Lost Summer

‘Tell me about Louise.’

He’d looked surprised. ‘My ex-wife? What about her?’

She wasn’t sure why she’d brought the subject up, except that she was curious, she supposed. He’d mentioned her once and then abruptly steered the conversation in another direction. ‘What went wrong between you two?’

‘Long story.’ He’d stood up and offered her his hand. ‘We should look for a taxi.’

She’d sighed. ‘Dark horse. That’s what you are.’

There were no taxis around so when they did finally flag one down they decided to share, but since they lived in opposite directions she’d suggested he should stay at her place. When they got in she put on some music and said she was going to get ready for bed. When she came out of her bedroom wearing her Dodgers T-shirt he was flaked out on the couch, with his shoes off. She’d given him a pillow and a blanket.

‘Here you go, Freddie.’

He’d looked up at her, and somehow he’d seemed vulnerable. Or maybe she was just drunk, or maybe a lot of things.

‘I had a good time tonight,’ she’d said at last.

‘Me too.’

Another silence. Then she’d said, ‘That couch is lumpy.’

‘It is a little.’

‘So … perhaps you should sleep in there.’ She’d gestured vaguely towards her bedroom, and he’d pondered that gesture for a while before he agreed that yes, he could do that.

They got into bed from opposite sides, and after a few seconds they slid together. He was wearing his shorts and she still had the T-shirt on. Tentatively they’d wrapped their arms around each other. She’d rested her head on his chest. In the darkness the alcohol had seized her brain again and everything was spinning a little.

‘Wow, I feel a little woozy,’ she’d said.

‘Me too.’

‘Can we just lie here like this for a little while?’

‘Of course.’

It felt kind of safe and pleasant. Like being with a friend, and yet not quite. ‘I’m sleepy now,’ she’d murmured.

‘Yes.’

She’d nuzzled closer, her leg over his, and felt his breathing become deep and regular. ‘This is nice,’ she’d murmured.

‘It is.’

‘Night, Freddie.’ Then she’d drifted off into a happy oblivion.

In the morning when she woke she had a massive headache. She’d sat up groaning, and only then realized that Adam was gone. She saw the depression in the pillow beside her, and fuzzily recalled the previous night. A minute later he’d appeared, already dressed, carrying orange juice. He’d sat on the end of the bed and from there it was all downhill. They’d talked chiefly of feeling terrible, and commenting with wonder on how much they’d had to drink, recounting moments from the previous night, laughing, shaking their heads. It all had a hollow ring and went on for too long, as if each of them was desperate to avoid mentioning the most glaringly obvious of all the evening’s developments.

In the end, their conversation withered into silence and he’d said he should be getting along, inventing, she was sure, some urgent task. She wasn’t sure how to feel. She hadn’t wanted him to go, but she was uncertain about whether to say anything. Perhaps he regretted what had happened. Or nearly happened anyway. Perhaps he was trying to let her know he didn’t feel that way about her. In the end it was a relief of sorts when he did leave.

Two days later she’d arrived at his door, and when he’d answered she’d launched into her prepared speech.

‘I don’t want this thing to come between us, Adam. I like you and I feel we’ve become friends. I value that.’ She’d thought he looked relieved.

‘I don’t want it to come between us either.’

‘So, we’re still friends?’

‘Friends.’

‘Great.’

And in fact their friendship had survived intact, though it had taken several months before they were completely easy again in each other’s company, before that shadow dissipated. It wasn’t really until Nigel had arrived on the scene. Perhaps that was partly why she’d started seeing him, because she’d sensed it was a way to finally clear the air between herself and Adam.

And yet, sometimes, she wondered at the way Adam looked at her. Christ, she had to stop thinking about him like this. They were friends weren’t they? Wasn’t it supposed to be men who couldn’t handle a relationship with a woman on that level?

Abruptly she realized that Nigel had stopped talking and was looking at her strangely. Guiltily she came to. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘Karen.’ He sounded exasperated. ‘I said perhaps it might be a good idea not to have more than a glass or two of wine tonight. What do you think?’

‘You mean instead of my normal bottle and a half, is that it?’ she said testily.

‘Actually,’ he said huffily, ‘I was talking about me. I’m still taking those antihistamine tablets.’

Contrite, she put her hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry, Nigel.’ She looked away, suppressing a giggle.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_ae1f72e0-3357-5f22-9eda-29a58e27f58d)

Adam’s flat was on the second floor of a converted Victorian semi in Wimbledon. It was cluttered but comfortable. He rarely ate there, avoiding all forms of cooking unless they were ready-made meals from Marks & Spencer that he could put in the microwave. After the break-up of his marriage he’d given up the office he used to rent in favour of working at home. At first he’d converted the spare bedroom for use as an office but after a while he’d moved into the living room where he felt more comfortable. When he and Louise had split up, she had taken the TV, and he had never replaced it. His work and the remains of his life outside of work had merged.

He sat at his desk, which was actually a long table that occupied the wall space on one side of the room. He was slowly drinking a glass of Scotch, and thinking about Helen Pierce and the way fate intervenes in life sometimes. Earlier he’d posed the question to himself that had Helen’s brother been killed in say, Devon, would he be willing to help her? The absolute truth was that he wasn’t sure. He liked her, he wanted to help her, but he wasn’t certain on the face of what he knew whether he could. Beyond her own conviction that her brother’s death hadn’t happened the way the police said it had, there was little to support her. But then there never was. He received letters from people all the time whose children or sisters or brothers had vanished or died. They all believed something had happened that didn’t tally with the official version, and they all asked for his help. Of course he couldn’t help them all, though he did reply to each and every one of them. But of the ones he did look into the truth was never obvious. Normally it was only the conviction of the family that convinced him to investigate.

He knew he wasn’t going to ghostwrite another book, and he wasn’t about to go back to doing lifestyle pieces either. The thing that really bothered him was the idea of going back to Castleton. Who knew what can of worms that would open up? But a quickening in his chest belied his reluctance.

His thoughts drifted back to the summer a year after Meg had vanished. Throughout the intervening year he and Angela had continued seeing each other though their relationship had stalled on the knowledge that he would eventually go away to university and from there would probably move to London to begin his career. For the same reason they hadn’t had sex. The commitment to one another that step seemed to entail foundered on the looming presence of the future.

In August the country was assaulted by a sudden heat wave after a long damp July. A crowd of them had gone to a pool in the river where the water was deep and clear. He recalled lying in the grass as he dried off, warmed by the sun, watching Angela climb the bank towards the bridge which some of them had been jumping from. Nick was smoking, wearing wet cut-off jeans, his body skinny and pale. He wore a familiar faintly contemptuous expression. He no longer suffered any outward scars or bruises, but whatever damage had been inflicted inside by a father who’d been dead nearly a year would probably always remain.

In the river David and Graham were encouraging people to jump from the bridge. A girl leapt out and shrieked as she hit the water and when David helped her up the steep bank she laughed flirtatiously. He grinned. He was tanned with a lean muscular build, his thick hair lightened by the sun.

Angela stood on the edge of the bridge and looked down. She stretched out her arms to the sides and balanced on her toes.

‘I’m going to dive,’ she announced.

Her hair was wet, and droplets of water glistened on her skin. She wore a one-piece black swimsuit cut high on her hips that emphasized the flat plane of her belly and the swell of her breasts. She grinned and raised her arms above her head and slowly tipped her weight forward. As if in slow motion she fell forward, entering the water with a muffled splash to emerge moments later in a cascade of spray. She swam smoothly to the bank where David took her hand and helped her up. In that moment they looked at one another and with a jolt of awareness Adam saw something unspoken pass between them. She smiled uncertainly and as she walked away David followed her with his eyes. Sensing somebody watching him Adam turned to find Nick looking on with an amused, sardonic light in his eyes.

After that the rest of the summer seemed fraught with unspoken currents and subtle tensions. Angela was prone to long silences, and sometimes he would watch unnoticed when she and David were together. The smallest gesture or an intercepted glance seemed loaded with meaning.

It all came back with a sudden vivid clarity that surprised Adam. It was strange, he thought, how long dormant memories could return, bringing with them the smell of hay drying in the fields, the sound of laughter in the air, and the sense in her silence and her startled smile when he spoke, that Angela had been drifting from him.