one man. Why clip his wings and stop at Greta?

Unless he’s in love with her. He might easily be in love with her.

I hear Nemo scratching at the bathroom door, and I go to him, sitting down on the cold floor, my back against the old tiles. His purr gets louder, and I offer him my forehead, which he bops with his own and then licks me on the nose.

‘I’m sorry about this, boy. Maybe I should have let you get rehomed to someone who has “more of a plan for their life” instead of dragging you along to a snake house.’

Those words of Max’s still ring in my ears in the dark hours of the night. Because he’s right. I don’t have a plan. I just drift from place to place, like a fucking jellyfish.

Forty-Seven

Request

When I’ve spent some time with Nemo and he’s settled back down to sleep, I take out my phone and see I have a new text from Henny.

When can I come and visit you on the magical Loor Island? Next month? Next week? Tomorrow? I’m desperate to see it all for myself!

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