Page 53 of One Summer

When I open it, I see a woman with a red-lipsticked smile on her face. It’s the same woman who seems to have been stalking me since I arrived on the island, and with whom I spoke outside the shop.

‘I’m Betty. These are for you,’ she says, handing me a fragrant assortment of garden roses, which are so perfect that my senses are momentarily overwhelmed.

‘Thank you,’ I say, wondering why she’s here, why she’s brought me flowers and if I need to call the police and get a restraining order. ‘I love garden roses.’

‘They’re not from my garden,’ she says, shaking her head, as if she perished the thought.

‘Oh, sorry,’ I say, although I have no idea why I’m apologising.

‘Heavens, no. They’re from my next-door neighbour’s garden. Can’t stand the woman but she grows the best roses on the island – I have to give her that.’

‘Oh, well, it was nice of her to let you pick them. Please thank her for me.’

‘I’m not thanking her – she doesn’t know anything about it. I stole them. Brenda’s always been a late riser. Never out of bed before 7 a.m. and doesn’t open her front door until the milkman’s been.’

I pause, not sure whether to laugh.

‘Won’t she be angry when she finds out you’ve stolen roses from her garden?’

‘She won’t. If she does notice her bushes look different, I’ll just blame it on the badgers.’

‘I don’t think badgers eat roses,’ I say, feeling that this conversation has gone very off-topic, though I still have no idea what the topic is supposed to be or why she’s here.

‘Yes, but she won’t know that; she’s from America – the badgers are awful over there.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, again. ‘Can I help you with something?’

‘No. I’m just here to officially welcome you to the island and check everything is okay.’

There’s a large ticking clock next to the door. The time is a shade past 7.30 a.m. I’ve had half an hour of sleep.

‘Thank you but everything’s fine.’

It’s not fine, obviously, but the thorns from the roses are pricking my hands and I’d quite like to get rid of this rose-stealing oddball and go back to bed before facing the full horror of the day.

I hear a door slam in the distance.

‘You just missed your neighbour over there,’ she says, pointing her thumb at the grand villa next door. ‘He just got back from his daily jog – quite the athlete, that one – I’m going to see him next.’

The whistler next door is a he? Interesting.

I don’t turn in time to see whoever was there, and now he’s disappeared into the house. I’m still hoping it’s the sexy surfer, but I know that the chances of that are remote. I don’t see how anyone that young and attractive could possibly afford such a gorgeous beach house, unless they’re from generational wealth, or famous, both of which seem wildly unlikely. It’s probably just a rich retiree who’s taken up triathlons.

‘Is he expecting you?’ I ask, glancing up at the clock.

‘Nope, I never announce my visits in advance. I like to keep people on their toes.’

So, presumably, there will be more ‘early bird’ visits like this during my stay here?

‘I hear you didn’t realise how many critters they have in there?’ she says, grinning mischievously.

‘I did not. There was a miscommunication.’

How does she know this? Word must travel fast on this island.

She whistles through her teeth. ‘Sounds like you’re in for a busy summer.’

‘It’s definitely going to be unique.’

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