One Lucky Summer

by Jenny Oliver

  Dolly said, ‘How’s your wrist?’

  Fox leant forward, elbows rested on his knees, and examined the dressing on his wrist. ‘Bit sore,’ he said, then he glanced her way and added, ‘Brogden’s going to do everything he can to get rid of you.’

  ‘I know,’ Dolly replied.

  Fox contemplated for a second then said, ‘I’d like to help you.’

  Dolly scoffed, edging away from him with a look of disdain. ‘I don’t want you to help me.’

  Fox smiled as if this were the answer he’d been expecting. ‘Dolly, this is what I’m good at, it’s what I’m trained in. Helping people.’

  Dolly was perplexed. ‘I don’t want anyone to help me. There’s nothing wrong with me. If anything, you’re part of the problem.’

  Fox shook his head, calm and unaffected. ‘I’m not part of the problem.’ He leant back, stretched his arms up, then clasped his hands behind his head. ‘Dolly, anyone could sense the disquiet inside you.’

  Dolly shook her head in disbelief. ‘If you say so, oh wise one.’ She stood up to leave.

  ‘Seriously, Dolly,’ Fox looked up at her, moved his hands so they were resting open in his lap, a move to show magnanimity that he’d probably learnt on some online life-coaching course, ‘I’m probably the only person who can save your job for you right now.’

  It took everything she had not to mimic the sentence back at him like a child. ‘Well maybe I don’t want to save my job,’ she replied pettily, looking away at the sun reflecting off the peeling foiled windows of the police station.

  It was Fox’s turn to laugh. ‘Please. You live for that job.’

  Dolly couldn’t think of a smart reply quick enough. The truth as stark as it was depressing. She did live for that job. This guy had been there all of a fortnight and he could see that. She knew the curve of the station door handles better than she knew the front door of her flat. She knew the stains on the stairs, the chips on the staff kitchen counter, the mug she liked best and hid at the back of the cupboard, the sound her locker made when she swung it shut, the irritated silence when she nailed someone like Mungo with a perfectly timed put-down, the warm pints at the Lion and Leopard in the sunshine, the morning briefings, the keys to the car, the feel of her badge in her pocket. Holy shit. Her heart rate was through the roof. She could not lose this job.

  Fox sensed the moment of weakness and stood up himself, towering at least a head taller than her. ‘Let me help you,’ he said, expression coaxing like she was a fish on the cusp of the bait.

  Dolly stared straight at him – the faux sincerity on his face, the perfected patience. ‘No,’ she said defiantly.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I don’t like you,’ she replied tartly, and picking up her bag started off up the street.

  She’d thought that would be the end of it. With any normal person that would be the end of it. But not Fox, clearly. She could hear his big steps bounding up the road after her. She could hear the laugh on his breath.

  ‘I’ll have you arrested for stalking,’ she said as he fell into step next to her.

  ‘No officer in this jurisdiction would arrest me,’ he replied, all cocky grin as he flipped on his sunglasses against the glare. ‘So why don’t you like me?’

  ‘I don’t want to hurt your feelings by telling you,’ she said, looking straight ahead as she walked on.

  He laughed again. ‘I like you.’

  ‘Good for you,’ she said, annoyed that she got a kick out of hearing that about herself. ‘I like me, too.’

  Fox’s lips twitched in amusement. He dodged an electric scooter coming towards him. ‘Get off the pavement, mate,’ he shouted after the rider. The guy gave him the finger. Fox sighed.

  Dolly kept walking in the direction of the Tube.

  ‘So what are you going to do for your probation?’ Fox asked. ‘Sit around sulking?’

  ‘How well you know me,’ she said, one brow arched.

  He smiled. ‘I think I’ve got you pretty well sussed.’

  Dolly searched for a response that would wipe the smug smile off his face and found herself saying, all cool and aloof, ‘If you must know, I’m actually going on a treasure hunt.’

  ‘Are you?’

  Was she?

  ‘Yes,’ she retorted as Ruben de Lacy’s face flashed up in her mind, making her swallow down a shuddering wave of trepidation. The piercing blue gaze that looked at you and you alone. The easy smile. The affable flirtation. She felt a wave of nausea. No. There was no way she was going to do that. The only reason she might go on that bloody treasure hunt would be to show Ruben de Lacy who she had become. That would give her some satisfaction. But it wouldn’t be enough of a reason to go back there. Not by a long shot.

  Dolly looked directly at Fox, challenging him to call her a liar while his expression searched for cracks in her story, ways for him to wiggle himself in and take his do-gooding hold. She knew his aim, it was all so he could saunter back to the station and say, ‘Guys, I did it. I broke in Dolly King. She’s as sweet as a kitten now.’

  ‘Yes, Fox, that’s what I’m doing,’ she said, nose in the air, defiant. ‘Not that it has anything to do with you.’ Then she spun round, weird side-ponytail swishing against her face, and marched off towards the Tube station.

  ‘I get it,’ he called after her, hands on his hips. ‘Running away. Nice. Good tactic.’ As she got to the entrance, she heard him shout, ‘You can only run for so long, Dolly!’

  Before going through the ticket barrier, Dolly turned and shouted back, ‘Your pop-psychology won’t work with me, Fox.’

  The echo of his laugh followed her all the way down the escalator.

  Chapter Four

  The sound of Ruben’s voice and the mention of her dad had sparked something inside Olive – an excitement, a desire – that she hadn’t felt for years. Perhaps what mousy Barbara had sparked in Mark.

  She passed the familiar sights of her childhood the further west she went along the A303, the battered sign to Wookey Hole Caves, Exeter Airport, Dartmoor National Park. Excitement fighting with apprehension in her belly. Four hours of podcasts and she was down to one about sparking joy by finding different ways of looking at life. Out of the window she noted that the Little Chef they always stopped at whenever they were going up to London was now a Starbucks. Where was the joy in that? No toasted teacakes and Coke floats, just corporate globalisation. Except, if she were forced to find a bright side, she did quite like the Starbucks logo and her dad always said the Little Chef’s attempt at an espresso wouldn’t even be recognisable as coffee when compared to the stuff he drank in Istanbul or the rainforests of Brazil.

  Maybe she could find similar joy in her current state of unexpected singledom. Maybe it was a blessing – a light shining on the life she’d been living and finding it wanting. Maybe it was time to admit she’d been doing it wrong all these years. That made her think of Ruben, which she didn’t want to do. She cancelled that by remembering his tacky Lord of the Manor pose on Instagram.

  Olive pulled in at the Starbucks. The queue was really long and the espresso was horrible. Maybe finding joy wasn’t so easy.

  Her phone rang. Olive had to stifle a sigh; it was Aunt Marge.

  ‘So you’re on your way to Willoughby Hall? How exciting. Is Dolly going?’ Aunt Marge was Olive’s dad’s sister. They’d lived with her in London as teenagers. She spoke as fast as she lived her life. No time to waste. Her jewel-encrusted hands always gesticulating wildly, her bright red talons tapping on the table, her skin sunbed mahogany.

  Olive chucked her cup in the bin. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘She doesn’t answer her phone.’

  ‘Why doesn’t she answer her phone?’

  Olive yanked open the Starbucks door and headed back to the car. ‘I don’t know, Marge, why does Dolly do anything?’ She stopped herself adding, I’m not her babysitter.

  ‘True, true. OK
, I’ll give her another ring. Maybe pop round. You have fun.’

  Olive got to her car, feeling her anxiety levels rise at the mention of her sister. ‘I’m not sure it’s going to be that fun, Marge.’

  ‘You might be surprised.’

  Olive had learnt over the years that there was no point arguing with Aunt Marge. Their chats were always perfunctory. She got in the car. ‘I’ve got to go, I’m driving.’

  ‘OK, ta-ta, love.’

  It was the final leg of the journey and the road ahead seemed endless. A hawk on a telegraph pole. A tractor in a field. The sun was sharp and bright through the windscreen. It was warmer than it had been all summer. The verges were lush with wildflowers after the almost non-stop spring rain. Then suddenly there was a sign for Willoughby Park. The paintwork worn and chipped, the word CLOSED stamped across it.

  Olive sat up straighter at the wheel, her heart beating like crazy. She pulled her sunglasses off as she took the familiar turn up the main path on instinct, the big metal gates propped open, she presumed for her. It was so weird being back. Everything identical yet nothing the same. She slowed, almost to a crawl as she saw the great sprawling parklands that swept over hills and down valleys as far as the eye could see. The famous four-hundred-year-old oaks, the grazing deer, the Jurassic ferns skimming the surface of the black water lake. And in the distance, the Big House – Ruben’s house – all cream and Georgian with its sweeping front steps and high polished windows, big stone lions and manicured garden with a flopping white magnolia that bloomed for a fortnight then morphed into a monster of rotting brown flowers.

  How perfectly it all fit with her memory. She drove on slowly, winding her window down, hit by the smell of fresh-cut grass and salty air. It was like jumping into a photograph. She could see ghosts of people who weren’t there, hear their voices, hear her own voice. Adrenaline tickled over her skin.

  In the distance she could see the sea and felt an expected jolt of sadness. She could picture vividly her family’s cottage down there by the rocks. She was prepared but – as her dad used to say – you can never be one hundred per cent prepared for anything.

  The sight of Ruben de Lacy and a small girl racing down the path was enough to snap her back into the present.

  It was definitely his daughter. They looked identical, except the girl was a lot less self-aware. Ruben was exactly like his Instagram. All swagger and cool. Slicked back hair, achingly on-trend sunglasses, wearing a black shirt and a pair of lime-green shorts that should have been a fashion disaster but which somehow he managed to pull off.

  He directed her to a space outside the house and then came and stood by the window of her car, whipping off his super-cool sunglasses, grinning. ‘You made it!’

  He had the same bashful smile and radiating ease, but with more lines round his eyes, Olive noted as she climbed out of the car. It was strange who people became – in retrospect all the signs were pointing to this smoothly self-assured adult version of him, but it was still unexpected.

  The little girl was hopping with excitement next to him. ‘I’m Zadie,’ she said, and thrust out her hand.

  Ruben did a quick, ‘Olive, this is Zadie, my daughter. Zadie, Olive – who as I’ve explained used to live down at the cottage by the sea and is the owner of the treasure hunt box.’

  Olive was still trying to process the fact that Ruben de Lacy had a daughter. Not only did he have bachelor written all over him but if Ruben had children she’d have presumed they’d be the type who wore tiny Ralph Lauren trainers as babies and had their own YouTube channel as teens. This girl was all puppy fat and saucepan-wide eyes with a very eclectic taste in fashion.

  ‘Hi,’ said Olive, arm outstretched as she shook the clammy little palm. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too.’ Zadie clutched her hand firmly. ‘I don’t see my dad that often, just so you know, this is all kind of new. My mum’s just got married, in case you were wondering. Ruben’s not like with her any more. Not that they were ever married. You’re really pretty.’

  Olive and Ruben seemed to be equally dumbstruck by the download of information. Ruben however, clearly more used to it than Olive, was the first to recover his composure. ‘Well, there you go,’ he said. ‘Everything you needed in a nutshell. And more.’

  Olive suppressed a smile. ‘Fascinating,’ she said, and Ruben raised his brows to convey a shared astonishment.

  It was such a tiny gesture but it made Olive blush. Oh my God, she hadn’t blushed in years. She couldn’t believe it. She looked away, walked round to the boot of the car to get her bag.

  ‘Do you have children, Olive?’ Zadie asked, immune to any undercurrents.

  ‘No,’ said Olive, a little bamboozled by the directness of the question.

  ‘Zadie, you’re not really meant to—’ Ruben tried to keep her in check, but Zadie was having none of it. ‘Are you married?’

  Olive held in a smile. ‘No.’

  Zadie trotted along next to her as she went to grab her handbag from the front seat. ‘Boyfriend?’

  Olive shook her head. For the first time in eight years she said, ‘No.’ How strange it was to be back to square one. Like a prop was missing. Things she hadn’t really thought about, like how driving five hours on her own was exhausting when there was no one to share it with.

  ‘Girlfriend?’ Zadie questioned, hands clasped behind her back.

  ‘No.’ It was Ruben who answered for her. ‘Unless …’

  Olive shook her head.

  Zadie glanced between them. ‘Ooh, did you two used to be a couple?’

  ‘Blimey, Zadie, that’s enough! Be quiet.’ It was less jokey, more scolding from Ruben.

  Zadie looked abashed.

  Olive noted the tension between Ruben and his child.

  Ruben, however, glossed over it by clasping Olive by the shoulders and giving her a kiss on the cheek that smelt of toothpaste and Hugo Boss. ‘Great to see you, Olive. You look amazing.’ He raised a brow in appraisal. ‘Very sophisticated.’

  Olive was suddenly very conscious of her clothing – her black cigarette pants, her white trainers, her gold wishbone necklace, and her white shirt, still fairly crisp after the five-hour drive because it was a staple of the collection of technical luxury fabrics she designed and created. The company took high-quality natural fabrics – cotton, silk, linen, wool, cashmere – and blended them with more versatile fibres, making them more suitable for everyday but without any synthetic feel. Wool that didn’t shrink. Silk and linen that didn’t crease. Cashmere that didn’t need to be dry cleaned. Or as the company’s copywriters put it: Because you deserve luxury, every day.

  She had come up with the idea sitting at the kitchen table of Mark’s flat as she watched him eat Bran Flakes in a bobbly old woollen jumper that looked like it had once belonged to his father, and a shirt underneath that he was in the endearing habit of only ironing the bits that poked out. Back when they had had long discussions into the night about politics and science. When his dishevelled scientist persona was a refreshing contrast to her fractious city life. When the fact he batch-cooked lasagne was novel rather than expected. When she’d proposed her idea to him, he’d mulled it over and said the science was possible, in fact, it was the first time he’d been actively engaged in anything she was working on. All the other times he’d looked on a bit bemused and said, ‘Fashion is just beyond me!’ This time, however, he’d sat with her for hours as they went deep into the technical construction of the new fabrics. It was nothing like the crazy, avant-garde stuff Olive had worked on at art college, nor was it like the couture fashion job she had at the time, but there was something warming and addictive in the interest it provoked in Mark, she had enjoyed working with him on a project. They had been good times, sitting at the small kitchen table surrounded by ideas and papers and endless cups of coffee, both of them a little high on the obvious commerciality of the project. The end result was clever and unique enough, when paired with her focused, clean-lined des
igns, to catch the eye of a luxury fashion conglomerate who bought the idea and the brand, and where she now worked as one of the creative directors and had worked for the last six years. Mark, who always erred on the side of caution, had encouraged her to take the money and the job offer. Olive had been on the fence. There was no guarantee, had she not sold the idea, that she’d have been able to make it anywhere near as successful – in fact it was highly unlikely – but some days she’d stare at the glossy ad campaigns and the revenue spreadsheets and think how once it had been just hers.

  She enjoyed her job. The clothes were demure and sophisticated. Just as Ruben had said. But somehow, right now, being back at Willoughby Park, standing in front of Ruben in his bright green shorts and Zadie in her rainbow colours, it didn’t feel like a compliment. It felt more like a disappointment. Like she was a walking embodiment of the safe, sensible life she had chosen for herself.

  Olive could feel Ruben watching her; she’d forgotten his knack for reading her every expression. Right now she couldn’t look at him. ‘Well, it’s just erm …’ she didn’t finish. Instead, she turned to Zadie in her tie-at-the-front blue hounds’ tooth shirt, pink neckscarf and tomato-red mini-skirt and said, ‘You look fabulous. I’m very jealous of that skirt.’

  Zadie beamed. ‘It’s great, isn’t it!’ Linking her arm through Olive’s and leading her into the house. ‘I’ll show you to your room because Ruben really needs to start cooking. It’s like nearly dinnertime. Did you know, Olive, I’m a vegetarian and my stepdad Barry works in plant-based meat substitutes, and Ruben didn’t even know what those were! Can you believe it?’

  Olive said, ‘No, I can’t believe that,’ to Zadie’s wide-eyed incredulity, hyper-aware of Ruben behind her and his scrutiny of her every move. His presence was very disconcerting. He was the same but not the same. Less showy than the Instagram pics suggested. In certain lights and angles she could see the old him. But it was more in the mannerisms, the way he stood, walked, carried himself, even the way he tipped his head when he was listening. Oh God, she’d just have to try not to look at him.