If ever there was a moment for me to die on the spot, this would be it: the one where I’ve traveled halfway around the world (okay, aquarterof the way around the world…) to find my first love, and hedoesn’t even recognize me.
This is a new low, evenfor me.
“Um, it’s Summer,” I say, mortified. “Summer Brookes? From next door? Um, Iusedto be from next door, I mean. In Margate?”
There’s a single beat of silence, and then Jamie’s face clears.
“Mark’s sister?” he says “Summer-the-Singer? Wait: youdidwant to be a singer, right? That was you?”
He grins, and I’m instantly back in high school, the years melting away until I’m once more the girl in the front row of the school choir, blushing because the boy she likes actually spoke to her.
“That’s me,” I confirm, sounding like I’ve been sucking on helium. “Summer the, er, singer. Not that I’m asinger, obviously. I mean, I dolikesinging. But I’m not—”
I’ve no idea how long I might go on like this, just babbling like I’m out in public for the very first time, but, luckily for me, Jamie saves me from myself by smiling at me again.
“Wow, this is so random,” he says, “I can’t believe I bumped into Mark Brookes’ little sister all the way out here! What are the odds?”
The odds are actually considerably higher than he thinks given that I came here for this very reason, but telling him that will make me sound like aliteral stalker, so I just smile back at him as if ‘bumping into’ him here is as much a surprise to me as it is to him.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” Jamie is saying now. “Still got that quirky dress sense of yours, I see.”
I look down at myself, horrified to realize I’m still wearing Alex’s jumper over my clothes.
No wonder I’m sweating.
“Oh, this isn’t mine,” I tell him, pulling it quickly over my head. “I just borrowed it from … someone. We went up the mountain earlier. On a tour bus, you know? There was snow. But also sunshine.”
“Right,” says Jamie, looking amused. “Right. So, you’re here on holiday, I take it? Where are you staying?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, crossing my fingers tightly behind my back. “I’m staying at the Hotel Martinez in Del Duque. Do you know it?”
Jamie lets out a low whistle.
“Nice,” he says, looking at me appraisingly. “You must be doing well for yourself to afford that place. Hey, who’re you with? It’s not Chloe, is it? You were friends with Chloe Gardner back then, weren’t you?”
This time my stomach justflops. It’sflippingdays are over, it would seem.
“Um, no, I’m not with Chloe,” I say quickly. “I’m just with… with some friends.”
Okay, it’s maybe pushing it a bit to refer to Rita and co. as “friends” — and I’m not technicallywith themas such — but it’s better than having to tell him I’m here on my own… or why. And at least this way I sound like I havefriends, too. Cool girl Summer: that’s me.
“Nice one,” says Jamie, grinning. “The clubs are pretty quiet at this time of year, but there’s still plenty going on. I can show you some of the best places, if you like. There’s some great bars near here.”
I wait for him to mention The Rowdy Squirrel, but he just looks at his watch, then back up at me.
“Hey, I don’t suppose you fancy a drink now, do you?” he asks hopefully. “I’ve got some stuff I have to take care of later, but it would be great to catch up?”
“Sure,” I reply, trying to make it sound like no big deal, even though my stomach has instantly started with the flipping again, like some kind of Comeback Kid, and is currently doing a full gymnastic routine somewhere near my ribs. “I’ve got some time before… before I have to meet my mates.”
“Well, great. Come on, there’s a place just along here I think you’ll love.”
I turn obediently, and follow him down the street, hardly able to believe my luck. Me, Summer Brookes, going for a drink withhim, Jamie Reynolds. It’s like every one of my teenage dreams come true, except… except, rather than taking me to the Squirrel, which is just one block down from here, if memory serves, Jamie ducks down a narrow side street, and we find ourselves in a little tapas bar with just a few tables, and a view of the dustbins on the street opposite it.
“This is lovely,” I tell him, as he leads me to a table in the corner, which is still heaped with dirty dishes from the last customer. “It’s very… authentic.”
I take a seat, recoiling slightly as my legs brush against something sticky on the chair.
“Yeah,” says Jamie, picking up the plates and moving them to the table next to us. “Yeah, it’s great. I come here a lot. I know it’s not much to look at, but the food’s amazing.”
