‘Was that a subject they could take? French, geography, dicking around?’
‘Advanced dicking around for the seriously committed.’
Lauren chuckles. ‘Sounds like it wasn’t quite your first choice. The school, I mean …’
‘I was kind of steamrollered into it,’ I admit, hoping that doesn’t make me sound like a pushover. Because I want to make a good impression. It’s a startling realisation because I can’t remember the last time I felt this way; that making any kind of impression – at least, on a woman I’d just met – featured on my radar at all. In normal life I just get on with my job and see Esther, and my friends, all the usual stuff. I’m also fairly private normally. I mean,I’m not a big sharer of information, especially when I’ve just met someone new.
But now I find myself telling Lauren all kinds of stuff; about how Rhona and I broke up fairly amicably nearly a decade ago, and how she’s now with Luc, the enormous Belgian with whom she runs a cocktail bar. I explain that I like them both and we mainly rub along okay, although their insistence that I should ‘live a little!’ can jar slightly.
‘We split up when Charlie was seven,’ Lauren explains, when I ask about her son’s dad. ‘It hadn’t been good for years but, y’know …’ She shrugs. ‘There was a final straw.’ Another pause. ‘There always is, isn’t there?’
I nod. ‘I guess there is.’
‘But unlike you, we don’t really have anything to do with each other. Frank lives in New York. He’s a fashion photographer. Charlie talks to him now and again, and I think it’s important that they keep that contact going. But I do wonder if he just does it out of obligation.’
‘Charlie or his dad?’
‘Um … both?’ she says. ‘Frank’s kind of … his own person. It was pretty difficult with him but lots of good things came out of it,’ she adds quickly, perhaps to signify that she doesn’t want to delve into the details now. There’s a lull then, which feels entirely natural. How often does this happen, that you meet someone and it seems fine tonotfill all the spaces with chatter? In fact, it’s better than fine. It’s as if we’re letting all this new information settle between us.
It’s Lauren who suggests we go on to a bar before calling it a night. Yes! What a brilliant idea! ‘You sure?’ she asks. ‘I don’t want to keep you out too late.’
‘No, no, it’s fine. I’m not remotely tired. Are you?’I don’t think I’ve ever felt less tired in my life.
‘No, I’m not. Not at all.’ There’s a little flicker of something as our eyes meet, and her hand brushes againstmine as we stroll along the dusty street. One side of the bar is open to the beach, lit with glowing lanterns, and we settle on a soft leather sofa on the decking. Lauren asks more about Esther, so I explain that she’s pretty well known, at least in Gen Z circles; that following her appearance on a reality show set at her school, she became something of … ‘An It-girl?’ she suggests. ‘Do people still say that, or does it age me horribly?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ I say. ‘It’s a weird world she’s in – that’s all I know.’
‘You must be proud of her, though?’
‘Yes, of course I am,’ I say truthfully. ‘She’s very spirited and bold in how she lives her life, and she’s managed to make a really decent career out of something that so many others would love to do, but haven’t managed.’ I stop and sip my wine. ‘But sometimes,’ I add, ‘I wish the TV thing hadn’t happened.’
‘Why?’ Lauren asks, frowning.
‘Because before that she’d been good at lots of things. Art, English and especially history. That was her favourite. She’d had a real rapport with Amanda, her history teacher. It was all first names at Willow Vale …’ Lauren smiles at that. ‘And instead of focusing on dates and battles and all that dry, boring stuff, she took the kids to ancient forts and archaeological digs. We’d done a bit of that too, when Esther was younger. She loved digging around and discovering things, like it was a treasure hunt. It really grabbed her imagination. But then the TV thing happened, and after that …’ I catch myself and stop.Have you forgotten how to talk to women in this kind of situation? You don’t start going on about your daughter’s history teacher and boring this lovely woman to death.
I take a big swig of wine and check Lauren’s expression. She is, gratifyingly, still alive. ‘It’s probably broughta lot of good stuff to her life too,’ she offers. ‘Opportunities, I mean.’
‘You’re right. It has. And she was desperate to be a part of it, when the TV production team came to the school to meet the teachers and pupils and decide who they wanted to be in it. I was just worried about her being manipulated or shown in a bad light. It felt like something that sounded fine – just a bit of fun – but could easily spin out of control.’
‘I can imagine,’ Lauren says, then adds, ‘Actually, I can’t imagine what all this has been like for you because Charlie’s the last person who’d ever want to take part in something like that. He’d absolutely hate it, standing out, being noticed. These days he won’t tolerate me taking a photo of him. Not even here on holiday …’ She scrolls through her pictures to show me a glimpse of his ear, and a palm thrust forward, face obscured.
‘Like a disgraced politician,’ I remark.
‘Exactly.’
We’re laughing about the eccentricities of teenagers as we leave the bar when somehow she links her arm with mine. I don’t mean ‘somehow’ in that I don’t know how she did it; just that it felt so natural I didn’t even register it happening. And now I have, and that small gesture has triggered an immense wave of happiness in me, and I know I’m smiling, probably looking like a ridiculous idiot.
Also, I’m a bit drunk. We both are, I think. We must be after a whole evening of chatting over drinks; a night that, no matter what happens next, I know I’ll remember forever. We call a taxi and sit in the back together. Now everything seems shimmeringly clear on this beautiful starlit night. I’m conscious of the closeness of her, of the warmth of her bare arm against mine.
The breeze through the driver’s open window catches her long light brown hair and blows it across her finely boned face. I try not to watch as she pushes it behind her ears. She is incredibly beautiful with those expressive greenish eyes, a long, elegant nose and a big, warm smile that does something funny to my heart. Okay, so she’s not with Charlie’s father but she probably has a boyfriend at home. Of course she does; she has it all going for her. But then … he’s not here, is he, this mythical incredibly handsome and highly successful boyfriend I’ve just conjured up in my head? As we near my hotel – she’ll take the taxi on to her parents’ place – I try to figure out how to ask, ‘So, are you single?’ without it sounding weird.
Are you on your own?Go on – make it sound like you think she has a sad, empty life.
Do you have a boyfriend?How old am I? Fifteen? For God’s sake, why am I even thinking like this? She’s just being friendly, showing me around the island she knows so well. The trouble is, I’m just not used to this kind of scenario. I’m used to asking Mrs Etherington how long her ferret’s been off his food, and whether the Andersons’ elderly Labrador can still manage to jump onto the sofa. Lauren’s showing me around, being a tour guide, because of what happened with Minnie. She’s just being kind, I tell myself as the driver pulls up at my hotel.
Then I’m not thinking about Minnie or even Mrs Etherington’s ferret because this beautiful woman is asking me, ‘So, what are your plans for tomorrow?’
‘No plans,’ I tell her. ‘I have absolutely no plans at all.’
