by Megan Tayte
‘Coasteering?’
‘It sounds awesome! Basically, you explore the bits of the coast that aren’t accessible – caves and cliffs and all that. Climbing, diving, swimming, cliff jumps.’
‘Did you say cliff jumps?’
‘Yes!’
‘Lunch with your aunt sounds great. I’m in.’
Cara laughed. ‘I take it you’ll be happy to be a spectator at the night surf Sunday night, then, rather than a competitor?’
‘Definitely.’
She caught me staring at her. ‘What is it?’
‘I was just wondering – does it bother you, always being the spectator rather than out there, in the thick of it?’
‘I’m not always, Scarlett. Just because I can’t coasteer or surf, doesn’t mean I can’t be right in the thick of other action.’
I raised a brow enquiringly, but she just grinned and tapped her nose.
‘Now then, down to business. Which do you think would look better in a wetsuit, Theo James in Divergent or Shiloh Fernandez in Red Riding Hood?’
*
Luke had offered to cook for us all that evening, back at the apartment, but he had his work cut out for him. Someone had had the bright idea of everyone contributing not through a tenner in a kitty, for one, cohesive food shop, but by bringing a bag of food each. The result was an assorted jumble of foodstuffs that didn’t quite gel together into a meal. Frankly, I was quite happy to graze – it was my usual style at home, culinarily challenged as I was – but Luke was not impressed.
‘It’ll be like Ready Steady Cook!’ Duvali pointed out. ‘Grab a few ingredients, whizz them together and hey presto! Oat cuisine.’
‘Idiot! You can’t make haute cuisine out of’ – Luke surveyed the foods laid out on the counter before him – ‘canned peaches, tomatoes, cheese, sherbet bombs, red cabbage, doughnuts, bread, mangoes, Jaffa cakes, pilchards, eggs, baked beans, smoky bacon crisps, rocket, ketchup, porridge oats and SPAM. SPAM! Who the hell brought SPAM!’
‘SPAM’s a classic, mate,’ called Andy from over by the doors where he was fiddling with the stereo. ‘Got our nation through World War Two, that.’
‘How about crustless pilchard quiche?’ suggested Cara from her perch at the breakfast bar.
‘SPAM casserole?’ offered Kyle, who was mixing Cara a mocktail (well, it was supposed to be, but I was pretty sure I’d seen a slug of vodka go into the tall glass).
My ‘Cheese on toast?’ at least elicited a smile, but then Duvali chimed in with, ‘Peach and baked bean pizza?’ and Luke looked positively sickened.
‘Duvali, that sounds rank,’ said Si, who was stacking beers in the fridge.
‘So? That Heston Bloomingwhat makes bizarre concoctions and people love them. His Chubby Duck restaurant has loads of Michelle stars, I heard.’
‘Fat Duck,’ said Luke through gritted teeth. ‘And it’s Michelin stars.’
‘Michelin? Like the tyres?’
‘Yes.’
‘Weird. What do tyre people know about food?’
Luke looked about ready to do Duvali an injury, so I stepped in. ‘Maybe I could pop down the road to the supermarket and pick up some extras?’
At the touch of my hand on his arm, Luke relaxed. ‘Would you? Then I can get going on doing something with this lot.’ He waved an egg beater distastefully at the pile.
I reached up on tippy toes to kiss him. ‘’Course. Just give me a list.’
Five minutes later I was down on the pavement heading to the shop. Behind me, I could hear shouts of ‘Where’s dinner, Luke?’ and ‘C’mon, I’m starving’ and the steady pulse of dance music. I spared a thought for the neighbours, but I couldn’t help my steps falling in time with the very loud beat.
My phone bleeped from the depths of my bag and I dug it out. A text message from Jude.
You okay?
Fine, I typed back quickly. Just living it up.
Smiling, I slid the phone back into the bag and rounded the next corner. New-build apartments had given way to older houses, standing shoulder to shoulder and casting shadows over the street, which was deserted.
Well, except for the enormous tiger lying in the middle of the road.
23: SINCE
I staggered to a stop, grabbing on to some railings.
Yellow eyes, watching.
Velvety paw, stretching.
Vicious claws, unsheathing.
Tiger.
Rising.
Stalking.
‘It’s not real,’ I whispered. ‘It’s not real. It’s not real.’
Still, when the air trembled with his mighty roar, I flung up my hands to protect my face. But no flurry of orange and black came at me; no claws gouged; no teeth tore. There was no beast in the road – just a powerful motorbike with a throaty engine gunning past and away.
I slumped against the railings.
It wasn’t real. It had felt real, real enough for my body to respond automatically – to make me freeze and then cower. But my thought process said it all: I hadn’t wondered what local zoo had lost a tiger; I’d simply wondered: why that? Why, when as a symptom of her deteriorating health my sister had encountered nice, cheery, innocuous Shrek, had I conjured up a Class 1 dangerous animal?
And then it came to me: I saw myself aged eight, decked out in a frilly, fussy dress and perched on a footstool, reciting ‘The Tyger’ to yet another ensemble of my father’s clients:
Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
‘William Blake,’ Father would say. ‘Jolly good poet. We’re descended from him, you know…’
I suppose when you’re forced to learn poems by rote and to repeat them over and over, they’re forever embedded in your consciousness. I suppose also that when, in a moment, you become the creator of your own vision of reality, you call to mind an account of a terrible beast and the ‘he’ who dared create it. Still, next time I would hope for Blake’s ‘The Lamb’.
Next time.
The supermarket was in sight, and I pulled myself together enough to walk the rest of the way there. Inside, I stared around blankly for a moment before remembering Luke’s list. I felt about in my pockets, but I couldn’t find it; I must have dropped it on the way. I’d have to improvise. I grabbed a basket and started plucking items off a shelf.
Once the basket was full, I queued at a checkout behind two big guys in hoodies, one buying a case of beer and the other a bag of doughnuts.
‘You done it before?’ said Beer Guy. ‘Night surf?’
‘Yeah, at Bondi.’
‘Decent. This’ll be my seventh year in Newquay. First at Fistral, though.’
‘Huh?’
‘Used to do Lusty Glaze.’
Doughnut Guy sniggered. ‘Sounds like something from a sex shop.’
‘It’s a beach, man.’
‘I know that. It’s on the Cornwall bit of my Marvellous Map of Great British Place Names. Along with Greensplat…’
‘And Water-Ma-Trout.’
‘And Goon Gumpas.’
‘And Sally’s Bottom.’
‘And Skinner’s Bottom.’
‘And Jolly’s Bottom…’
They walked off, exchanging bottoms, and I thanked them silently for the distraction as, smiling, I paid for my purchases.
I walked swiftly back to the apartment, scouting the territory all around like a meerkat on alert. Happily, I made it back without encountering any other wayward jungle predators. In the lobby of the apartment building I stood for a minute or so, clearing my mind and remembering my promise to myself to focus on living.
Up in the penthouse, I was greeted by calls of ‘Scarlett!’ and ‘Grub!’ and Luke took the shopping from me eagerly.
‘Thank you. This is perf–’ He stopped rooting around in the bag and looked up at me. ‘Um, what is this, Scarlett?’
‘Right. Yes. I lost the list
on the way, so I had to ad-lib.’
‘I see.’ He cupped a flushed cheek with his hand. ‘You okay?’
‘Fine! Just a little run-in with a cat. Gave me a fright.’
Luke looked at me oddly.
‘I’m more of a dog person,’ I said. ‘So, have you got what you need?’
He peered again into the carrier bag and seemed to struggle for an answer. Finally, he looked back up at me and smiled. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
*
Later, much later… after dinner, after mocktails, after dancing on the balcony to club classics, after watching the sun set leaning against Luke’s chest, after a soak in the hot tub that fast became a splashing shambles, after a raucous Twister tournament and a frantic Hungry-Hungry-Hippo-athon… later, Luke took my hand and led me to the spiral staircase.
As I emerged into our little haven I was surprised to find it aglow. Luke had crept up here and laid out clusters of night-lights on every surface – on the bedside tables, on the chest of drawers, on the windowsills, on the floor. His iPod was attached to portable speakers, and playing soft, soulful music, and lying on the pillow was a single red African daisy. Overcome by emotion, I let him pull me over to the sofa by the window and sit me down beside him. The wide panes of glass reflected the dancing flames of the candles, so it seemed like the night sky was peppered with flickering, fiery stars.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘This is perfect.’
He nuzzled my neck and murmured, ‘Perfect like a carrier bag full of pizza base mix?’
I closed my eyes, revelling in the feel of his skin on mine. ‘Perfect like the most romantic setting I could imagine.’
That earned me a long, hot kiss on the neck.
‘But Luke, about the pizzas...’
He groaned into my skin and said softly between kisses, ‘Peach and baked bean pizza. I’ll never live it down.’
Breathing was becoming difficult, but I persevered: ‘I liked that one. Oh. Mmm… And the… the pilchard and ketchup one.’
His kisses were trailing down now, across my clavicle, around to the other side of my neck.
‘Not too sure… about the… SPAM and sherbet one… though…’
‘Scarlett,’ he growled into my ear. The rumble sent a delicious shiver through me.
‘But really… given the in…’
‘Scarlett…’
‘… the ingredients… you did a good…’
His lips covered mine, sealing in the words. By the time he let me go again I’d forgotten what I was saying. I stared at him. His cheeks were crimson, his hair was crazy, his breath was sweet and hot on my face, and I was quite sure I’d never seen, and would never again see, a more stirring sight.
He leaned back a little and said, ‘Scarlett, are you sure you –’
‘Shut up,’ I said, and I kissed him.
But he pulled away and searched my eyes. ‘I have to know that you’re sure.’
I sighed. ‘Yes, Luke. Are you sure?’
‘Oh, I’m sure.’
The tension melted out of him and he brushed a kiss onto my cheek.
‘Since the first day I met you out on the water.’
He laid one on my other cheek.
‘Since we sat on the rock in Heybrook Bay.’
He kissed my forehead.
‘Since that party at Si’s with you in that little red top and those sexy strappy shoes.’
And then he was dropping kisses down, behind my ear, along my neck, across my chest, faster and more fervently, and whispering all the way:
‘Since we kissed in the folly.
‘Since the night you first slept in my bed.
‘Since we slow-danced at that party.
‘Since I found you lying beside me on the beach.
‘Since you told me you were staying.
‘Since the beef bourguignon.
‘Since the basque – oh, that basque!’
He found my lips. He kissed them. And then… and then there was no blue at all, only scarlet flames.
24: DON’T STOP ME NOW
I woke the next morning to a soft kiss on the lips.
‘Good morning, sleepyhead.’
When I opened my eyes the bright light flooding the room physically hurt. Still, I smiled.
‘Morning,’ I mumbled.
Luke was lying beside me, propped up on one elbow. ‘You’re beautiful asleep,’ he said. ‘Well, and awake. But really quite lovely snoozing. Especially when you talk.’
That woke me up. ‘Huh? What did I say?’
‘That last night was the most amazing night of your life and I’m a real stud muffin.’
‘A what?’
He laughed. ‘Joke! You were muttering something about a yearning tiger.’
‘Burning tyger,’ I corrected automatically. ‘Tyger, tyger, burning bright.’
‘That’s it.’
The memory of the wild cat in the street made me shudder.
‘You cold? Come here.’ Luke pulled me onto his chest and wrapped his arms around me.
I closed my eyes and inhaled his scent, a heady mix of deodorant and baking and something indescribable that was just Luke.
‘It was, you know,’ I said.
‘Was what?’
‘The most amazing night. Last night.’
‘It was.’
I leaned on one elbow and kissed him and –
A loud laugh from downstairs made me pause.
‘What time is it?’
‘Getting-up time,’ said Luke. ‘You slept and slept. We said ten for heading to the beach, and it’s half-nine now.’
I sat up. ‘I’d better get in the shower.’
He pulled me down. ‘Not much point showering when you’re about to go in the sea, is there?’
I struggled back up. ‘Well, I’d better get dressed then.’
He pulled me back down. ‘You really had.’
I laughed. ‘Hey! There’ll be time enough for lying about later.’
‘I have no intention of lying about…’
But after stealing another kiss, he let me go. I got up and hastily pulled on clothes. The girl looking at me in the wall mirror was bright-eyed and pink-cheeked and swollen-lipped and older, somehow. She looked content. I liked that girl, I decided.
‘Luke?’ I said as I began brushing my hair.
‘Yep?’
I caught his eye in the mirror. ‘The playlist you had on last night. Between your favourites, there were a few new ones.’
He squirmed visibly.
‘I’m sure I recognised them, Luke. From a DVD Cara made me watch the other week.’
‘All right, all right.’ He held up his hands in surrender. ‘I admit it.’
‘You downloaded the Never Fall in Love with a Vampire soundtrack.’
‘Guilty as charged.’
‘But Cara said she dragged you kicking and screaming to the cinema to see that?’
‘She did. And I can’t say I loved it. Really depressing – all that morose “I love you but I can’t be with you” stuff. And when the heroine died... I have no idea why Cara finds that romantic.’
I pulled my hair back unnecessarily hard into a ponytail and told myself sternly, Don’t think about it. Not now.
‘But some of the music kind of spoke to me.’
‘Bruno Mars? I thought you were more of an indie guy.’
‘Hey, don’t knock Bruno. “Just the Way You Are” is pretty good. When applied to you, that is.’
I turned and looked at him. ‘Just when I think I’ve got to know you, you surprise me, Luke Cavendish.’
His face broke into a broad, lazy grin. ‘I like to keep a lady on her toes.’
*
The surf that morning was on fire, to the point that I was coming round to the idea that my relationship with surfing could have been more than just a summer fling; this wasn’t just a water sport to master, it was a way of life – and it fit me. The only problem was having the energy and stren
gth to stay up on the board. After another healing session with Cara that morning, I managed only an hour in the sea before I had to call time.
I joined Cara again on the picnic blanket, which today was placed slap-bang in the middle of the beach. She was on fine form – humming along to some cheesy mix tape playing on the ancient stereo, full of hope because the difference in her legs was now irrefutable. Again, I’d done my best to control the healing, but holding back, I was finding, was incredibly difficult, and I’d gone a little further today. If the healing continued on this course, after a few more sessions no scars would remain.
I was beginning to realise that this ‘magic cream’ plan was riddled with holes. First, the cream was apparently mind-bogglingly powerful enough to have healed extensive scars in a matter of days. Oh, and not just scars – gouges were filling out; the pain was less, she reported; and, watching her walk, I was sure she was more fluid in her movements. Then there was the fact that she was growing more suspicious by the hour:
‘Where did you get that cream again? Who makes it? What’s it called? Why isn’t it on the market? How come there’s so little of it? Can you get more? Where from? When?’
There had been a particularly hairy moment this morning when her eyes flew open mid-session and snapped straight to my hands, and I had to stop abruptly and casually ask what was up. ‘Nothing,’ she replied. But she stared at my hands long enough to make my throat tighten before closing her eyes again.
Clearly, I was at risk of being found out, and soon. The best way forward, as far as I could see, was to finish up the contents of the small tub while we were in Newquay, leaving her partially healed, and then ‘struggle’ to get hold of more until right before… until I was out of time. Then I’d finish the job, and any questions she may have would follow me to the grave. As strategies went, it was messy – but the bottom line was that I was determined to heal her, even if it was impossible to find a watertight explanation for the how.
‘Penny for them…’
Cara’s quiet question snatched me from my thoughts. ‘Oh, um, just thinking about… what to wear out tonight.’