Page 85 of One Summer

‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll manage.’

‘It’s not as if you can order in a Domino’s pizza. And Edie’s shop will be shut by now.’

‘Maybe I’ll go to the Merry Maid,’ I say.

‘They stop serving food in ten minutes. You won’t be able to get there in time.’

‘What is that you’re eating?’ I ask, almost salivating, because it smells so good.

‘Hungarian barbecue.’

‘Mongolian barbecue, do you mean?’

‘No, Hungarian.’

‘I’ve never heard of that,’ I say.

‘Well,’ he answers. ‘It’s barbecued food made from recipes that are popular in Hungary.’

‘Nobody likes a know-it-all,’ I say, as he goes back inside to get me my own bowl of delicious food. He also brings out a cool box of beers.

‘How is it that you’re so good at cooking?’ I say, diving straight into the barbecue, and washing it down with a deep swig of Budweiser.

‘I wanted to eat good food, so I taught myself to cook. No big mystery. What else do you want to know? My favourite colour? It’s green.’

‘Like your hat,’ I say, remembering how his beanie had seemed a permanent feature of his head when I’d first arrived, and the fleas were biting.

‘You know, the thing that unnerves me most about the island is the lack of green,’ Caleb says, ‘I really feel the absence of trees.’

As somebody who grew up in a beach town, I’d hardly even noticed.

‘There are trees here,’ I say, motioning to our little Torbay palm, and the few stunted, windblown apple trees in the gardens of the big houses on the cliffs.

‘Hardly,’ he says. ‘Nothing worth looking at for more than a minute.’

This statement seems so odd that I’m lost for words. Does he often look at trees for more than a minute? Is that really something he does?

‘What’s your story, Caleb?’ I ask. ‘I don’t really know anything about you.’

‘Nothing to tell. Just normal. What about you?’

He really doesn’t want to talk about himself. Why is that? Men love talking about themselves. At least, Max certainly did. Apart from the magical anaerobic properties of Thames mud, himself was his favourite subject.

‘You worked in publishing,’ he goes on. ‘What made you want to get into books?’

‘I love them.’

Used to, I think, draining the last of my beer.

‘What’s your favourite childhood book?’

He opens a bottle of beer for himself, hands a second to me and waits for my answer.

‘I think I would have to go for Anne of Green Gables,’ I say.

‘Huh, me too,’ he says.

‘Shut up,’ I say, assuming he’s taking the mick.

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