One Perfect Summer

by Paige Toon

  Roxy continues to scroll down to his filmography. There are seven movies listed.

  ‘Wait!’

  ‘What?’ she asks.

  How could I not have known about all of these films? Strike is at the very bottom. ‘Have you seen all of them?’ I feel like my throat is closing up.

  ‘Half of them haven’t come out yet,’ she says, tutting good-naturedly at my stupidity. ‘I saw Strike just last weekend. I bought it on Amazon straight after seeing Sky Rocket. Phwoar! And I did see Hong Kong Kid and Capture when they came out a year or so ago, but he only had small parts in them. Look –’ she peers closely at the screen – ‘Night Fox is still in post-production. So is Phoenix Seven, and he’s currently filming Magnitude Mile.’

  My heart is pounding like a jackhammer.

  ‘Can you go back to the top?’ I ask. She does. It says he was born Joseph Strike, but that’s not true; his name is Joe Strickwold. His age is correct, though: he’s two months older than me, which makes us both twenty-six.

  ‘He’s so hot,’ she sighs, nodding at his headshot. ‘Although that picture doesn’t do him justice. Damn, I was devastated when Johnny Jefferson married that girl recently. Thank God there’s some fresh eye candy on the scene . . .’

  But I’m not listening to her rant about a rock star. I’ve got other things on my mind.

  I spend the rest of the day on autopilot. As soon as I can escape I go home and call Jessie.

  ‘Jessie? It’s me, Alice.’

  ‘Hey,’ he says gently. There’s concern in his voice. ‘Have you seen it?’

  He knows exactly why I’m ringing. He tried to call me twice over Christmas – I assume, about this.

  ‘No.’ Pause. ‘Have you?’

  ‘Em and I caught it last weekend.’

  ‘What’s it like? What’s he like?’

  ‘He’s . . . good.’ He sounds impressed. ‘You can understand what all of the fuss is about. If you’re a girl,’ he adds nonchalantly.

  I notice that my hands are shaking.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asks.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Are you going to try to contact him?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘I just thought—’

  ‘No,’ I interrupt. ‘No, I’m not going to try to contact him. If I was going to do that I would have done it years ago.’

  There’s silence at the other end of the line. The phone beeps to let me know there’s another call coming in. ‘I’d better go,’ I say, informing him of the other caller. We hang up and I answer the phone. This time it’s Lizzy.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asks, slightly breathless. It doesn’t surprise me that she, also, belatedly found out about Joe in Sky Rocket. She doesn’t make it to the movies much. In fact, she barely makes it out of the front door on some days.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, taking a deep breath. ‘I’ve been on the phone to Jessie.’

  ‘Did he tell you?’

  ‘No, a little boy in my class did. When did the name Joseph Strike become part of a six-year-old’s vocabulary?’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she says with disbelief. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw him being interviewed on a daytime chat show.’

  ‘Where?’ I ask quickly. ‘In this country?’

  ‘Yes. He’s in London at the moment.’

  ‘He’s here?’

  Suddenly it feels very real.

  ‘You could try to contact him again, you know,’ she says softly.

  Again.

  She’s the only one who knows my darkest secret. Despite Lukas’s threat that our marriage would be over if I ever tried to contact Joe, in my heart of hearts I couldn’t let it lie. I felt sick and nervous and guilty and deceitful, but I managed to speak to someone in the film distribution company that had made Strike, and their press department informed me that Joe had moved to Los Angeles. They gave me his agent’s details – a man called Nicky Braintree – and I rang and asked to speak to him. He couldn’t take my call and I didn’t want to leave a message. I almost gave up, but a few days later I managed to ring him again. This time he was on another call, but I held on and waited, telling the receptionist it was personal. Finally he came on the line . . .

  ‘My name is Alice . . .’ I didn’t want to give him my married name, Heuber, but Simmons felt fraudulent.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m trying to get hold of Joe . . . Joseph Strike.’

  ‘You and everyone else, sweetheart. What’s it about?’

  His comment threw me. I managed to stammer out a reply about how I used to know him.

  ‘I’ll tell him you called,’ he said shortly. ‘Give me your number and I’ll—’

  ‘Couldn’t you give me his number?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘I can’t give out my client’s details, darling,’ he said in a patronising tone. ‘Like I said, give me your number and I’ll pass on the message.’

  ‘No, I, er, I can’t.’

  I couldn’t risk him calling with Lukas around.

  He sighed and muttered something about time wasting, before hanging up on me.

  I’ve never tried to contact him again. I also resisted Googling him. I tried to put him out of my mind once and for all for the sake of my husband.

  ‘No,’ I tell Lizzy. ‘I can’t risk my marriage.’

  And, anyway, now I’m just some girl Joe shagged before he became famous.

  The pain at this thought is crippling.

  I plan to tell Lukas about Joe’s new-found fame before he finds out from someone else. I’m worried that he’s going to hit the roof like last time, but that was three and a half years ago; a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then.

  He doesn’t usually get home from work until about six thirty, so I knock off my marking and my preparation for tomorrow’s classes, and then I crack on with making him his favourite dinner: fillet steak with green peppercorn sauce and hand-cut chips. I’m hoping that this meal will soften the blow. He arrives home at quarter to seven and he looks exhausted.

  ‘I hate this perpetual drizzle,’ he says with a sigh as he takes off his coat. ‘I was hoping we’d be able to go for a drive to the Norfolk coast this weekend, but the weather forecast is miserable.’ I go into the hall and put my arms around his waist.

  ‘Hey, you,’ I say, gazing up at him.

  He looks down at me and gives me a quick kiss. ‘What’s that cooking?’

  I tell him, although I have yet to put the steaks on.

  ‘Mmm. I’m starving. Shall I open a bottle of champagne?’ He never calls it bubbly.

  ‘Um . . .’ I don’t think this is going to feel like a celebration anytime soon, but whatever makes him happy. ‘Sure.’

  ‘How was your day?’ he asks as we walk into the kitchen.

  ‘Fine,’ I reply breezily. This is my chance to tell him about Bennie, but I chicken out. ‘How was yours?’

  ‘Good. We made a breakthrough with the blah, blah, blah.’ I have no idea what he’s talking about. ‘You haven’t any idea what I’m talking about, have you?’ he asks with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Not now, not ever,’ I reply with a grin. ‘You’re the brainiac in this family.’

  Ouch. With a short, sharp shock I’m reminded of Joe. There’s no getting away from this.

  ‘Something happened today,’ I tell him softly.

  His brow furrows as he unwraps foil from the top of the champagne bottle. ‘What?’

  ‘Wait,’ I interrupt before he can go any further.

  He hesitates, his thumb at the base of the cork. It feels wrong to say this to the sound of it gleefully popping.

  ‘This shouldn’t be a big deal. I don’t want it to be a big deal. But I heard about . . . Joe again.’

  His eyes bore into me. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He’s in a film called Sky Rocket. One of the children in my class was talking about it. It’s quite a big . . . deal . . .’

  He looks down at the bo
ttle in his hands. ‘I know.’

  ‘You know he’s in it?’ I ask with surprise.

  ‘No, I know about the film. A colleague went to see it at the weekend.’ He places the bottle on the countertop.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I blurt out.

  He meets my eyes for a moment before looking away again. He shakes his head. ‘You don’t have to be sorry,’ he says quietly. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  The relief is immense. He touches his fingertips to the champagne bottle and slowly pushes it across the countertop, away from him.

  ‘I don’t really feel like this anymore.’

  ‘Should I get on with dinner?’ I ask tentatively.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’ve lost my appetite.’

  To my dismay, he walks out of the kitchen. I hear his footsteps on the stairs and then over my head as he goes into our bedroom and shuts the door. I switch off the hob warming the peppercorn sauce and go after him.

  ‘Lukas,’ I say gently, walking into the room. He’s lying on the bed with his arms folded over his face. I sit down next to him and put my hand on his stomach. He flinches under my touch.

  ‘Do you still love him?’ he asks in a muffled voice.

  ‘I don’t even know who he is anymore,’ I answer truthfully.

  He takes his arms away from his face and looks at me. ‘You’re avoiding the question.’

  ‘Of course I don’t love him,’ I snap. ‘I knew him years ago. We were eighteen! I don’t know anything about him now.’

  ‘Do your parents know who he is?’

  ‘No. Well, I doubt it. I’m sure they would have mentioned it if they recognised him.’

  ‘Don’t tell them,’ he says fervently. ‘I don’t want anyone else to know.’ He stares at the ceiling. ‘I want to have children,’ he says in a low, determined voice.

  I look away from him. ‘We will.’

  ‘I want to have children now.’

  ‘Is this about Rosalinde?’ I can’t help but ask.

  He closes his eyes with frustration, but doesn’t deny it. I take my hand away from his stomach and he sits up on the bed. ‘Why won’t you have children with me?’

  ‘Jesus, Lukas, I’m only twenty-six!’

  ‘Age is your excuse for everything! Twenty-six is a perfectly reasonable age to start a family.’

  ‘Yes, but I want to have a career first.’

  ‘You’re a teacher.’

  ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ I ask coldly as anger builds inside me.

  ‘Nothing,’ he replies quickly. ‘You can always go back to teaching.’

  ‘Do you still love Rosalinde?’ I ask out of the blue.

  He gets down from the bed and gives me a hard stare. ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  His silence is unnerving.

  ‘Lukas?’ I prompt with worry mounting inside me.

  He goes to his wardrobe and opens it, placing his shiny black shoes inside.

  ‘I saw her at Christmas,’ he reveals offhandedly.

  ‘Christmas just gone? When I was there?’ I don’t understand. I still haven’t met her, but sometimes I think that I should. She didn’t come to our wedding, although she was invited.

  ‘Yes. I bumped into her in Munich, that day we went to the Christmas market. She had Ferdinand with her.’ That’s her little boy.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ We’d split up for an hour so I could go shopping.

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you still love her?’ I ask anxiously.

  ‘Of course not, Alice,’ he says crossly.

  ‘Does she still love you?’

  ‘If she did she would never tell me.’

  That doesn’t sound like the most reassuring answer.

  ‘Did she seem happy?’

  ‘I think so. She’s pregnant again.’ Why doesn’t this feel like good news? ‘How did we get on to talking about Rosalinde?’ he asks suddenly. ‘I thought we were talking about Joseph Strike.’ He says his name with mockery.

  ‘There’s nothing more to say,’ I reply simply.

  I know this isn’t the end of our discussion. If Joe is as big a star as Roxy says, we haven’t heard the last of him.

  That couldn’t have been more of an understatement. In the summer, the second blockbuster in which Joe has a starring role hits the big screen and the furore around him reaches fever pitch. It’s impossible to go anywhere without hearing or seeing something related to Tinseltown’s latest flame. Much as Lukas and I try to conduct a normal life, we’re constantly living in Joe’s shadow.

  My parents never did put two and two together – they’re not really big cinema fans and, following Lukas’s request, I kept quiet. But the fact that Lizzy, Jessie and Emily know about my history with Joe is another nail in their coffins. As far as Lukas is concerned, he feels more uncomfortable in their company than ever. To him it feels like they’re judging us, comparing him to Joe, wondering if I regret our marriage. And they probably are.

  Towards the end of August, Lizzy’s little girl turns two and I go to London on my own for her birthday party. It’s not worth forcing Lukas to come – it’s easier to keep these two sides of my life apart. I decide to stay for the whole weekend – to help Lizzy out with the party on Saturday, and to catch up properly afterwards.

  She moved into a flat in East Finchley a month ago so she could still be near her father and sister without everyone living in each other’s pockets. She’s hired out a space in a church hall and I barely have time to drop off my bags before we have to head over there to blow up balloons. My parents are on holiday in France at the moment so this weekend Lizzy and Ellie have me all to themselves.

  Later, at the end of a long day, when Ellie is asleep and Lizzy and I have collapsed on the sofa in front of the telly with two very large glasses of wine, she tells me that I should have been a children’s entertainer. I’ve been rounding up pre-schoolers all day to play games.

  ‘I think there’s more money in teaching,’ I say wryly.

  ‘And more respect.’

  ‘Some teachers would disagree,’ I say with a raised eyebrow. ‘Although that shouldn’t be the way it is.’

  ‘It’s definitely not in your case,’ she says warmly. ‘You’re a great teacher.’

  ‘You’ve never seen me in the classroom,’ I comment with a smile, taking a sip of my wine.

  ‘I can imagine. I know you’re brilliant. I only wish Ellie could go to your school.’

  ‘Move up to Cambridge!’ I cry.

  She grins and shakes her head. ‘It’s tempting. I have never seen a city with so many fit boys in it. Or girls, for that matter,’ she muses. ‘It’s a shame the colleges aren’t still single sex, that would sort out part of that problem.’

  I laugh. She picks up the remote control and starts channel surfing.

  ‘Wait!’ I shout, sloshing some of my wine out of my glass onto my knees. She freezes, the remote paused.

  Joe’s face fills the screen.

  ‘Turn it up,’ I command.

  He’s being interviewed on a late-night American chat show, and he’s so cool, so composed. He laughs and my heart flips because he’s instantly recognisable and familiar, and then a woman’s voice-over says: ‘But the young Joseph Strike had to fight his way to the top . . .’ The programme cuts to an advert break. This appears to be a documentary about his road to fame. Lizzy looks over at me. There’s compassion in her eyes.

  ‘He’s so . . . He’s so . . .’ I can’t find the words.

  ‘Haven’t you ever seen him being interviewed?’ she asks softly.

  ‘No.’ I swallow. ‘Have you?’

  She nods. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You never talk to me about him,’ I say in a small voice.

  ‘I didn’t think you wanted me to talk to you about him. I thought you considered it too disloyal to Lukas.’

  ‘I do. I don’t want you to talk to me a
bout him.’ But that’s a lie. Right now there’s nothing I want more.

  ‘Shall I change the chan—’

  ‘NO!’

  She gingerly places the remote control down on the sofa between us, and soon the programme comes back on. Now they’re interviewing the director who made Strike, a grizzled-looking American man in his late fifties with wiry grey hair and horn-rimmed glasses.

  ‘I knew the kid was a star from the moment I laid eyes on him. When I found him he was bruised and battered mentally. I could tell he’d been physically beaten too. You just knew it. It was in his eyes. No wonder he learned how to fight. No wonder he got so good. Of course,’ he chuckles, ‘I had to convince him to come back with me to Hollywood. He thought acting was a mug’s game, but in the end he came around to the idea. The same went for changing his name.’

  The interviewer asks a question off-screen. She sounds confused: ‘Change his name? Isn’t his name Joseph Strike?’

  The director shakes his head with a wry grin. ‘No, no, no. Joseph, yes. Strike, no.’

  ‘What’s his real name?’ You can almost hear her salivating at this exclusive.

  He laughs knowingly. ‘I can’t tell you. That was part of the deal. He didn’t want to change it,’ he says animatedly, sitting forward in his seat, ‘but in the end I guess he was okay with the idea of leaving his identity behind and trying something new.’ He looks thoughtful for a moment, and then the documentary cuts to a fight scene from Strike. Joe and another guy are pummelling each other with their fists and feet. Suddenly Joe knocks his opponent out. The camera cuts to Joe’s face and it’s full of fury, but it changes in a flash to remorse.

  ‘Shit!’ he shouts, dropping to his knees and trying to rouse his opponent.

  We cut back to the grizzled director, who is shaking his head with amusement. ‘He’s not a fighter at heart. But that pain he feels?’ His face grows serious. ‘That pain he feels every day about God knows what?’ He jabs his finger at the air to punctuate his point. ‘That pain translates to the audience. He has the control, the spirit, the drive. It was only a matter of time before he became a superstar.’

  I watch the rest of the documentary without being able to say a word. I keep feeling Lizzy’s eyes on me, but mine are glued to the screen. I go through so many different emotions. One minute I can see the boy I knew, the vulnerable, beautiful boy I fell in love with, and my eyes fill with tears and my heart reaches out to him . . . The next he’s being cast as a womaniser and a playboy, photographed out on the town with models and actresses hanging off his arm, and I barely recognise him at all.