“But you do.” She sneaks me a hopeful smile.
“Maybe,” I say, coyly. “I’m just seeing how it goes.”
I don’t want to admit that what she’s just said has made sense to me in a way that’s weird and perfect all at once.
—
It’s quite sweet how much effort Tash and Simon have made with lunch today. The table is groaning under Met Gala quantities of decorations—three enormous, peony-stuffed vases, an excess of gold cutlery, pink glassware, printed linen, and coordinating crockery. Tash, Simon, and Caleb are drinking the posh wine, brought up from the basement, and Simon’s put on some classical music.
I hope they don’t think we’re ungrateful for the effort, given Caleb’s just in his usual faded jeans and T-shirt, and I threw on a green-and-white cotton sundress without bothering to press it first.
“So, Lucy was telling us about your beach hut, Caleb,” Tash says, topping up his wine as we’re eating our roast beef.
“Was she?” Caleb says with a smile, and I kick him gently in the shin, because I get the feeling he’s probably thinking about all the sex we’ve been having in there lately.
“What’s a bee shut?” Dylan asks Tash.
“A beach hut. It’s like a little house on the beach,” I explain to Dylan, “where you keep your buckets and spades and shelter if it rains.”
“We don’t go to the beach often enough, do we?” Tash says to Simon. “We definitely don’t make the most of living so close to the coast.”
“I know what you mean,” Caleb says. “I missed it, when I lived in London. Don’t get me wrong, I loved a lot about the city, but ultimately—”
“You’re not a city person?” Tash guesses.
He shrugs. “I suppose I just knew I wouldn’t want to live there forever.”
“I actually feel the opposite,” Simon says.
Caleb sips his wine. “Yeah?”
I frown and turn to Simon. “What? You don’t want to live in London.”
He shrugs. “Sometimes I crave a bit more life than we have here. You know—culture on tap, a better choice of takeaway than a single subpar Chinese...”
Tash sighs impatiently, suggesting this isn’t the first time this has come up. “There’s plenty of culture in Shoreley, Simon. You just have to make a bit more effort to find it. And there’s nothing actually wrong with that Chinese. You just had dodgy king prawn balls there one time.”
“Mum, what’s culture?” Dylan asks, pushing the vegetables around his plate.
She looks down at him distractedly. “Eat your carrots, please, darling. Um, culture means things like plays and music.”
“Like what we’re listening to now,” Simon says to him, as on the speaker, the orchestra crescendos to a single, trembling note.
“Caleb and I went to seeRomeo and Julieta few weeks ago,” I point out. “What’s that if it’s not culture?”
“I’d hardly call the Shoreley Players the height of culture,” Simon deadpans, though I suspect that deep down, he’s joking.
I laugh, hoping Caleb isn’t offended. “Don’t be such a snob!”
“Sorry. I just crave something other than Shoreley from time to time, that’s all.”
“Isn’t that what holidays are for?” says Tash. She keeps her tone light, but I can still see her jaw clench. It can’t be easy, I suppose, listening to her husband making throwaway criticisms about the life they’ve built together.
Grinning, Dylan starts repeating the wordsnobbetween vigorous snorts of laughter.
This makes Caleb laugh too, which then starts me off as well. The joy that Dylan can derive from a single, supremely unfunny word is adorable.
“So, you don’t miss London at all?” Simon asks Caleb, as Dylan’s face starts turning pink and unruliness threatens to descend.
