‘The coals are hotting up,’ said Mum, bustling inside to pick up the carefully laid-out barbecue utensils that appeared each year at the first hint of sunshine. It was now the end of May, just before Marcus’s next tournament, and although the days were generally warm, it was typical that today wasn’t. I shivered at the thought ofsitting out in the garden for hours on end with goose-bumped skin and windswept hair while we pretended that we were all having a brilliant time.
‘Lovely,’ I said, looking up from prepping the salad.
We each had our jobs for Cassie’s annual birthday barbecue and preparing the salad side dish had always been mine, along with doing absolutely all the clearing up, a task I’d long ago given up complaining about. I supposed Cassie couldn’t be expected to do the dishes on her birthday, could she, but the thing was, she never did them on any other day either, even though she lived at home, and nobody ever appeared to challenge her about it.
Mum came up behind me. I could feel her peering over my shoulder, clutching her utensils like weapons.
‘Don’t cut the cucumber too thick, will you?’
‘I’m not,’ I protested. Did I really need direction on how to slice a cucumber?
I was aware that Mum was still hovering and thought this probably meant there was something she wanted to say. Might as well get it over with.
‘You still seeing that tennis player, then?’ she asked.
I stopped chopping, laying the knife flat on the board. Lately, I hadn’t been able to focus properly when I thought too hard about Marcus, and I didn’t think trying to talk about him and cut things at the same time was a good idea. It was fine if I was working on my article and thinking about him in a professional capacity, about his game, about the public perception of him. But if I thought back to him and me in that lift on the way down from the rooftop restaurant in Monte Carlo, I felt thrown for a few seconds, like I couldn’t breathe. This was not good, even if it felt like it was, because I had to spend a lot more time with Marcus over the coming months and I absolutely could not start feeling things for him. Him of all people, who went through women like water and was clearly incapable of feeling anything foranyone other than himself. I was still badly missing Charlie and smarting from his rejection; the last thing I needed was to start lusting after a man who was never, ever going to like me back. He’d said it himself (or at least I thought he had): he was not prepared to allocate headspace to anything other than his career progression this year, and even if he had been, I didn’t think I’d be anything close to his type. He liked Slavic blondes with athletic bodies and healthy bank balances – I had dark hair, was a solid size 12 and was almost permanently overdrawn. Therefore I could not – and would not let myself – imagine that there had been a spark that night. We’d been forced into close proximity out of circumstance, and it was only in my head – when I let it be – that there was anything more to it than that.
‘He’s away at the moment,’ I said, doing what I always did when talking about Marcus to my friends and family – focusing on the half-truths. Avoiding answering direct questions about the nature of our relationship at all costs.
‘At a tournament, or something?’ asked Mum.
‘Hmmm,’ I said non-committally, reluctantly turning to face her. I really wished she’d put the utensils down, I was finding them quite intimidating. ‘He’s been in Rome for a bit and now he’s in Paris preparing for Roland-Garros. Hadn’t one of us better be in the garden? You’re not supposed to leave a barbecue unattended. I’ll go,’ I said, attempting to walk away.
‘Dad’s out there,’ said Mum sharply, touching my arm lightly with a black plastic spatula. ‘Ava, have you got a second?’
What was this about? Mum wasn’t one to have deep and meaningful conversations unless she was forced to, and I could really do without it myself.
‘Sure,’ I said, keeping it light. It couldn’t be that bad, I told myself, ignoring the nagging memories of my adolescence when it felt like either Cassie, my mum or my dad were telling me off forsomething. Most of the time, I’d never quite understood what I’d done wrong.
‘Is it serious, then? With this Marcus?’ asked Mum.
Oh God, why was she still talking about him? She’d barely shown any interest in my relationship with Charlie, so why was she being so different this time?
‘It’s early days,’ I replied vaguely.
‘But you like him?’
I swallowed. ‘Yes?’
She nodded. ‘Thought so.’
‘What makes you say that?’ I asked, frowning.
AsifMum was tuned into the inner workings of my mind.
‘It’s the way your face goes all funny when you talk about him. And you’ve never been one to have your picture taken, but now you’re splashed all over these celebrity magazines and you don’t seem bothered. It’s like he’s changed you overnight.’
‘Okay ...’ I said, unsure how to answer, when what I really wanted to say was my face looked ‘all funny’ because I wasLyingto them all!
‘What’s your point?’ I asked, knowing she wouldn’t like me putting her on the spot because she’d never been very good at expressing what she wasactuallyupset about.
‘My point, Ava, is that your sister’s been very quiet since all of this came out. She’s been going for long walks on her own.’
‘She’s allowed to go for walks, Mum. What makes you think it’s got anything to do with me?’
Mum sighed heavily. ‘I think she’s been struggling with all this ... attention you’ve been getting. She was enjoying having you to herself when you split up with Charlie, but then about five minutes later you’re off with the next one.’
I shouldn’t really blame my mum, we were all guilty of it, trying to work out what Cassie was thinking or what she needed or what hadupset her at any given moment. She never really told us but instead acted out in other ways. But she could totally be going for long walks because it was late spring and the weather was nicer, couldn’t she?
