Page 72 of One Summer

‘Huh,’ I say. ‘This is very philosophical for our first real conversation.’

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘It must be the weed cookies. Have you sent your ex any updates about Nemo since you took him on?’

I bite my lip. ‘Well, I sent him a photo of Nemo on the boat to Loor, but he didn’t receive it.’

‘No signal out on the water?’

‘I accidentally sent it to my friend Clint.’

He nods, and I wait for him to laugh, but he doesn’t.

‘That’s a shame,’ he says, looking slightly baffled.

I start laughing and can’t seem to make myself stop.

‘My friend CLINT,’ I manage to gasp, tears beginning to stream from my eyes.

Eventually, after I’ve almost laughed myself into a cardiac arrest, he gets it.

‘Oh, because your friend Clint was saved into your phone next to the offensive nickname you’ve given your ex. Right, right, yes. Very witty.’

‘Caleb, I don’t have a friend called Clint and I didn’t send a picture.’

He winces at me. ‘Oh right, I’m terrible at understanding jokes. Sorry.’

When we’ve both calmed down our heightened nervous systems and settled into a long silence, he turns to me.

‘I don’t know if I made it clear, but I really am sorry I couldn’t help you out with Ted,’ he says.

‘It’s okay. You were right. He’s my responsibility.’

‘I think fevers might bring out the worst in me.’

‘Is that why you’re being so nice to me now?’ I ask, narrowing my eyes. ‘Basal body temp returned to normal?’

‘I’m not, particularly. It’s just that I was being a dick before. Do you forgive me?’

‘I’ll think about it,’ I say, smiling.

Sixty

Merry

A week passes with no visitors. Betty drops off Ted, then texts me to say that Caleb has had to go to the mainland, for a work thing, and that she won’t be around much either, due to being ‘indisposed’.

The only person I see is Edie, who’s had a delivery, so that I’m able to stock up on supplies, filling my freezer with pizzas and microwave fries. In terms of fruit and vegetables, all she stocks is bananas and carrots, which I buy anyway with a view to making cupcakes.

Finally, at 12.30 p.m. on my eighth day of solitude, there’s a knock on the door.

For a moment, I wonder if it could be Joshua. Perhaps he’s found out where I live and come to check on me. Perhaps bought me a coffee and a doughnut.

I open the door to Betty, who’s clutching a handkerchief.

‘I caught the cold,’ she says. ‘But I’m back on my feet today.’

When she sees me still in my pyjamas with an albino corn snake around my neck, she looks concerned.

‘Have you been ill, too?’

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