PART ONE
A Taste of Corsica
A perfectly ripe apricot and a sliver of creamy goat’s cheese. There you have it – sunshine on a plate
CHAPTER ONE
LAUREN
There’s something odd on the beach. At first, from a distance, I’m not sure what it is. It’s just some kind of shape with what looks like a towel draped over it. But as I make my way towards it I recognise the towel as belonging to Mum and Dad; or rather Mum and Dad’s dog, Minnie: pongy of breath, farty of bum and beloved by all of us.
Closer now, I can see it’s definitely the towel that’s reserved for rubbing her down after a swim. But what’s it doing here, draped over something? The shape flinches and the towel falls away from its face. I see now that not only is it an actual human – but my son.
On the island of Corsica – ‘the scented isle’, as it’s known – Charlie has plonked himself next to a litter bin swarming with wasps. I’m interpreting this as a sign that this isn’t his best-ever holiday. It’s as if he’saskingto be stung, parking himself here. Then he can be even more miserable and have a tangible reason for it.
I approach with caution as if he’s a neighbourhood cat, prone to lashing out when provoked. ‘Here you are,’ Iventure, trying to sound sunny and bright. ‘I wondered where you’d got to.’
‘Hmm,’ comes Charlie’s grunted response. He grabs the book from his side, flips it open randomly and focuses hard on the page.
‘What’re you doing here?’
‘Reading?’ Recently his tone has developed an upward lilt.
‘Isn’t there somewhere nicer you could sit?’
‘I’m all right here.’
Sure, it’s recommended in all the guidebooks: Unmissable Bins of Corsica.‘It’s a bit … waspy, isn’t it? You might be—’
‘I’m fine, Mum,’ he snaps. ‘I’m all right.’
Every summer, since our entire world turned on its head, Charlie and I have spent a few weeks here with my parents. Mum is Corsican, and although she and Dad met in London and raised me there, it had been her long-held dream to return to the island one day. For ages, Dad had dug in his heels. Corsica was too hot, he complained. Too waspy, probably. He’d had numerous, sometimes shaky businesses over the years, and the city was embedded in his bones. But when it transpired that his accountant had been ripping him off for years (financially, my parents were scuppered), he’d finally come around to the idea.
Mum had inherited the rickety cottage that had been in her family pretty much forever. So to Corsica they came, having settled their debts, ready to enjoy a quiet life tending their garden and small apricot and clementine orchard up in the hills.
Charlie and I have loved having this beautiful island to come to. It’s been our little piece of heaven – until now. Clearly, he wants to be left alone. But I plough on becausethat’s what any pissed-off seventeen-year-old wants, isn’t it? Their mum banging on at them as if they’re a little kid? ‘You know that’s Minnie’s towel,’ I remark.
‘It’s fine.’
I pause, trying to dredge up a thrilling alternative to sitting here. ‘Want to come and get a cold drink with me?’
‘Not right now.’
‘You sure? Not a Coke or something?’
‘No thanks.’
I look down, aware that I’m undoubtably annoying him just by being here, but at a loss as to what to do. ‘It’s really hot,’ I say unnecessarily. ‘D’you have a drink in your rucksack?’
No response.
‘It really is very hot. You need to hydrate—’
‘I’M FINE, OKAY?!’
I reel back, shocked by his outburst because he’s never been a shouty boy, not really. He was always the one sitting quietly in class, working dutifully, the last one to put up his hand or draw attention to himself.Works very hard, but it’d be nice if he’d speak up now and again, his teachers would tell me.
‘Come on, Charlie,’ I say now. ‘Don’t be like this. We’re inCorsica …’
