by Jenny Oliver
They had reached the denser woodland. Moving into single file on a narrow path through the ivy-covered uneven ground. All around them hidden animals and birds made the leaves rustle, squirrels darted up the trees. Leaves crunched under their feet.
‘Here,’ Ruben said, picking up a long stick to use as a walking staff and handing it to Zadie. Then he got one for himself. ‘It’s like we’re in Lord of the Rings. “You shall not pass!”’
Zadie took the stick with another of her expertly pitying expressions. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Then she found one for Olive and said, ‘You’ve got to be part of the stick gang.’
Olive was a little reluctant at first, but when she took it she said, ‘It’s actually quite helpful on this uphill bit.’ Then she added, ‘God, we used to race up this thing.’
Ruben blew out a breath, already feeling over the hill from his misunderstood Lord of the Rings reference and refusing to cow to any age-related weakness stated boldly, ‘I could still race up it.’
Olive laughed. ‘Go on then.’
So he did, picking up his pace and marching past her. Next to him Zadie nipped along like a puppy. Ruben could feel his heart rate start to increase but he was blowed if he was going to slow down. Zadie chattered away, completely unaffected by the steepening gradient.
‘You don’t have to prove anything to me, Ruben,’ he heard Olive call behind him as his legs started to burn.
‘Proving it to myself, Olive!’ he huffed, forcing his pace up till he made it to the top. Zadie skipping and twirling beside him.
It only took Olive a minute to catch up. ‘Feel better?’
‘Well, I’ve proved I’m not old and unfit,’ he said, trying to surreptitiously catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his brow.
Zadie looked confused. ‘Are you saying Olive’s old and unfit? I don’t think Olive’s old and unfit.’
‘I’m not suggesting that,’ Ruben scoffed, infuriated by the constant voice at his side throwing a spanner in the works. ‘I’m just, you know, saying I don’t want to be trapped in the clichés of middle age. Before you know it you’re watching Antiques Roadshow and Gardeners’ World,’ he laughed.
Olive raised a brow. ‘I quite like Antiques Roadshow.’
Ruben felt himself backed into a corner. He too didn’t mind a bit of Sunday night Antiques Roadshow but it wasn’t something he admitted to women. Usually when he said something like that it was met with humorous nods of agreement. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘Not really,’ Olive replied, staring straight at him with mild amusement. He was reminded again of the effect she had, keeping him always on his toes.
Zadie said, ‘What do you watch, Ruben?’
Weighing up the current situation and playing for a laugh he said, ‘Never missed an episode of Love Island.’
Olive snorted.
Ruben grinned. It felt like a win. ‘And I am a big fan of Gogglebox.’
Zadie gasped, ‘Oh my God, we love Gogglebox! My mum says watching TV with me is like being on Gogglebox! What music do you like?’
‘Well,’ Ruben started proudly, drawing up the collar on his shirt to emphasise how young, cool and hip he was, ‘I actually have a couple of Stormzy tickets for later in the year.’
Olive rolled her eyes again, but this time he saw her deliberate refusal to smile even though he could tell she wanted to. He enjoyed having a Stormzy concert to pull out the bag to show a certain disregard for the conventions of adulthood, ignoring the fact he’d bought them to impress a Gen Z Tinder date who’d blown him out, deeming him too conventional, in favour of a more open relationship with a free-climbing hipster barista.
Then Zadie said, ‘Maybe I could come with you to see Stormzy?’
Caught off-guard, too busy congratulating himself, Ruben found himself pausing for too long before answering. He wondered if the horror at the suggestion was as visible on his face as it felt inside. He didn’t want to waste the Stormzy tickets on Zadie. They’d cost him a fortune. They were date-worthy. Zadie he could take to McDonald’s or the aquarium again.
Ruben had actually given absolutely zero thought to what would happen after these two weeks were up. His main focus was just getting through the fortnight. After which, he’d assumed they’d all return to normal. She’d head to Brighton or Hove or wherever it was she lived. And he’d cruise on back to London town, happily unencumbered. But no, from the expectant look on her face, a real father would think further ahead. ‘Maybe,’ he said, but he had taken too long to answer and Zadie said, ‘It’s OK, you don’t have to.’
He saw Olive wince.
Before he could say anything else, Zadie cut him off by pointing ahead and saying cheerfully, ‘There’s the sea. And the cottage …’
Ruben turned too, glad for the distraction, ‘Ah, yes, there it is.’ But all the while he could sense Olive’s judgement. The cool, dark gaze that kept him on high alert. She was seemingly immune to his charm. Even when he gave her a nudge on the shoulder and said, ‘So how do you feel about going back?’
She answered simply, ‘Fine,’ without hesitation.
Their feet skidded as they came out of the forest onto the shingly path that led to the beach. All of them stopping still when they saw the cottage, the rocks jutting out beneath it, the waves lapping gently on the thick dark seaweed.
‘Oh my God,’ breathed Olive.
Ruben swallowed.
Where once had been the picturesque little cottage of yellow Cornish stone and grey slate tiles, a garden of tumbling scarlet roses and unkempt lavender flooded with bees, was now a derelict wreck, boarded up and fenced with metal. ‘Danger! Keep Out!’ signs plastered all over its graffitied walls. A swing seat in the garden hung snapped off its hinge. Drainpipes jutted from the gutters like broken limbs. Squirrels nested in the roof. The chimney leant precariously to the right.
Olive started to walk towards it, slow like it was an animal she might scare away.
Zadie glanced at Ruben for a cue. ‘Was that Olive’s home?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said, surprised by the lump in his throat as they followed behind, ‘yeah it was.’
He could remember the smell when he stepped inside of wet dog and brewing coffee, and soft, warm chocolate cake. He had only remembered the smell of his own house when he’d walked back in last week, it was never a scent he could conjure up, more a reminder to lock down his emotions and take his shoes off.
He could remember the King cottage like favourite snapshots in a photograph album. The feel of the big heavy knocker on the front door, stolen now by the looks of it. The flush on their old Victorian toilet that you pulled like a lever. The gaudy Christmas tree that touched the ceiling. The chaos and the madness where everyone was doing something but no one knew what the other was doing. Open a door and Mr King would be sitting asleep, desert boots discarded on the floor and his beloved lurcher at his ankles. Behind another, Mrs King would be repainting the sitting room – ‘I like pink in the springtime.’ Open another and Dolly would be lying on her back staring up at the ceiling – ‘What are you doing?’ ‘Seeing what I can see in the wallpaper.’ And Ruben would lose ten minutes lying on an ancient Persian rug trying to see the castle and horses that Dolly could make out in the old woodchip Anaglypta. What would Olive be doing? He always knew where to find her – in her room sewing something, cutting something up. Or urgently poring through magazines and newspapers and books as if searching for an answer that, once found, might finally let her know what question she was asking. He could picture her now, frowning, flicking through pages, annoyed with the world, plagued by dissatisfaction, barely glancing up when he came into the room. Never saying hello, only what was on her mind at that present moment. ‘Ruben, I hate my hair. I think it’s holding me back.’
He turned now to glance at Olive as she yanked open a gap between two wire metal hoardings, her hair knotted neatly in a tortoiseshell clip. ‘Do you remember that time you asked me to cut your hair?�
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‘Sorry, what?’ Olive asked, not really paying attention, squeezing through the gap, the sharp metal catching the edge of her T-shirt.
‘When I cut your hair, in the upstairs bathroom?’ Ruben repeated, hauling the metal fence out further so they could all get in easier.
‘You didn’t listen to any of the instructions and just sliced a massive chunk out of it,’ Olive replied drily, kicking fallen tiles off the path.
‘True,’ he said, ushering Zadie through the gap and letting it clang shut behind him, ‘but you rescued it.’ He remembered her snatching the scissors off him and setting to work giving herself a choppy new cut that stuck out at all angles but made her look edgy and dishevelled, like she didn’t give a shit about the world. ‘I remember your mum crying when we came down the stairs.’
Olive paused with her hand on the front door. ‘Yeah.’
As she tried the latch to no avail, Ruben could see Olive as she was then, leaning against one of the old oaks sheltering from the pouring rain, smoking a fag she’d pinched from him, wearing one of her dad’s camouflage shirts buttoned to the neck and a pair of lopped-off jeans, only disdain for her mother’s howling distress that her daughter’s luscious long locks were now stuffed in the bathroom pedal bin.
Olive said, ‘It’s locked.’
Ruben said, ‘Stand aside.’ And lifting his foot, kicked the door hard. Nothing happened. Except his leg hurt. Olive sniggered. He gave her a look. ‘Sorry,’ she said. He inhaled through his nose, made a show of beefing himself up, which made both Olive and Zadie smile. Then he kicked again. This time the door crashed open, bashing against the wall, then swinging shut again with force.
‘Well done,’ said Olive, impressed.
Ruben tipped his head like it was nothing.
She put her hand on the door and pushed it open more gently. Inside it was dark and bare, a few discarded bits of furniture were upended. More graffiti on the walls. Olive rolled her lips together, steeling herself. Ruben stood next to her. Zadie to his right.
Olive glanced across at him. ‘How do you feel about going back?’ she asked, clearly hesitant.
Ruben was close enough to be able to smell her skin. He could still remember the feel of her hair between his fingers as he held it between the scissors. The stutter in his voice as he started to cut. The secret, deliberate movement of picking up a curl between his fingers and stuffing it into his pocket. It was derailing. If he wasn’t already outside, he’d have thought he needed some fresh air.
Olive was waiting. Watching.
‘Oh, totally fine,’ he said, striding forward with a grin.
Chapter Seven
The London sky was so blue it looked unreal, like a child’s drawing. The air was summer warm and smelt of last night’s rain, uncollected rubbish and the sticky sap from the lime trees that lined the road.
Fox Mason had just roared up outside Dolly King’s flat on a gigantic Kawasaki motorbike, yellow and black like a wasp. Kitted out in full leather, he pulled off a black helmet embossed with the same fox as was tattooed on his arm.
Dolly stood on the pavement aghast, rucksack by her feet, unable to believe what she was seeing. ‘You said you had a car!’
Fox was doing an amazing job of keeping a straight face. ‘I didn’t say I had a car.’
‘You did!’ Dolly wanted to stamp her foot but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
‘I said, I could give you a lift,’ Fox replied, patting the pillion seat on the beast of a bike. It wasn’t brand new, it looked like it had done some miles but it had been beautifully cared for. He chucked Dolly a leather jacket and laughed, deep and rumbling, the movement ricocheting through his He-Man-sized biceps and washboard abs.
She stood speechless, holding the jacket with her good hand. Birds twittered in the spindly pavement trees. A sparrow wrestled with a crisp from a dropped packet in the gutter. A thousand expletives ran through her mind. She’d been expecting him to drive up in a battered Jeep or suchlike. Not this thing.
If there was one thing Dolly hated, it was motorbikes.
‘Do you need a hand with the jacket?’ Fox asked.
‘No, thank you,’ Dolly replied stubbornly, holding the collar between her teeth as she shoved one arm into the sleeve, the weight of the leather immediately hot under the blistering sun.
Fox watched her struggle for a while, trying to catch hold of the other sleeve over her shoulder before she gave up and stood staring at him.
He looked at her like he didn’t understand.
She huffed. ‘Can you help me?’
‘Certainly.’ He got off the bike and walked round to help her hitch the jacket up over her shoulder, bringing it round the front and zipping it up with her arm cradled inside, no attempt to hide his smug satisfaction that she needed his assistance. ‘All right?’ he asked.
She nodded, not meeting his eye. There was actually one thing Dolly hated more than motorbikes and that was having to ask for help. She hadn’t asked anyone for help for years. She’d bought her flat on her own. She’d plumbed her own bathroom. She’d driven herself to hospital once when she thought she was having a heart attack, which actually wasn’t something to be proud of and, having done it, wouldn’t do it again. It transpired she hadn’t been dying, just experiencing a severe panic attack, which in itself infuriated her and led to many an aborted attempt to take up meditation but ended with Roy from the gym’s advice to just ‘kick the shit out of it’.
‘Hand,’ Fox said, holding out one of a pair of leather gloves to push onto the fingers of her good hand.
Seeing that they were trembling slightly, Dolly tensed and flexed her fingers. The gloves were too big. It was all too big. These weren’t the spares of an ex-girlfriend. Nor, she concluded, were they the spares of an ex-boyfriend either because they all smelt of Fox.
‘Don’t look so terrified,’ he laughed.
‘I don’t look terrified,’ she countered.
‘I hate to break it to you, but you’re not half as poker-faced as you think you are.’
Dolly scowled. ‘I just don’t like bikes.’
‘No?’ he asked, black eyes intrigued as he looked down at her.
‘No,’ she replied, ignoring his inquisition, tugging the glove down further with her teeth.
‘Any reason why not?’ he asked, picking up her bag.
‘Just bad experiences as a teenager,’ she replied.
Fox took the spare helmet off the back of the bike and replaced it with her luggage, lashing it into place. ‘Overzealous ex-boyfriend?’ he said without looking up, either a mind-reader or just fully aware of the bad-boy bike-riding clichés.
‘Something like that,’ Dolly said, slightly annoyed she fit the mould so obviously, reaching forward to take the helmet from him. He went to help and she said, ‘I can do it.’
Fox looked down to hide a smile. How did it happen that he seemed to be constantly mocking her? To always have the upper hand? Dolly huffed into her helmet. The only good thing that could come from the motorbike was that they wouldn’t have to make small talk for the next four hours.
But then Fox put his own helmet on and suddenly his voice resounded through her head. ‘I’m a good driver, I promise. There’s nothing to worry about.’
Dolly flinched, startled. The microphone was crystal clear. Fox’s eyes crinkled in a grin. ‘So we can keep in contact,’ he said, tapping the side of the helmet, gesturing to the headset.
All Dolly seemed to do when she was with him was roll her eyes. ‘Great.’
‘I can hear you, you know?’ he said, swinging his leg over the bike.
‘I know,’ she replied, climbing on behind him. It was all coming back, the feel of the bike between her legs, the clutch of the jacket in front. The press of the two of them together and then the roar as he threw the bike into gear.
But it wasn’t completely the same, because Dolly was a grown-up now. She wasn’t the angry, naïve, displaced teenager. And Fox’s leather jacke
t didn’t smell of damp like her ex-boyfriend’s – a guy called Jake who never washed his hair and referred to himself in the third person as The Great Destructor. Nor did she feel so lowly and confused about herself, she would never dream now of clinging onto Jake’s crappy bike while his gang drove like maniacs and threw eggs at politicians and bricks through the windows of big corporations. She wouldn’t sit and absorb a spouted agenda of chaos nor would she give him her mobile phone to check all her calls nor think it was her fault when he clamped his hands tight about her throat in placid fury.
But still, just being on a bike again brought back enough memories of that time to make her sit rigidly unrelaxed.
Fox’s leather jacket didn’t smell of damp. It smelt a little bit of bonfire. He drove the bike how she’d imagined he would, with the same calm precision with which he policed. As they cruised up the main road she tried to make herself relax. Did some deep breathing to settle her nerves. She realised he was probably taking it super slow for her and felt herself begrudgingly thankful. Gradually she shifted position, didn’t clutch quite so tight, dipped a fraction into turns and even glanced to the side to see the buildings zoom past.
‘We join the motorway up ahead, OK. So the speed will increase,’ she heard Fox’s voice over the headphones.
‘OK,’ she said back.
‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
Pressed up close, Dolly realised quite how huge Fox was. It was like sitting behind a statue of granite.
‘This speed OK?’ he checked, like she was at the hairdressers constantly being asked if the water was the right temperature.
‘Yes, it’s fine.’
‘Sure?’
She laughed, ‘Yes, I’m sure.’
She knew he was smiling through the movement of his shoulders.
She found herself smiling too, relaxing. ‘You don’t have to keep checking, honestly.’