Our drinks arrive. Mine’s a Sex on the Beach, as is Alex’s (“for obvious reasons,” says Rita, nudging me in the ribs), and we both drink them a little too fast, holding them up in a toast first while Julian gives a heartfelt — and totally fictional, given that he’s only just found out she ever existed — tribute to Gerald’s dead wife, Margot.
“He should’ve told us he was recently widowed,” says Rita, looking over at the man in question with renewed interest. “It might have made us a bit more sympathetic when he kept going on about the darts all the time, the silly old codger.”
She tuts in exasperation, but I can tell her heart’s not in it anymore. The Rita who dismissed Gerald as a mildly irritating “limpet” who couldn’t take a hint has had a wake-up call.
I think we all have.
“Is this triggering for you, Rita?” I ask, the thought suddenly occurring to me. “Does it remind you of when your Fred died?”
Rita almost spills her drink by way of response.
“Died?” she chuckles through a mouthful of margarita (“Because it’s got my name in it…”). “Fred’s not dead, love. The git lives in Watford with his fancy woman and a whippet called Steve. Has done for… ooh, must be 10 years now.”
“But… but… what about all that stuff you said about true love?” I splutter. “You know… the fish and chips? The engagement ring?Skegness? You said you’d give anything to go back?”
“To Skegness?” says Rita, wonderingly. “I prefer Tenerife, love. I just said that to get you to stop thinking everything has to be perfect all the time. Me and my Fred, we weren’t perfect — not by a long shot. But we were happy. Well, up until he ran off with the fancy woman, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
I take a large gulp of my drink.
“Life’s like that, though, isn’t it?” she goes on. “It’s not always perfect, but if you wait for it to be perfect, you just end up missing it. That’s why we booked that meal for you and young Alex tonight. So you didn’t end up missing each other, even though fate were obviously trying to put the two of you together.”
“Wait:youbooked dinner for me and Alex?” Now it’s my turn to almost spill my drink. “I thought it was a freebie from the hotel? That’s what he told me?”
“Oh,that’s what he thinks, too,” says Rita, tapping the side of her nose as if she’s confiding a state secret. “It was Chloe’s idea to book it and get the hotel to say it was from them. Said it was the least she could do, she did. But we all chipped in. Then Gerald had to go and ruin it all by throwing Margot at you.”
“Wait: this wasChloe’sidea?” I say, my brain catching on something Rita just said.
It was the least she could do.
Where did I hear that recently? I frown as I sip my drink, trying to remember.
Then it comes back to me.
The diary.
Of course: I wrote that line in my diary, about Chloe, and how great she’d been after the whole mess of the prom. And, now I think of it, didn’t she say it again, just a few days ago? Something to do with how she was going to help me win Jamie over, because it was the least she could do?
Why would she say that, though?
“Oh my God, Summer, I can’t believe you snogged Alex!”
With a softwhumph, Chloe collapses onto the sofa beside me, clutching a Bloody Mary.
“Okay, I’m going to need all the deets,” she says, making herself comfortable. “Come on, spill.”
“Chloe, did you get with Jamie at the school prom?” I say in a conversational tone that totally belies the utter turmoil in my mind right now. “In the equipment cupboard?”
I didn’t even know I was going to say it until I spoke. But, as soon as I did, I realize I’ve always known — or at least suspected — deep down that this was the real truth about that night, and that I’ve justbeen refusing to acknowledge it, because if it remained unspoken then it couldn’t possibly be true.
But now it’s out there. And the way Chloe’s face instantly turns pale under her suntan is all the confirmation I need.
“Summer, I’m sorry,” she says, in a whisper I can barely hear above the sound of the music. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did it. I—”
“I do,” I reply, calmly stirring my drink with my straw. “You did it because you couldn’t stand the thought of me having something you didn’t. Because everything’s a competition with you, Chloe, isn’t it? And I always have to lose.”
I didn’t really know I was going to saythateither. I’ve never spoken to Chloe like this in my life. The strange thing about it, though, is that I’m not saying it angrily, or in the heat of the moment. I honestly don’t care what Chloe and Jamie did over a decade ago. I don’t care about Jamieat all, any more.
