by Jenny Oliver
‘Nice. See.’ Ava raised her hands in the air, slipping slightly on her stool. ‘He was nice. It was just nice. It’s either nice or it’s sex.’
Rory shuddered. ‘Do you have to talk about sex? You’re my sister.’
‘Yeah, I’m your sister, not your mother.’ Ava made a face.
Rory shrugged. ‘Well actually, if you’re looking for a reason, that’s probably it.’
Flora started unloading the bar dishwasher. ‘What is? Sex?’ she asked through the plume of steam.
Rory sighed. ‘No, our mother,’ he said. ‘Fear of being left,’ he added, as if he had landed on the definitive answer.
Ava screwed up her face. ‘No.’
Flora was reaching up to put the wine glasses back on the shelf. ‘Don’t write it off,’ she said, voice strained from stretching. ‘It’s horrendous. Being left.’ She went to get more glasses and paused by the dishwasher. ‘I can only tell you from my point of view, but it’s a killer because you spend your whole time thinking: why wasn’t I good enough? And there’s no one there to answer you.’
Rory stilled his glass and turned to watch Ava. She was looking down, playing with the straw of her drink.
Flora carried on. ‘So you just go round and round in your head coming up with new, more self-damning answers. If only I’d done such and such we’d still be OK . . . I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes with the answer and then immediately forget it.’ She laughed as she collected up the remaining glasses.
Igor came round to give her a hand, but she told him he’d done enough and to go home. Clearly delighted, he grabbed his keys and gave them the cheeriest goodbye Rory had heard since he’d been there. He watched him scoot off on his moped with a satisfied smile that changed the whole shape and look of his face. Rory could suddenly see him as a doting, happy father of three.
Gabriela had strapped the wheels to her little pug, who’d been curled up in the corner of the kitchen most of the day eating scraps, and Rosa was collecting up her knitting. They left the kitchen, Gabriela tying a scarf around her hair, saying, ‘A very good day. Same time tomorrow, Rosa?’
‘Oh yes, Gabriela.’ Rosa nodded.
‘Goodbye all,’ they waved, and off they went, pug wheeled along behind them.
Flora flopped forwards over the bar, hand over her eyes. ‘The woman’s a tyrant.’
Rory topped up all their glasses. ‘She got you your customers back.’
‘And your brand,’ said Ava, turning in her chair to watch them go.
Flora peeked through her fingers. ‘And it is quite fun, I suppose.’
‘It’s really fun,’ Rory said.
‘Yes,’ said Flora, standing up a little more proudly, shoulders back, chest out. ‘Yes it is,’ she repeated, as if it had only just dawned on her. ‘Maybe I’m not washed up after all,’ she said, looking out at her café, then she glanced at Ava and said, ‘See, I’m the perfect example of getting married for the wrong reasons.’ She came round to their side of the counter and pulled one of the stools out so they were sitting in a triangle. ‘Having thought about it non-stop for two years, I know that I got flattered into marriage. Ricardo knew just how vain I was and made me feel incredible at a time when I was beginning to feel old.’ She touched her face on instinct, smoothed the lines by her eyes. ‘And insecure. There were suddenly lots of spring chicken cooks on the TV and I was no longer flavour of the month. Sales of my books were catastrophic. I liked Ric’s youth. His energy. And I think, perhaps, I used him to tackle something I should have done myself. I should have been able to do this on my own, but I hid behind him. I’ve never been very brave,’ she added with a little chuckle.
‘I think you’re brave,’ said Ava.
‘Well I think you’re brave too, darling,’ Flora drawled, patting her on the arm. ‘IMHO!’ she added. ‘That’s one of those things like FOMO, isn’t it? In my humble opinion. See, I’m still young and cool.’
They were all giggling.
‘Cheers!’ Flora held up her glass and toasted the air before taking a long gulp. ‘And you of course, darling Rory. You’re very brave.’
‘I’m not brave,’ he said, ‘Not in the least. I only got married because Claire was pregnant.’
Ava scoffed, ‘Oh come on, Rory, that’s always been such a trite answer. It wasn’t just because of that.’
‘It was. She told me she was pregnant. I said we had to get married. That was it.’
Ava blew out a breath as if that wasn’t it at all.
‘What?’ Rory asked.
‘That wasn’t it,’ Ava said.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because you’d been together a year before then. And after she found out about the baby she spent half her time sitting at my kitchen table trying to work out what to do. What she wanted to do. It wasn’t all based on your command, Rory,’ Ava said, going to pick up the sangria jug but finding it empty so standing up to go and get something else to drink.
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Rory, the news making his voice quieter. Wrong again.
‘Well,’ Ava shrugged, rummaging around in the fridge. ‘Sherry?’ she said, holding up a bottle of Manzanilla dry sherry.
Flora nodded. ‘Glasses are up there,’ she pointed to where the small wine glasses hung from hooks.
‘I thought she just agreed with me,’ Rory said, still flummoxed that there had been any procrastination on his wife’s part.
‘So it wouldn’t have mattered?’ Ava asked. ‘Anyone could have been pregnant, Rory, any girlfriend you had. You would have just married them, no question?’ She looked up while pouring sherry into three glasses. ‘Perhaps you would,’ she said, shaking her head like she despaired of him.
Flora was watching. ‘Rory,’ she said, ‘what if Claire hadn’t been pregnant? Do you think the two of you would still have got married, eventually?’
Rory had asked Claire to marry him because she was pregnant. That was the fact. Plain and simple. Twenty-one, accidentally pregnant. He didn’t give time over to wondering if they would have got married if she hadn’t been, or what he’d have done if it had been a different girlfriend who had been pregnant. It wasn’t in his make-up to think about other potential paths. He left things like that to alternative therapists and Ava.
He had never given much credence to the fact that they’d been in a fairly decent relationship before Claire got pregnant. Forgotten it to be honest; forgotten that actually she had been here that holiday he’d made the film about the café. That they had flown out together straight from uni. He had failed to remember those quieter moments; the times when he wasn’t behind the camera being awed by the larger-than-life Ricardo, but sitting in this bar drinking cold beer with her, trying to make her laugh.
He realised, as he took a sherry from Ava, his fingers damp from the condensation bubbling on the glass, that for ten years he hadn’t thought about Claire specifically. She’d been part of a situation. He’d never separated her out.
He imagined Claire’s voice: ‘Of course I’ve thought about it, Rory. How could you not have thought about it? I chose you because I liked you, baby or no baby. I mean, yes, maybe we wouldn’t have got married so quickly, I’d have liked a dress that didn’t make me look like a giant whale, but I chose you.’ He imagined her standing with her hands on her hips, exasperated. ‘I liked your drive and you were funny. You made me laugh. But I wouldn’t choose you now.’ Rory halted his imagination. Claire had turned bad in his head.
Ava slurped her sherry, then, eyes twinkling, said, ‘I mean come on Rory, think about it, ten years is a long time to stay with someone you only married because she was up the duff, you silly idiot.’
Flora guffawed.
Rory raised his brows, turned slowly to see Ava giggling, a little nervous. ‘I don’t know what you think is so funny,’ he said drily. ‘As far as I can see you still have commitment issues, FOMO, and a man who won’t speak to you because you’re addicted to gossip and crass WhatsApp message
s.’
Ava snorted into her drink, clearly a little half-cut.
Flora guffawed again and almost fell off her seat.
After a pause, refusing to counter Rory, Ava leant forwards across the bar, big smile on her face, and said to Flora, ‘I think you should get together with Everardo.’
Flora flushed tomato red. ‘Well luckily,’ she said, standing up a little wobbily and going to stack the tapas plates at the end of the bar, ‘we’re not talking about me, are we?’
Ava grinned, all pleased with herself.
Rory went over to help clear the tapas. ‘It’s pretty much all gone,’ he said, as he removed the plates from their stands. ‘Only a few bits of octopus left. Ava, you want it?’ He wafted the plate in front of her.
She screwed up her face.
‘Oh Ava, it’s nice, you should try it,’ said Flora.
‘No way.’ Ava shook her head. ‘It has suckers.’
Flora looked at her, disappointed. ‘Shame on you, Ava. You should be open to new tastes.’
‘And new opinions,’ said Rory.
‘What new opinions?’ Ava asked.
He held his arms wide in disbelief. ‘All my suggestions as to why you’ve never been in a serious relationship.’
‘Oh please.’ She made a face at him.
‘Very grown up,’ he said.
They carried on clearing up. Flora was on her way to the kitchen with the plates when she said to Ava, ‘You should apologise to Tom, darling. You’ll feel better if you do.’
Ava looked down at the floor. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know I should.’ She started to walk round from behind the bar. ‘Maybe I’ll go now while I’ve still got some Dutch courage.’
‘He won’t be at home,’ Flora said, leaning on the counter top.
‘No?’ Ava frowned.
Flora shook her head.
‘Where will he be?’ Ava asked, confused.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Flora said with a cheeky smile. ‘You eat the octopus, I’ll tell you where Tom is.’
Rory looked over, impressed.
Ava straightened up. ‘Flora! You set me up!’
Flora pointed to the octopus.
Outside, the lights from the little fishing boats were bouncing on the choppy water as the evening breeze picked up. The noise of restaurant-goers still at Nino’s mixed with the sound of waves tumbling on the sand. The dark sky painted with smears of grey cloud.
Rory watched intrigued as Ava tentatively pronged a bit of octopus on a cocktail stick. He had never seen her publicly put herself out for someone she was in a relationship with. And she wasn’t even in a relationship with Tom. He’d never seen her show any level of deep emotion for someone that wasn’t their mother or Max. She usually kept things light and funny and glossed over everything with a witty one-liner. He was surprised she was even contemplating it.
Ava turned the octopus over on the stick, examining the suckers. ‘This is so unfair.’ She looked around, disgusted.
Flora was fiddling with her hair, clearly willing Ava to eat the octopus. ‘It really is very good. Very fresh.’
Rory wanted to say, ‘Just eat it, for goodness, sake.’ But he didn’t. Simply because he himself had just been called out for showing a similar lack of emotional openness for his own wife; he could barely admit that he loved her out loud. And he knew as Ava deliberated, prodding the suckers, her hold on the cocktail stick shaky, her eyes pained, that she wouldn’t eat it. That she would walk away. As he would. Because they were too stubborn and it was too open. The motivations too silly, too weak, too vulnerable.
But then, to his disbelief, Ava picked up the octopus and rammed it into her mouth. ‘Oh God, it’s disgusting, it’s disgusting,’ she said, her face screwing up, her mouth hardly able to chew, her eyes tight shut.
Rory watched, stunned.
‘This is so gross.’ Ava was flailing her arms about. ‘You can feel the suckers. Yuck, yuck, oh my God, it’s all squishy. Eugh. I’m going to be sick.’ She chewed and chewed and then swallowed, downed the rest of her sherry in great gulps and said, ‘OK,’ shaking herself once, ‘OK, where is he?’
Rory was baffled. Suddenly uncomfortably ashamed of himself. Would he have eaten it for Claire? He paused. Maybe he would.
Flora stood back, crossed her arms over her chest and smiled, satisfied. ‘At the marina,’ she said. ‘You’ll work out which boat.’
CHAPTER 24
Ava hadn’t cycled since she was a kid, and even that had just been up and down the pavement listening to the satisfying click of the Spokey Dokeys clipped to her wheels. So she eyed her grandmother’s rusting black bone-shaker bicycle with some trepidation. She remembered it from holidays. Val with her shopping in the red beer crate fastened with electrical ties to the rack on the back, a loaf of bread and a bunch of flowers poking out like a commercial for moving abroad. But after years left decaying under tarpaulin at the side of the house, it was barely fit for use.
There was nothing more sobering, Ava discovered, than having to detach mammoth black spiders from a rotting leather seat, grapple with a loose chain, hands covered in sticky oil, and pump perished tyres till they were as fat as sausages, praying the rubber would make it across town to the marina.
She hauled the ancient bike out into the square, conscious of Rory and Flora watching, lounging back in their seats with their sherries, enjoying the sight as she clambered ungainly on to the three-gear bike. Buffeted by the breeze, she wobbled, she twisted, she accidentally rang the bell, she squeezed the brake too hard and pulled up short, her foot slipped on the pedal, her bag swung round in front of her, and when she took one hand off to push it back she swerved and hit a brick wall.
Flora put her head in her hands.
Rory called, ‘Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Maybe wait till morning?’
But Ava wasn’t giving up now. ‘No, I’ll be fine.’ She took a calming breath. The wind whipped at her hair. The air smelt thick with sweet figs and sea water. She took her bag off and put it in the red crate on the back. Then she tried again. She remembered her dad teaching her, his hand on the back of her seat as he cycled alongside, Rory up ahead. She had no memory of her mother in the scene.
This time she still wobbled, but with more pressure on the pedals she started to move. The front tyre clipped the edge of the path but she righted herself and turned with shaky confidence to wave at Rory and Flora, ringing her bell for fun.
She cycled along the hillside through the gusts of wind and the soupy fog of heat in the direction of the marina, silently praying that, having survived the bus, this wouldn’t be the vehicle that finished her off. She’d been to the marina once before with her parents, Rory and her grandmother when she was much younger, seven or so. She remembered they’d had ice cream and looked at the boats. Her mother had walked slightly ahead with her choc-ice, a pale cream coat tied at the waist. She’d suggested a game in which they picked the boat they would have bought if they’d had the money. Rory chose instantly, a canary yellow speedboat with blue go-faster stripes. After much inspection, her mother had settled on a sleek white yacht with tinted windows, the name written in scrolled italics. Ava had watched one of the staff polishing the cabin windows while the owner sipped champagne in a hot tub and had been so awed by the effect it had on her mother that she’d instantly agreed. Her father, she remembered, had taken his time surveying the options, then finally picked a tatty little fishing boat that was mooring to drop its catch off at the flash restaurant. ‘That’d be mine,’ he’d said, licking his lemonade lolly. ‘Oh me too,’ Ava had said, immediately swapping, charmed by the cute, brightly coloured old boat. Her mother had sighed. ‘Oh you’re so humble, Leonard,’ she’d said to their father. ‘Well you know what, that –’ she’d pointed to the super yacht, ‘– that is what I want. Not that,’ she added, pointing to the barnacle-covered fishing boat and stalking off back to the car.
Ava could still remember the feeling of wishing she’d stuck to he
r mother’s choice as she’d stared at the fish flapping and gasping in their buckets. As her grandmother bellowed for their mother to come back and her father said, ‘She’s just being difficult, let her go.’ In Ava’s mind it had been disappointment in her change of allegiance that had made her mother walk away. After that she had sided with her forever.
Now, as the marina rose in front of her as she cycled closer, it seemed more likely her mother had just been scouting for trouble. Looking for a way out. A way to justify a hop across the Atlantic to be with her lover and become the star he’d promised he would make her. It was the last holiday they’d had all together.
Ava clattered up to the water’s edge, braking by a giant No Swimming sign, and scoured the area for a similarly flashy boat to the one her mother had chosen. She was nervous, aware of the awkward apology on the horizon, aware how much she wanted Tom to accept it.
The water was teeming with mega yachts: big gin palaces illuminated with colour-changing lights, cocktail parties in full swing as the boats bobbed and bashed in the sheltered but still choppy water. She wondered which was Tom’s as she wheeled her bike along the network of jetties, peering into the sea of white boats, laughter drifting up from soft leather seats, mast ropes clinking in the wind.
‘Well well, what do we have here?’ said a voice behind her.
‘Oh God.’ Ava jumped in shock.
Tom walked past her without stopping, carrying a bucket of water, a rope, an anchor and some other boat paraphernalia, his clothes old and well-worn, his cap pulled low on his head yet still somehow exuding the glow of a movie star.
Thrown by his casual disinterest, Ava found herself saying, ‘I was just taking a cycle.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Tom with a half-laugh, unconvinced. He didn’t turn round.
Ava jogged to catch up, the bike rattling alongside. ‘Do you need a hand?’ she asked.
He stopped and handed her the bucket. The water slopped over their feet. ‘Sorry,’ he said, completely unapologetic.
‘That’s fine,’ Ava said.