by Paige Toon
‘He is right there,’ I say with a laugh, indicating Van, who totally heard what she said.
He smirks at her, and suddenly I’m glad that she has a boyfriend back at university.
‘What do you do these days, Van?’ Ellie asks. ‘Do you still work on the prawn boats?’
I told her all about his job when he was last here – she was fascinated, too.
‘No, tuna fishing before I left,’ he replies.
‘What does that involve?’
‘Sitting on a boat for two months, watching movies in his cabin,’ Dave interjects with a grin. ‘The boat goes this slowly.’ Dave holds his hand up, moving it from left to right at a snail’s pace. ‘They drag a huge cage – net – full of thousands of live tuna back to Port Lincoln from way out in the open ocean. Van has to scuba-dive down into the cage every day and get rid of any dead fish, but the rest of the time he sits around, reading and playing video games.’
‘And I cook,’ Van chips in. ‘I do a lot of cooking.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Dave replies, waving him away.
‘Do you ever see any sharks?’ Ellie asks curiously.
‘Lots. Mostly bronze whalers,’ Van says.
‘They chomp through the net with their razor-sharp teeth,’ Dave interjects. ‘Van has to help them get back out again.’
‘How do you do that?’ Brooke’s eyes have gone round.
‘You grab them by their gills and—’
‘You touch them?’ Brooke asks with a gulp.
Van shrugs. ‘They’re kind of mellow. Once they’re in the cage, they just want to get out again. But they’re not always friendly. If they turn around and come towards you, you put your foot up and they tend to go round.’
‘Have you ever seen a Great White?’ Nick asks with interest.
‘Yeah,’ Van replies. ‘Had a bit of a close shave with one, recently, actually.’
Everyone around the table leans in, listening with rapt attention.
‘Out in the open ocean, the water is crystal clear,’ he explains. ‘But the closer you get to Port Lincoln, the worse the visibility becomes. You might only be able to see one or two metres in front of you. A few weeks before I came out here, I was at the bottom of the cage when this White Pointer came up from the murky water beneath me. His mouth was wide open and he was ready to bite. It scared the shit out of me – it could’ve easily torn through the net. I swam out of the way pretty fast.’
‘Oh my God!’ Brooke and Ellie squeal in unison.
I feel sick to my stomach. ‘Van!’
‘No one’s ever been hurt,’ he says with a small smile, reaching for his beer and taking a gulp. But his eyes find their way back to me and stay there, locking us in a stare for several torturous seconds.
‘Tell them about the killer whales,’ Dave encourages.
‘Ah, that was one of the best experiences of my life.’ Van shakes his head, awed, before catching my eye again. ‘There was a pod of them, swimming under the cage, eighty feet deep.’ I feel like he’s talking only to me. ‘I was with my mate, pushing a dead fish out through a hole in the net, and this huge killer whale came up and very, very gently took the fish from out of my hands. It gave this little kick of its tail and went straight up to the surface, then this baby whale followed it up and started playing with the fish. But the way that big whale took it from my hands… Man… It was so gentle. It didn’t want to hurt us at all. It was like a big puppy dog.’
I am totally and utterly captivated.
Beside me, Joel coughs. It takes me a moment to realise that he just did the ‘bullshit’ cough. I stare at him, my mouth agape. He grins, but I can’t believe his rudeness. I’m disgusted.
‘I’m joking,’ he mutters with a roll of his eyes.
I turn back to Van, feeling shaken.
Closing time is upon us before we know it, but with Nick promising a lock-in, we all move inside. I grab as many empties as I can carry, taking them through to the kitchen.
‘Where do you want these?’ I ask Nick from the doorway.
He’s stacking glasses into the dishwasher.
‘Aw, thanks, Nell. Do you want a job here?’
I grin and stick around to help.
‘How long have you been seeing Joel, then?’ Nick asks casually, raking his golden curls away from his eyeline.
‘Seven months,’ I reply.
‘He seems fun.’
I don’t know if he’s being sarcastic.
‘He is,’ I reply and he grins at me, his bottle-green eyes sparkling.
‘Come on, let’s get some more drinks in.’ He pings my bra strap on the way out.
Joel frowns at us as we appear in the bar area, Nick sniggering like a naughty child and me rolling my eyes.
‘What?’ I reply to the question – or accusation, I’m not sure – on Joel’s face. ‘I was helping with the empties. You really don’t have to worry about Nick. I wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole.’
Joel tugs me into his arms, bending his head to press an amorous kiss to my neck. I giggle and squirm because it tickles, prompting him to chuckle and do it again. I look up to catch Van watching, his jaw twitching and his eyes slightly unfocused. How much has he had to drink?
I try to detach myself from Joel, but he’s stuck to me like glue. I’m too drunk to do anything about it, so I point at a stool in a last-ditch attempt to free myself. He lets me go so I can sit down.
‘I’m off, love,’ Ellie says to me. ‘Do you want a lift?’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure?’ She seems concerned.
‘Yes, really.’ Am I slurring?
Van is leaning right over the bar, his body twisted in such a way that his shirt has ridden up to expose a stretch of smooth, honey-coloured skin on his waist. I have an immediate, overwhelming desire to bend down and kiss him there. I’m literally aching to touch him. Aside from him hooking my little finger at Poldhu, we’ve had zero contact.
Ellie pats Van on his back. ‘Look after her,’ she warns as he glances over his shoulder at her.
‘That’s what I’m doing,’ he replies, turning back to take the pint of tap water Nick is handing him. Van must’ve asked for it.
‘What am I, chopped liver?’ Joel asks with mild outrage as I accept the glass and down a third of it.
‘He’s practically her brother,’ Ellie brushes him off with a grin. ‘That’s what brothers do.’
I almost choke on my drink. As soon as my friend has left the premises, I hop down from the stool and make a beeline for the bathroom.
‘You okay?’ Joel’s voice comes from the door.
His is not the voice my heart was hoping to hear, but my head is thankful.
‘You’re not chucking up, are you?’
‘No!’ I exclaim.
‘Good. Nick’s ordering us a cab. So much for the lock-in.’
‘Joel, can you leave me to it? I’m doing a wee.’
‘Oh, right.’
The room falls silent. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, trying to quell the nausea that I suspect has very little to do with the amount of alcohol I’ve consumed.
Van takes the front seat in the cab home and I’m relieved. Joel is asleep before we even arrive and Dave helps him stumble to the annexe, dumping him onto the bed, fully clothed.
‘You gonna be all right with him?’ he asks circumspectly.
‘Fine,’ I reply, wrestling with Joel’s boots. He’s out cold.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he says with a chuckle.
‘Thanks.’
I don’t know where Van disappeared off to – presumably bed.
Once I’ve dealt with Joel, I go to the bathroom. On my way back to the annexe, a dark figure appears from out of nowhere and marches me around the side of the cottage.
‘What are you doing?’ I gasp as Van presses my back against the cold wall.
My skin is alive with shocks and tremors at the contact.
His hands are on my wris
ts, burning, scorching. He steps forward, his hips pinning me in place.
I draw a sharp intake of breath, and then his mouth is on mine. I wrestle my hands free and clutch his waist. In my drunken state, I register that he’s more muscled than he was at fifteen. And then he’s kissing my neck, pulling down the top of my jumper to expose my collarbone, and my head is spinning, spinning, spinning, and my hands are up inside his shirt, fondling the skin that I was so desperate to touch earlier. His fingers fly to the buttons of my jeans and—
What is he doing? We’re just going to have sex, right here, right now?
I shove his chest, hard, and he stumbles backwards, looking dazed.
‘What the hell?’ I hiss. ‘My boyfriend is right there!’ I point with disbelief towards the annexe.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, contritely.
‘Don’t touch me again!’ I warn, hot tears springing up in my eyes as I hurry back to the annexe, my head reeling.
The full extent of what happened doesn’t sink in until the morning, when I come to, my head pounding. Joel is still snoring lightly beside me and I am so full of horror and remorse that I can barely look at him.
I can’t believe I kissed Van last night. I know he started it, but I kissed him back.
I don’t understand. If Van regretted what happened between us so much when we were fifteen, how could he do that with me now? Is it simply his jealousy taking over again?
He doesn’t appear for breakfast, but Dave does, looking worse for wear. Joel is in the bathroom throwing up. I’m surprised I’m not, to be honest. I’m glad Dad’s not around to see what a wreck we all are. It’s his last day at work today before the Easter break.
‘Is Van all right?’ I ask Dave eventually, curiosity getting the better of me.
‘I presume so,’ he replies. ‘He crashed in your room last night.’
‘My room?’
‘Your old one, upstairs. Your dad said he could, a couple of days ago.’
‘Oh.’
The pull to check on him is too strong. I leave Dave at the kitchen table and go upstairs, knocking on my bedroom door. When there’s no answer, I push it open.
The room is filled with a fug of stale booze. Van is in the single bed that replaced my bunk a few years ago, turned towards the wall. The duvet is tangled up in his legs and his muscular back is bared to me.
My eyes drift to the bedside table where a roll of familiar-looking paper lies there. It’s his painting, the colour of wheat. I took it down from the wall years ago, along with his postcards, and rolled it up, hiding it at the back of a drawer so I didn’t have to look at it and be reminded of him.
He’s found it.
‘Van,’ I say, and he stirs. I say his name again and he rolls over, looking bleary-eyed. We stare at each other for a long moment.
He’s the first to speak. ‘We’ll go,’ he whispers.
My heart cries out with anguish, but my head nods, knowing it’s for the best.
I feel desperately sad when he follows through on his promise later that same day, but it gives me some comfort to know that he’s left his mother’s paintings behind.
At least I know he’ll be back for them.
Twenty-Five
‘I think that’s classed as sexual harassment in the workplace, Nicholas Castor,’ I warn as he grabs me on my way past.
‘You’re killing me, Bella Nella,’ he says in my ear.
‘And that is a shit nickname,’ I say over my shoulder, firmly removing his hands from my waist. ‘You’re not Italian and neither am I.’
‘Suits you, though,’ he says with a cheeky grin, his green eyes twinkling as he hooks his forefinger through one of the belt loops on my jeans and stops me in my tracks.
This is my fault. I should never have slept with him.
I thought I’d just get it over and done with and he’d leave me alone, but to my near-constant surprise, it’s had the opposite effect.
God knows how he found it so memorable – I barely recall the details, I was so drunk at the time.
‘You’ve got customers.’ I nod at a couple of attractive young women who have walked in.
He sighs and lets me go.
I’ve been working at The Boatman for fifteen months now and it still seems unreal. After graduating from university with a 2:1, I moved to London, getting a night job at a bar so I could afford to do unpaid work experience at magazines during the day. I hoped that the contacts I was making would one day result in a job offer being made, but my whole world came crashing down when Dad got cancer. I put all of my plans on hold and moved straight back home to look after him. It’s been two horribly hard years, but he’s in remission now and for that I am immensely grateful.
At some point, I’ll get my arse into gear and go back to London, but right now, I can’t imagine leaving him. He’s still so frail. Anyway, the pub is a friendly, sociable place and Nick’s parents, Christopher and Theresa, are lovely and easy to please. Nick less so. He’s stepped up into more of a managerial role and is a bit of a taskmaster.
‘Oi, Nell,’ he calls from further down the bar, delving into his pocket. ‘Can you go upstairs and get the indie mixtape by my stereo?’ He throws me his keys.
‘Can’t you get it yourself?’ I ask with a frown, catching them.
‘I’m busy.’ He slams the till shut and gives me a pointed look.
‘Dad’s going to be here any minute,’ I complain.
It’s my birthday and we’re going out to dinner.
‘You’d better be quick, then,’ he replies firmly.
I huff as I stalk out from behind the bar – see what I mean? Taskmaster.
Nick and Drew grew up in the cottage across the road, but now Nick lives by himself in the apartment above the pub. It’s a right shag-pad – God knows how many women have been up there. I can’t believe I can now count myself amongst them.
I don’t know how it happened. I’d stuck around after closing time last Saturday to have a few drinks. I guess I was bored, lonely and horny, and Nick had been flirting with me for ages. I’ll admit, I kind of liked the attention. Plus, it’s not as if I was in love with him, so I knew I’d be able to handle it when he moved on to the next girl – as much a certainty as the sun rising each morning. Still, I’m a little surprised at myself.
My walk up the stairs triggers a flashback. We were kissing, right here. I was lying down and Nick was on top of me, and he pulled my jeans off, and then my knickers, and then he… Oh my God. My face is burning as I hurry to the top and unlock his door.
Inside his apartment, the flashbacks are even stronger. The door to his bedroom is open and, as I glance in at his unmade double bed, I’m struck with another memory of him hovering over me, staring straight into my eyes, his face framed by his glorious golden curls.
His body was ripped – like, seriously. Lean and sexy and muscled – a real surfer’s body.
And, oh shit. I scratched my nails down his back as I came.
And I did come. Twice. Once on the stairs and – no, hang on, it was three times, total.
I press my palms to my burning cheeks to try to cool them down.
Nick Castor was good in bed.
Well, he’s had enough practice, I think to myself wryly. Now where the hell is that mixtape?
As I lock up again and walk downstairs, absent-mindedly tapping the cassette against my palm, something seems off. I poke my head around the corner with a frown and almost jump out of my skin. All of the staff from the kitchen, bar and restaurant, plus a few regular customers, and even my dad, are standing in the middle of the room. They collectively launch into a rendition of ‘Happy Birthday to You’, and then Nick emerges from the kitchen with a huge, chocolate-frosted birthday cake, topped with lit candles.
I beam from ear to ear as he comes to a stop in front of me, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. Everyone claps and cheers. I blow out the candles, then Nick holds the cake to one side and leans in to kiss me – right on the lips.
I’m used to him being tactile, but when he withdraws, I find it hard to meet his eyes.
Nick’s mum, Theresa, interrupts our ‘moment’.
‘Happy birthday, Nell, sweetie,’ she says, giving me a hug.
‘Thank you.’ I’m so touched.
‘Nick’s idea.’ She fondly nods at her son, who’s plucking the candles out of the cake at a nearby table. Dad comes over and Theresa greets him warmly, too. ‘Now, I know you two are heading straight out for dinner, but can you squeeze in a tiny piece of cake before you go?’
‘I think we can manage that, don’t you, Nell?’ Dad asks with a smile.
‘Absolutely,’ I agree.
Aimee, one of the waitresses, appears with a stack of plates, and Tristan, the chef, comes out of the kitchen with a knife. He hands it to Nick, but Nick passes it straight to me.
‘Make a wish,’ he says with a smile.
I take the knife and slice into the cake, closing my eyes briefly to silently ask that Dad’s cancer never comes back.
When I open them again, Nick is still smiling at me.
Dad and I catch the ferry to the pub on the other side of the river. It’s more of a boat taxi, really, holding only a few passengers at any one time. But it’s a lovely crossing, and when the sun is setting, like now, it’s absolutely gorgeous. It feels a bit strange to be going from one pub to another – especially when the second is a competitor – but they both do exceptional food and it’s nice to have a change of scenery.
It’s chilly out on the deck so we go straight to the table that we’d reserved by the window. Dad orders a bottle of champagne.
‘It’s not every day your daughter turns twenty-five,’ he says.
I laugh and he smiles at me.
‘How was your day?’ I ask.
‘How was yours?’
‘I asked you first.’
He shrugs. ‘I finally got around to planting that crab-apple tree for you.’
‘Aw, thanks, Dad. I hope you didn’t wear yourself out.’
‘I feel fit as a fiddle,’ he insists.
Dad never went back to work after his illness, but I know he misses the gardens. Sometimes we’ll go and hang out at Glendurgan or Trelissick so he can catch up with his old friends and colleagues. He’s also taken to going to flower shows – we went to London together for the RHS Hampton Court Palace one back in July and came back with a tray full of brightly coloured begonias. The cottage garden has never looked prettier.