The Summer Without You

by Karen Swan

  A cab pulled to the kerb ahead of her and she saw the woman inside handing over notes from the back seat as she continued a seemingly intense conversation she was having on the phone, head bobbing frantically in profile. Ro ran over and waited patiently for the busy girl to get out. She didn’t care where she went; she just had to get out of here.

  The door opened and one lean, toned leg swung out with a stiletto heel at one end and a sharp pencil skirt at the other. Ro looked down at her own boyfriend jeans and jade-green hi-tops. Was she actually the only woman in New York not wearing heels?

  ‘No, no, that’s not working for me. The pitch is already maxed as it is.’ The girl glanced disinterestedly at Ro as she got out, reaching back for a large A1-sized portfolio with her free hand as she kept her other hand – and the phone in it – clamped to her ear. ‘Well, if they can’t go up, they’ll have to go down. There’s no other way. They certainly can’t go out.’

  The portfolio behind her jammed between the door frames, pulling her back towards the cab, and she tugged at it, the rigid leather sides bowing slightly. Ro leaned forward to nudge it free at one side, seeing – to her astonishment – the far door open on the other side of the bench seat and a pair of dark grey flannel legs bending in.

  ‘Hey!’ she shouted, straightening up to make furious eye contact with the legs’ owner above the cab, but he was already sliding in. She quickly bent down again, just as the pointed, metal-capped corner of the portfolio suddenly came unstuck and jabbed her hard in the eye.

  She gasped and reeled backwards, tripping over the kerb and banging her head against a lamp post as she went down. Just for good measure.

  ‘Oh what? Goddammit!’ she heard the girl mutter. ‘Jerry, I’ll have to call you back . . . Yeah, yeah . . . Hey! You OK?’

  Ro, her hand clamped like a patch over one eye, shook her head, trying not to cry. She was seeing flashes of red behind the shut lid as her eye began to stream. It was her ‘working’ eye, the one she used to peer through the lens.

  ‘What were you doing? Couldn’t you see I hadn’t gotten out?’ the girl demanded in a tone that suggested this was Ro’s fault.

  ‘I was helping you,’ Rowena spluttered. It was impossible to open even the ‘good’ eye: that one was streaming too.

  ‘Helping? You were helping a stranger in Manhattan? What are you, crazy?’

  ‘English, actually,’ Ro replied petulantly.

  ‘That figures.’

  They fell into silence, but even with her eyes shut, Ro could tell the girl was still there, crouched by her. Horns were hooting in frustration at the hold-ups further down the street, and Ro could hear people muttering as they had to dodge her on the pavement. How inconvenient of her to hold them up like this . . .

  ‘I suppose the cab’s gone,’ Ro said, trying to scramble to her feet with both her eyes scrunched shut. She felt the girl’s hand on her elbow, lightly guiding her back up.

  ‘Yeah. Shall I get you another? Least I could do.’ The girl’s tone was slightly more friendly as Ro’s enduring distress became more evident.

  ‘Thanks,’ Ro mumbled, turning her face down and removing her hand from her eye, but the moment she opened it, it was like being lasered by a sharp white light and she winced in pain. She reached out for the lamp post for support, swinging wildly for it and still missing.

  The girl placed a hand on her arm. ‘Dammit, you can’t get in a cab if you can’t see where you’re going. Not in this city. And definitely not with you being English,’ she muttered under her breath, making Ro’s Englishness sound like an impediment. Ro heard her whistling through her teeth, trying to work out what to do. ‘Look, I’m headed just over there anyway. Why don’t you come with me and we’ll take a better look inside? You can get some warm water on it, do a salt bath . . .’

  Ro thought she might be pointing the way, but with both eyes weeping copiously, she couldn’t be certain. She nodded silently, letting the girl take her arm and lead her towards wherever ‘there’ was. It wasn’t like she had a lot of choice.

  ‘Shaddywack,’ the girl said.

  What?

  ‘Second elevator,’ she heard a man reply, and then the acoustics changed and they were inside, Ro’s trainers squeaking adolescently beside the pin-sharp tap of the girl’s heels on a marble floor. They stopped again and she heard the soft ping of lift doors opening, felt carpet underfoot as they stepped in.

  ‘I’m Bobbi, by the way,’ the girl said, as they started moving skywards.

  ‘Rowena.’

  ‘How long you in New York for, Rowena?’

  ‘Going back tomorrow night.’ She thought she could hear the faint swish of hair and imagined the girl, Bobbi, was nodding – or checking her reflection. She kept her head down; she felt awkward having a conversation with a complete stranger with her eyes clamped shut.

  ‘Your first time here?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘You like it?’

  Rowena shrugged, wiping her ‘patch’ hand, which was wet, on her jeans. ‘It does what it says on the tin, I guess. Bright lights, big city.’

  ‘You’re not much of a city girl, huh?’

  ‘Actually, I live in London.’

  ‘Yeah? I love London. Whereabouts?’

  ‘A place called Barnes.’

  There was a pause. ‘Down by the river, right? Got a duck pond and a cute little green?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ Ro said in surprise, her mind perfectly conjuring the little whitewashed Victorian cottage with shiny red door that she called home. The orange blossom had been on the verge of blooming as she’d left and she wondered whether Matt had noticed before he left her and their life together behind him. It had been the seal on the deal when they’d first viewed the house three summers ago.

  ‘Well, no wonder you don’t like Manhattan, then,’ Bobbi said, and from the direction of her voice, Ro could tell that she was indeed now checking her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘I didn’t say I didn’t l—’

  But the doors had opened and she felt Bobbi’s hand on her elbow again, guiding her along a corridor. Ahead of them, she could hear the muffled beat of music and raucous conversation. Ro slowed her feet as they got closer.

  ‘To be honest, I think I’m fine now. I really don’t need to go in there with you.’ She tried to open the uninjured eye a little and she had just enough time to take in a charcoal-grey carpet and pale grey-striped wallpaper before it watered up again.

  ‘But your eye – you look like Rocky! We should try to ice it for sure.’ And before Ro could protest further, a door was opened and they were swamped by the din inside. She felt Bobbi hesitate at . . . What? The noise? The wall of champagne that had been built in the past half-hour as everyone arrived with identical gifts? ‘Oh Jeez! You have got to be freakin’ kiddin’ me . . .’ There was a long pause and Ro tried to imagine what on earth had made the girl stop in her tracks. ‘Just keep hold of my hand, OK?’ she shouted eventually.

  Ro could only nod, one hand still clamped protectively over her eye, as she felt Bobbi’s hand close over her free one, their connected arms outstretched and taut like a mooring rope as Bobbi made holes for them in the dense, heaving crowd – seemingly knocking people’s knees with her portfolio, if the number of ‘Hey!’s was anything to go by. Ro yelped as someone trod on her foot; someone else splashed her with a drink as their arm was jogged; she could hear people shrieking a lot. The smell of cigars burning wafted past her and Ro knew she had been right to follow her impulse to walk away from this. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know she’d be the only person in the room wearing jeans – at least, wearing jeans with rips in them and that hadn’t cost $400 – or the only woman not in make-up. (Although thank God for that: she’d look like Frankenstein’s bride if she was wearing mascara right now.)

  ‘Watch yourself here – it’s slippy,’ Bobbi warned her.

  Ro frowned – slippy? – but stepped with care, still almost slipping. Against her b
etter judgement, she instinctively opened both eyes and in the second before pain shut them again, she saw foam. Bikinis. Waxed, muscled chests. A ball. Then red-pulsing blackness.

  The crowd was less dense over here and she could actually feel space around her now as Bobbi continued towing her through the apartment. And then suddenly the noise was behind them and a door closed again.

  ‘Jeez-us,’ Bobbi muttered. ‘Didn’t I just know it would be like this?’

  Ro said nothing: she wasn’t sure Bobbi was actually directing the question at her. And anyway, her own thoughts were racing. A foam party? She thought of Barnes again – the duck pond, the orange blossom, the pretty red door – and calculated how many hours it would be till she was back there, safe in the silence of her own home, sniffing Matt’s pillow.

  She heard the sound of water running.

  ‘Here.’ Bobbi placed a warm, wettened corner of a towel in her hands. ‘Press that against your eye while I get a dish and some salt. Lock the door behind me, OK? Don’t let anyone else in.’

  Ro nodded, pressing the towel to her eye and finding the lock with her hands. She slumped in relief at the momentary solitude. She wet the towel again and patted it against her eye over and over, grateful for the comfort it brought. The good eye had just about stopped watering altogether now and she could at least take in her surroundings without feeling like she was doped.

  The bathroom she was standing in was tiled with dark green slate, the washbasin she was using seemingly carved by hand from a slab of limestone. Cubbyholes made from iroko wood housed grey folded towels, and glass bottles of colour-tinted toiletries had been coded to the rainbow. She clocked a generous-headed shaving brush next to a lime-stickered wooden box of Geo Trumper’s shaving soap.

  There was a knock at the door and Ro unlocked it, but it wasn’t Bobbi on the other side.

  ‘Hey, you made it!’ beamed the waiter from the wedding with the disarmingly easy smile. He had a beer in his hand and was today wearing chinos with flip-flops.

  ‘You can’t come in here,’ she said abruptly. ‘Medical emergency.’

  ‘I can see that,’ the waiter said again, still smiling. ‘I saw you coming in. Maybe I can help.’

  ‘Not likely.’ She could guess his game. Bikini-clad women frolicking in foam? Hooking up with a bridesmaid at the wedding he was waitering at, minutes after he’d hit on her? It was pretty obvious why he’d invited her to this, and now that she’d gone and shown up, he probably thought he was in with a chance, in spite of – or maybe even because of – the travelling boyfriend.

  ‘I’m a doctor.’

  ‘No, you’re not! You’re a waiter. I saw you last night, remember?’ Oh God, had he forgotten already? ‘I’m the photographer? We met at the wedding at—’

  Just then Bobbi reappeared, carrying a bowl that looked like it had recently held peanuts. Was that what she meant by salt bath?

  ‘Who’s this? What did I say about keeping the door locked?’ she demanded bossily, throwing the guy a dirty look as she barged past. ‘You’re English. You don’t know what these frat boys can be like.’

  ‘I think we’re too old to qualify as frat boys,’ the waiter replied.

  ‘Yeah, well, you’d think,’ Bobbi muttered. ‘But try telling that to the flesh mob out there. Come on, fella – move it. This ain’t no pickup. The girl needs some first aid.’

  ‘Listen, I’m a doctor.’ The waiter gave a goofy grin. ‘Was a doctor, strictly speaking. Can I see? It looks sore.’

  Ro shrugged, in too much discomfort to argue the toss. He came further into the bathroom. ‘You happy for me to lock the door?’ he asked them both.

  ‘So long as you’re only coming in here to do some doctoring,’ Bobbi said in a steely tone of voice.

  ‘We’re all safe, then,’ he grinned, locking the door and turning towards Ro. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Her eye picked a fight with the corner of my portfolio,’ Bobbi said quickly.

  ‘Really? Feisty eye,’ he murmured. ‘Do you mind if I try to look at it?’

  Ro shook her head, watching warily from her good eye as he angled her face in the direction of the mirror lights, but not directly at them. ‘Can you open it for me?’

  Slowly, hesitantly, she opened the eye, feeling it fill with tears as the light streamed in like water in a bath. The waiter peered closer at her, his face just inches from hers so that she could smell his cologne. She pulled away quickly. The smile left his eyes, if not his mouth, as he registered her evident distrust.

  ‘Well, from what I could briefly see, it looks like there’s a scratch on the retina. You’re going to need to keep it covered for a day or two. It must hurt like hell,’ he added.

  Ro nodded.

  ‘I can patch it for you if you like.’

  ‘With what? Your shirt?’ Bobbi asked dubiously, watching the two of them.

  The smiling guy looked behind her and nodded. ‘Well, I’d rather not, given there’s a first-aid kit right there.’

  Bobbi turned. Sure enough a green plastic case with a red cross was stowed in the bottom cubbyhole. She retrieved it and watched as the waiter pulled out a crêpe bandage, an antiseptic gauze pad and safety pins.

  ‘So, you having fun?’ he asked, making small talk to fill the silence.

  ‘Not really,’ Bobbi said, folding her arms.

  Ro stood quietly at the basin, watching her assailant/good Samaritan through her now-dry eye. Bobbi was tall and lean, with narrow calves, and judging from her shoes, she clearly had the indigenous ability to balance on the balls of her feet for hours at a time. Her shoulder-length hair was top-flight brunette: low lit with plum shades and cut in layers around her oval face, which was beautiful rather than pretty. She had gently rounded cheekbones, a pronounced jaw and large, dark, steady eyes that Ro guessed missed nothing.

  ‘No?’

  ‘It’s a complete waste of a cab fare. I mean, a foam party? Seriously? I thought this house share was supposed to be for people who didn’t want to live in an animal house? The ad clearly said “responsible professionals” were wanted.’

  The waiter nodded. ‘I guess you have a point.’

  Bobbi stared at his flip-flops suspiciously. It didn’t look like the foam party was such a surprise to him.

  ‘And anyway, what’s with the one-hundred-strong crowd?’ Bobbi continued, warming to her theme. ‘There’s only four bedrooms, right? I reckon this guy’s looking to capitalize on his power while he’s got it, if you get what I’m sayin’.’

  ‘I think I do.’

  Ro didn’t, but she didn’t ask for clarification. Bobbi was clearly on a rant.

  ‘I mean, everyone wants a summer spot in the Hamptons and they’ll do anything, anything to get it: inside-trading tips and football tickets from the guys; and as for the girls . . . Ugh!’ Bobbi batted a hand disgustedly. ‘It’s not bad enough that it costs nearly half my salary just to get a room there for the summer weekends or that we have to compete against each other for them like performing monkeys? I bet he hosts one of these a week. Why wouldn’t he? It’s a sure thing, right? He probably filled the rooms months ago.’

  ‘What do you think?’ the waiter asked Rowena. He had placed the patch over her eye and was beginning to wind the crêpe bandage round her head.

  She just shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know. I’m English. Our seaside scene is somewhat different to yours – there’s no guarantee the sun will turn up, for a start. And Cornwall’s lovely, but we don’t have to audition for it. We certainly don’t have to go through –’ she waved towards the door vaguely ‘– that.’

  They all three fell quiet again, listening to the party rocketing along without them. Ro wondered how it was that she could be at the party and still not actually be part of it. How pathetic exactly?

  ‘I don’t know your names,’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘I’m Hump.’

  Of course he was! Ro saw Bobbi roll her eyes.

  ‘Bobbi. Winkleman.’

&nbs
p; ‘Rowena Tipton. But everyone calls me Ro,’ Ro added.

  ‘So what did you bring? You know, the gift that defines you?’ Hump asked, still unwinding the bandage ball asymmetrically round Ro’s head. ‘No, wait, let me guess – a magnum of champagne, right?’

  ‘Ha! It doesn’t matter now. I’m not staying,’ Bobbi interjected. ‘I’ve seen enough.’

  ‘So? I’m curious – indulge me.’ Hump smiled. ‘What else have we got to do in here?’

  Before he could come up with an alternative scenario, Bobbi immediately reached for the portfolio she’d propped against the wall, pulling out a huge black and white sketch on thick artist’s paper of a low clapboarded house with three shuttered dormer windows and a covered stepped-up porch that wrapped round two sides.

  Hump stopped what he was doing. ‘Did you draw that?’ he asked, impressed.

  Bobbi shrugged.

  ‘But how did you even know what it looked like?’

  ‘I Google Earthed it.’

  ‘It’s awesome.’

  ‘It’s a waste of time is what it is,’ Bobbi refuted. ‘I’m not handing it over after this. He couldn’t pay me to stay in his house, not if even one of those people out there is going to be my housemate.’

  Hump grinned, clearly amused by her outspoken feistiness. ‘But I don’t get it. That’s someone else’s house. How does it define you?’

  Bobbi blinked at him, as if astonished by the stupidity of the question. ‘I’m an architect. This is what I do. It’s who I am. Know me, know my career.’

  Hump looked back at Ro, finishing winding the bandage and securing it in place with the safety pins. ‘What about you?’

  Ro folded her arms. ‘Oh no,’ she replied defensively. ‘I don’t think so. I wasn’t even going to come in.’

  Bobbi looked surprised. ‘You were coming here too?’

  ‘Not once I saw the cliques walking in. It was pretty obvious I wasn’t going to fit. And I was right – funnily enough, I don’t wear a bikini underneath my suit,’ she said with impressive sarcasm.