‘That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all day, Len-nard,’ said Lol. ‘I’m going to have forty winks in the garden.’ She pulled herself to her feet and put her hands on her hips. ‘What are you two going to do?’
Ana and Flint looked at each other and shrugged. ‘Fancy a ride?’ said Flint.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Ana.
‘On the bike. D’you fancy a ride on the bike? I’ve got keys. Bee gave me a spare set. We could go down to the seafront, get some chips or something. Go for a paddle?’
‘Oh,’ said Ana, flushing slightly, ‘yeah. Why not?’
‘OK, then. I’ll just go and get the bike ready. I’ll be a couple of minutes.’
‘Yeah,’ said Lol, addressing Flint’s back, ‘and you make sure you look after her all right. No showing off. All right? And none of your macho bullshit. Stick to the speed limit. No wheelies and no monkey business. And get us some dinner, will you? Get some pizza or summat. I’m fucking starving.’
A couple of minutes later, Ana opened the door to find Flint outside, sitting astride the enormous red and yellow Honda, revving it urgently and proffering a crash helmet.
She walked towards the huge machine in wonder. She’d always had a bit of a thing about motorbikes and this really was a fine specimen. ‘Wow,’ she said, running her hands over the brightly coloured paintwork, ‘this is incredible.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ he said, ‘And you know the funny thing that just occurred to me. This monster probably belongsto your fucking mother now. Do you think she’ll like it?’ He grinned his grin and Ana laughed, the image of her mother mounted on this huge beast of a machine running through her mind. ‘I can’t imagine Bee on this, either,’ she said. ‘She was so tiny.’
‘Yeah. She did look a bit out of her league on it. But she loved it. It was the first thing she bought after her dad died, after she inherited all his money. She really hated cars, you see.’ He stroked the bike, tenderly. ‘Hop on.’
Ana didn’t need asking twice. She threw one long, spindly leg across the bike. ‘Ooh,’ she said, settling herself into the pillion seat and pulling on the helmet, ‘it’s ever so comfy.’
‘Blimey,’ said Flint, staring at Ana’s knee, which was jutting out at a 90° angle and resting very nearly in the crook of his knee, ‘Bee’s leg only used to come up to there.’ He indicated his hip. ‘You ready?’
Ana jiggled around a bit and nodded.
‘Arms.’
‘What?’
‘Put your arms around me.’
‘Oh. Yes. Right.’ She gently brought them round and strapped them round Flint’s substantial torso. He was wearing just a T-shirt and she could feel everything: every last rib, every muscle, the beating of his heart, the warmth of his blood, the dampness of his sweat.
‘Tighter.’
She fastened them tighter, and now she was close enough to be able to smell him, her nose only a centimetre or two from his T-shirt. She breathed in deeply and held his smell in the back of her throat, like cigar smoke. Hesmelled of unponced-about man. A bit musty, a bit sweaty and run all the way through with a seam of the indescribably delicious smell of sun-warmed flesh.
The sun was starting to get low in the sky and it cast long shadows on the country lanes. As they neared Broadstairs it hung over the sea and threw a Lucozade glow over the bustling seaside resort. Ana’s heart filled with joy as she saw the sea, as the smell of brine hit her nostrils and the agitated squawk of seagulls assaulted her ears. She missed the sea.
They parked the bike by the seafront. Flint ran his fingers through his tufty hair and laughed. ‘I must look a right state.’
‘I’ve got a comb, if you like.’
‘Cheers.’ He took it from her and combed his hair. Ana watched him. It was a vain thing to do, she thought, but he made it look unconsidered and masculine. ‘Thanks.’ He passed it back to her and they stood and surveyed the view for a while. The sea breeze was taking the edge off the late August heat and Ana felt herself shivering a little. ‘What sort of things do you like doing at the seaside then, Ana?’
She shrugged, felt her head tie itself up in a knot as she tried to find an answer to Flint’s simple question. What do I like doing at the seaside? She thought desperately, what the hell do I like doing at the seaside? And why the hell is this man making me so nervous? She glanced at him. He was squinting into the distance. Not many men fell into the category of ‘handsome’. It was easy for a woman to be thought of as ‘beautiful’. Just by not being ‘ugly’ and making an effort and being young-looking andhaving nice hair and a good figure, a woman could be described as beautiful. But it was different for men. Men could be cute, or good-looking or sexy, but rarely hand-some. And Flint was handsome.
Ana didn’t really like handsome men. Or even good-looking men, come to that. She found something offensively ostentatious about an overtly attractive man. She liked nice but strangely unattractive men who had ‘some-thing about them’. The sort of unattractive men who had that verging-on-arrogant air of confidence instilled by late-in-life mothers. Interesting men. Men with opinions and ideas. Men who liked to talk. Intense men. Educated men. Intelligent men. The sort of men who didn’t have a problem going out with women taller than them. The sort of men that other women didn’t fancy. Usually of quite an undernourished appearance, with the type of skin that tended away from tanning. Often with thin wrists and oddly fleshy mouths. Men who didn’t gossip, who didn’t bitch.
Men like Hugh.
There’d been good-looking blokes at college, guys that all the girls had fancied, but she’d never looked at them in that way. Attractive men came from a different planet in Ana’s opinion.
But Flint was – Flint was – good God, she had no idea what Flint was. He was interesting, she supposed. There was something going on there, something underneath the bulk and the scars and the ‘cheers, mate’ persona. Something that unnerved Ana. Messed with her cognitive functions. Her ability to form reasonable responses toordinary questions. Like the one he was still waiting for her to answer right now. What sort of things did she like doing at the seaside? She shrugged. She gave up.
‘Whatever,’ she said, finally, her voice emerging as a gruff whisper that sounded like a Jack Russell coughing.
