Page 62 of One Summer

‘Okay, you stay there,’ I say, passing him his ball before walking back a few paces. I’m going to have to take a run at this ramp if I have any chance of getting up it myself. The main problem is that I’m wearing flip-flops, which is going to make scrambling difficult, and I recently Ped-Egged my feet, so they’re not as grippy as usual either. If only I’d thought to wear my hiking trainers. But no, the decision was made, and now I just have to do my best with it.

I throw my flip-flops up to where Ted is sitting watching the proceedings. He immediately picks one up and begins to shake it savagely, like a wolf trying to break the neck of a mountain hare.

‘Stop that at once,’ I say, firmly, and he stops it. ‘Now stay BACK.’

He takes two steps back. He’s obviously got the ‘back’ command nailed as well as the ‘come’ command. Ten points for Ted.

Barefoot, I run at the ramp and hurl myself at the lip. My fingers close on cold concrete. I’ve done it. I begin to pull myself up. I can do this.

Except, I don’t seem to be making any progress – beyond shredding the tendons in my forearms and shoulders, I’m achieving nothing.

No matter how I wrangle my body, I can’t seem to get my leg over.

Ted steps forward and gives my hand a little lick of encouragement, which makes me laugh, and all the strength drains out of me. Releasing my grip, I slide back down.

I try again… with the same result.

I think – and I’m very prepared to admit I might be wrong – that I am stuck.

What time would the local Loor children arrive at a place like this, I wonder? I suppose they might stop by before school? But there aren’t many locals. The school has twenty-eight pupils.

Oh god. I could be stuck here for hours.

I forgot to bring my phone so there’s no way to alert anyone and who would I even alert anyway? The only person who’s given me their number is Betty and I don’t think she’ll be able to haul me out; she’ll just get her grandson to help, and I couldn’t stand the shame.

It’s not even as if I can tie a note onto Ted. I could beckon him back down here again, I’m sure, and pop him back over the ledge, but I don’t have a pen and I couldn’t give him instructions to go home. He’s not Timmy from Famous Five. He’s not Lassie. He’s a handbag dog.

‘Hello, little brown dog,’ I hear a man’s voice say and I stiffen.

Is it my neighbour? I don’t think so, but it’s hard to be sure from down here in the concrete prison.

I suddenly feel vulnerable. I’m basically trapped in a hole, and though this is probably not a ‘put on the lotion or get the hose’ situation, I feel a bit uncomfortable.

Ted doesn’t. He runs away from the ledge to where I can’t see him, but as he goes, I note that his curly pom-pom tail is wagging. Traitor.

‘Are you lost, boy?’ the man’s voice says, echoing weirdly around the skatepark, and since Ted can’t answer, I do.

‘Um, no. He’s with me,’ I call out.

A man carrying a red skateboard appears at the edge of the bowl and looks momentarily startled as he spots me down below. It’s the sexy surfer. Joshua.

‘Hi there,’ he says, and then adds, ‘It’s more fun if you bring a board.’

I smile ruefully. ‘Ted slipped in here. I came to help him, but now I’m stuck.’

‘Oh, right, yeah, there’s an art. You need a good run-up.’

‘And serious upper-body strength to pull yourself over. Which I apparently do not possess.’

‘Need a hand?’ he says, resting his board on the concrete beside him and reaching down to help me.

‘Yes, please.’

Even with him using all his might to haul me up, mine is still a sprawling, undignified exit, and I swear at one point, he almost loses his balance and falls in with me.

When we’re both up, I hazard a glance at his face. Now that he’s not wearing head-to-toe neoprene, his sexiness – already high – has tripled.

He’s wearing a T-shirt and boardshorts slung low on his hips. He has incredibly wide shoulders, a narrow waist and hair that’s damp and falls in waves to his jawline. He is the epitome of cute surfer dude and, if I was a few years younger, I think I might have genuinely swooned in his presence. As it is, my twenty-six-year-old self is anxiety-sweating and blushing.

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