Strawberries at Wimbledon

Anyway, it didn’t matter. Today was about fun and friendship, about being British and making the most of whatever summer they’d have. It was about tennis whites, yellow balls, lawn courts, fruity Pimms, sunshine and laughter. It was definitely not about men. Especially ones that belonged to her uni days, and being young and stupid.

‘I know we constantly complain it’s wet and windy,’ Lily fanned her letterbox-red face with the latest copy of Cosmo a few hours later, ‘and moan about not having proper summers, but is it me or is it too hot?’

‘There’s no such thing, it’s just you,’ Rayne grinned, basking on her back on the navy picnic blanket, arms cushioning her head. ‘You’re a complete wimp.’

They’d decided to relax on the manicured grass until it was time to go down to the Centre Court for the Men’s Singles qualifying rounds. She still couldn’t believe they’d managed to score tickets. Mind you, they had joined ‘The Queue,’ at eight the previous evening and spent an uncomfortable night in sleeping bags in a tiny pop-up tent. Just as the sun was rising, a steward had woken them and told them to pack up, stow their belongings in the left luggage facilities and go through the queuing card system. The broken night’s sleep had been totally worth it for the ticket and an interesting life experience, even if she did now feel a bit grubby and jaded.

‘Gee, thanks.’ Lily stuck her tongue out in response to Rayne’s wimp comment. ‘I just don’t get it, though,’ she went on, giving her friend a mock dirty look, ‘here I am, blonde and feeling like I’m about to bake alive and you’re lying there with thick black hair, with blue eyes so dark they’re almost navy, looking as cool as a block of ice.’

‘What can I say?’ Rayne replied cheerfully. ‘I have many talents. Plus it also helps that I’m not wearing as much as you.’ She nodded at Lily’s pale peach sundress with capped sleeves, which perfectly suited her Amanda Seyfried fair looks. People were always telling Lily she bore a strong resemblance to the American actress from the Mama Mia! movie.

‘Well, just because I’m not a complete exhibitionist, unlike some.’ Lily pointed at the floaty red vest top lying discarded between them.

‘I’d hardly call a bra and cut-off shorts exhibitionist.’ Rayne replied lightly, aware Lily was teasing. ‘I didn’t realise it was going to be this hot either, and come on, a bra doesn’t really show off any more than a bikini, does it?’ She gestured to the turquoise lace encasing her modest chest. ‘And it’s not as if there’s much to see.’

She was actually hotter than she was letting on. It had to be in the high twenties, and she’d heard someone’s radio predicting that it would hit thirty degrees before the day was out. She could well believe it. A line of damp was creeping along her nape. The backs of her knees were coated with crescent-moons of sweat. Dew was pooling behind the tiny gold bar threaded through her belly button, and there was pink through her eyelids when she closed them because the sun was so bright. But she wouldn’t tell Lily any of that, it was too much fun winding her up.

‘Whatever,’ Lily gulped some chilled water from a plastic bottle then flicked some on Rayne, making her jump. ‘You just don’t care, do you?’

‘Not nowadays,’ she laughed. ‘Thank you, hippy, new-age parents.’ They’d been loving and kind but unconventional, and although she’d rebelled against that in her early teens, since they’d been gone she’d drawn strength from their example and her unusual upbringing. She made her own choices in life, and as an adult had learned to worry less about what other people thought of her and place more importance on what she thought of herself. Part of that was being comfortable in her own skin.

Lily lay down on the blanket, twisting her long hair up in a knot away from her slender neck. ‘You must still miss them.’

Rayne nodded decisively, picturing her parents singing along to The Beatles in the cramped kitchen of the caravan they all called home, or gazing at the rolling sea off the ragged Cornish coastline, arms linked, her mum’s head resting on her dad’s shoulder. ‘Always. I regret the fact they’re not here every single day. But I think they’d be proud of me.’ She frowned. ‘At least, I hope so.’

Lily sat up, staring down at her. ‘Of course they would. Come on Rayne, it’s not like you to doubt yourself. You’ve done well. You’ve got a job you adore and a nice flat, plus a great car.’ Referring to her sporty black Mini Cooper S, with the Union Jack on the roof. ‘Not to mention your awesome friends,’ she grinned

‘Thanks, Lily. Yeah, I guess you’re pretty cool.’ She deadpanned, though at the same time, she couldn’t help but think that the one thing her parents had instilled in her was that you didn’t hurt the ones you loved.

And she was guilty of hurting the one person she’d loved the most apart from them.

She’d met Adam a few weeks past the one year anniversary of her parents’ untimely death, while still knee-deep in grief. He’d been unlucky enough to come between her and the exit route as she’d stumbled from her half-unpacked room in halls on her first day at Loughborough University, seeking fresh air followed by the student bar.

‘Hey, easy!’ He steadied her as she ran into him, almost taking them both out.

’S-sorry,’ she choked, glancing up.

His face softened at the smudges of black mascara under her eyes. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Dunno. Yes. No,’ she scrubbed her face with her sleeve. ‘Not your problem.’ She made for the exit but his arms tightened around her.

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ he asked, glancing down at her outfit and then out of the window. Burnished red, orange and yellow leaves whipped in circles around the base of trees bearing naked, spindly branches. October had brought in autumn with a vengeance to the Midlands. ‘You’ll freeze out there.’

‘Don’t care. The alcohol will help.’ Fighting her way out of his arms she stepped back, noticing his eyes flicker over her long, bare legs in the short skirt she wore. He wasn’t her type, way too preppy looking in his ironed jeans and white jumper looking like he was about to go play cricket, but familiar habits were hard to shake. She put a hand on one hip and pushed her bottom lip out.

He frowned, pale blue eyes unreadable, and ignored the opening. ‘Well, you can’t carry on like that every day. For one thing you’ll ruin your liver, and for the other, are you here to study or party?’

‘Both,’ she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest in the low cut top. Who was he, the fun police? Or maybe more like the traditional type of father who was supposed to keep you on the straight and narrow, locking you in your room and away from boys until you were at least thirty. Not that she’d had any experience of parenting like that; her dad hadn’t instilled many rules and her mum believed in giving children choices. She’d loved them to bits, but sometimes she’d craved a structure, the certainty of a routine, a house they could call their own. It didn’t matter now anyway, they were gone. She had to make a life for herself without them. Her eyes welled up. Shit, this was embarrassing. She wasn’t a crier, never had been.

The guy stared down at her, before taking hold of her elbow. ‘Come on, I’m making you a cup of tea.’ He started off down the grey-carpeted hallway, towing her along behind him.

She snorted. Tea? As if that would solve anything. Still, she was so surprised by his take-charge attitude that she let him lead her into the communal kitchen and push her down into a plastic purple chair. Watching him move easily around the space, flicking the kettle on and rooting around the modern white cupboards for mugs, she realised he was the most self-assured guy she’d ever met. The most gentlemanly too – some boys would welcome the opportunity to try and get her drunk.

‘How old are you?’ she demanded, swinging back on the chair, balancing on its back legs.

‘You’ll break your neck doing that. Eighteen.’ He threw her a teasing look as he placed teabags into two mismatched mugs. ‘And I’m Adam by the way. Just in case you were wondering.’

‘I wasn’t wondering,’ she said airily, swinging on the chair again deliberately. ‘I’m nineteen.’ She tacked on as an afterthought. Unable to face university straight after her parents’ tragic motorway crash, she’d deferred for a year. It’d felt like the right thing at the time but now she wondered if it had been wrong. She’d squandered the last twelve months of her life, immersed in drinking, loud music and late night hook-ups. None of which had made her feel any better. If anything they’d made her feel worse.

‘Nineteen?’ Adam smirked, as he pulled a carton of milk from the fridge. ‘That’s an unusual name. Do you come from some weird sci-fi island lab where they only assign you numbers?’

‘Ha ha, very funny,’ she drawled as he went back over to the unit and rested up against it, facing her. She narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re very-’

‘Confident?’ he inserted, giving her a proper, wide smile this time.

It made his blue eyes light up, and she was shocked at the tiny tingle in her lower belly, one she hadn’t felt in ages. Her encounters over the last year had felt detached and meaningless. Perhaps a way to distract herself? A counsellor would have a field day with her, she was sure. Not that she planned to speak to one any time soon.

Her physical reaction to him annoyed her. ‘Bossy. Sensible.’ She snapped, slamming the front chair legs back onto the floor. ‘A bit arrogant too.’

‘Wow, thanks. I’m glad I offered to make you a tea now.’ He turned away. ‘Sugar?’

‘Three.’

‘What? You’ll rot your teeth.’ But he spooned the sugar in, added milk to both teas then returned the carton to the fridge. Lining the sugar and teabag pots up exactly as they had been, he grabbed a blue cloth off the side and wiped down the counter precisely as if any speck of dirt or spillage would be an insult.

‘Whatever.’ She felt bad for her comments but it was better not to apologise. Maybe he’d think she was a massive bitch and steer clear in future. The last thing she wanted was to like someone; that might lead to caring and caring could lead to pain. She was trying to deal with an indecent amount of that already, not go looking for more.

‘Tell me about it.’ He turned and placed the two mugs with steam curling off them onto the beige laminate table.

‘Tell you about what?’ She pulled her sleeves down over her hands and curled her fingers inside.

He sank down into the chair opposite, staring at her, pale eyes unblinking. ‘About whoever or whatever it is you’ve lost.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I recognise the look,’ he said. ‘Just talk to me.’

‘No.’ She answered belligerently, but slid the tea towards her. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to go back to her room yet. It would mean too much time alone. Too much time to think.

‘You can. And maybe you need to.’

‘Is this where you give me a talk about how it’s good to share?’ she retorted. ‘Throw psycho-babble at me, tell me I’ll feel better for talking about it and time healing all wounds and-’

‘No,’ he interrupted, his voice mild. ‘This is where I offer you an out, a way of getting through this moment.’

He talked like he was old, like he’d seen too much of life already. She wondered what his story was. You don’t care, remember? Opening her mouth, she closed it again, wondering if she looked like a goldfish tipped out of its bowl, gasping for water, suffocating. But she barely knew him, and if she started bawling again she was afraid she wouldn’t stop.

‘I’m fine.’ She set her jaw, teeth clenched.