The Summer Without You

by Karen Swan

  ‘There’s a hardware store on Newton Lane. Guaranteed to sell anything you need.’

  ‘Newton Lane. Now where’s that?’ The aroma of camomile drifted to her nose and she tried not to gag. She moved the spoon lethargically through the infusion. Tea that looked like wee was no way to start the day.

  ‘From here? Back up to Main Street, straight over the lights, on the right.’

  ‘Great. I’ll head over there now, then.’ She poured the untouched cup of camomile straight down the sink.

  Hump raised an eyebrow. ‘Not yet you won’t.’ His eyes rose to the clock. ‘There ain’t nowhere open at half four in the morning round here.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Ro remembered. She felt so awake already. ‘Bummer.’

  ‘They open at eight.’

  Ro grunted. What was she going to do for three and a half hours? ‘You should go back to bed, Hump,’ she said miserably. ‘You’ve got a busy day ahead of you. I should probably wash my hair. It looks like someone’s tried to knit it.’

  He watched her for a moment – disgruntled and out of sorts with her new home and time zone. He ducked low to look at the pale sky through the window. ‘You’ve brought a swimsuit, right?’

  Ro looked across at him suspiciously. ‘Why?’

  ‘Go put it on. We’re going out.’

  ‘Not in the ocean we’re not!’ She’d had more than enough exposure to the Atlantic temperatures yesterday.

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘So what are we doing, then?’

  ‘You’re so demanding!’ he chortled. ‘Just trust me and go put it on, will you?’

  Ro exited the kitchen with narrowed eyes but did as he asked. She was never going to get back to sleep now, and there was nothing else to do. She picked up her bag as she passed the desk, doubling back for the cup of Coke. It was half drunk and completely flat, but it was still better than camomile tea.

  ‘Now this is how to wake up,’ Ro sighed, letting her paddle drop on her thighs as the orange kayak continued to cut through the water without her assistance.

  ‘Don’t worry about me! I’m fine! I’ll just carry on, shall I?’ Hump called mockingly over her shoulder, his paddle a syncopated blur as alternate ends cut through the water.

  ‘My arms are killing me. And I’ve drenched myself,’ Ro half laughed, half wailed as she looked down at her T-shirt, which, for the second time in twelve hours, was soaked and now also clinging to her swimsuit beneath.

  ‘That’s because you’re putting the paddle in flat. You’ve got to twist your wrist.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I bet you say that to all the girls,’ Ro quipped, making Hump splutter with laughter behind her.

  ‘I could get used to this.’ She sighed happily again as they drifted past long reeds. They were the only ones out on the ‘pond’ – a large saltwater lake that was set back behind Georgica Beach, where the ocean had breached the sandy banks to create a spit. All the inhabitants of the shoreline houses were still tucked up in bed, making this expedition feel even more secretive and special as a result. It felt so wild and natural here, unlike the groomed perfection of the streets and beach, with its whiter-than-white sand and picture-postcard bars. She watched a couple of swans gliding on the green water on the far side of the lake – or pond, as Hump kept calling it, although it was pretty damn big to be called a pond in her estimation. If something was halfway between a puddle and a lake, then that was a pond.

  ‘Do you do this a lot, then?’ she asked, turning her head slightly so that he could hear.

  ‘Much as I can.’

  ‘I expect your party lifestyle gets in the way, doesn’t it?’ she asked. His Facebook page had been gruelling to read at times.

  ‘Actually, those are the mornings when I like coming here most. Reminds me of what really matters when I’ve travelled too far down the path of hedonism.’ He paddled on one side for a few strokes, turning the craft slowly away from the reeds. ‘Sunset’s a good time to come out too, although it’s busier. Hey, you ever tried stand-up paddle-boarding?’

  ‘No, and I’m not sure I should. My centre of gravity is all in my chest. I’d be permanently face first in the water.’ She heard Hump chuckling behind her. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, between that and your crazy feet . . .’

  ‘Hey, it’s not funny. It was mortifying when I was younger. I was always convinced someone would notice during swimming lessons. It was like having a third nipple or something.’ It was true she had lived with a fear of being noticed for most of her life, and the inhibitive worry about her feet had transferred to her curves when puberty hit. Strangely, though, she didn’t feel as self-conscious around Hump. He was so unthreatening, non-judgemental. He was easier company to be around than many of her girlfriends, and they hadn’t stopped talking, laughing and joking since she’d arrived. The only thing they hadn’t done enough was eat, and her tummy grumbled loudly as if to make the point.

  ‘Urgh, I’m starved,’ she said, slapping her hand over her stomach and almost losing her paddle to the water. Hump caught it and handed it back.

  ‘Yeah? Me too.’ He checked his watch. ‘Hmm, it’s gone seven. I know a great place does early-bird breakfasts.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Wanna head back?’

  ‘Totally. But then I must get home to wash my hair before we go to the studio and greet Joe Public. I can’t keep getting all this seawater in it and not rinsing it. It looks like it was styled by crabs on crack.’

  ‘You’re a riot, you know that?’ Hump chuckled behind her as he started paddling again.

  Ro began paddling too. ‘Actually, I think I’m pretty good at this,’ she said, as they picked up speed rapidly. ‘I don’t usually do any exercise, but any sport that involves sitting down, I just seem to be a natural,’ she said, just as her paddle hit the water flat, with a smack, and lifted half a cubic ton of water with it as she pulled it back up. It landed on Hump like an upturned bucket and he jumped out of his seat from the shock, landing so hard that the kayak wobbled precariously beneath them, pushing out waves in the water that raced for the reeds.

  ‘Hump!’ Ro called worriedly, letting go of her oar to hold on to the sides for balance.

  ‘No – don’t let go!’ Hump cried, just as the paddle drifted past him. He reached – she could feel his weight shifting as he extended his arm for it, but the kayak was still rocking violently and gallons of cold water slopped into the seats.

  ‘Hump!’ she cried again, trying to counterbalance by leaning the other way, but Hump was too heavy, his limbs too long as he made one last effort for the paddle, and in another second, they had overturned.

  Ro surfaced with a splutter. The water was so cold she was too shocked to speak.

  ‘You OK?’ Hump asked calmly, running his hands over his face and hair like he was in the shower.

  Ro reached her arm out for the capsized kayak and leaned on it. ‘Yeah. Think so,’ she gasped, shocked by the cold for the second time in twenty-four hours.

  ‘Pst, look casual,’ he whispered as a family of curious ducks floated past them treading water, and he began whistling nonchalantly. She giggled helplessly as the ducks did a glide-by before drifting off.

  Hump swam over to her, effortlessly turning the boat the right side up. ‘Anyway, sorry,’ he grinned. ‘You were saying you’re a natural . . .’

  ‘Do your thing. I’ll be in here ordering breakfast,’ Hump said, jerking his thumb towards a cafe called the Golden Pear. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Uh. Tea and toast, maybe? I don’t mind. Surprise me!’ Ro said, pushing open the door of the hardware store.

  She paused in the entrance, wondering where to start and wishing she’d written a list. If they’d had time to go back home, she could have done that and changed into dry clothes. Instead, because they were passing anyway, Hump had insisted it made sense to drop by on the way past. It made sense to him maybe: he was practically dry, his hair was so short it was dry before they’d even got ba
ck to the car, and he’d only been wearing a pair of surf baggies. She, on the other hand, now had hair like a swan’s nest and a still-wet T-shirt that clung to her like she was Pamela Anderson on a modelling shoot.

  ‘Right, think, Ro, think,’ she muttered, her eyes scanning the floor-to-ceiling shelves housing plastic sweeping brushes, metal bins, pots of paint and coils of rope. ‘You need a hammer, picture hooks . . . um, some wall brackets for the TV screens, Rawlplugs, screws . . . picture wire, a spirit level . . . um . . .’

  ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’ a man asked her. He was in his fifties and wearing grey overalls.

  ‘No, I think I’m OK, thanks,’ Ro said, standing to attention and smoothing her hair self-consciously, but her watch strap caught in it and she had to disentangle herself in front of him, awkward, embarrassed smiles on both their faces. ‘Oh . . . Oh. There we go. I’m fine.’

  He nodded, hearing her accent, and handed her a blue plastic basket. ‘Maybe this would be useful, then.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She wandered down the dark, crowded aisles, finding herself tempted by the gardening trowels and fireplace grates. She always spent far too much in places like this, coming away with new kettles or willow screens when she’d just popped in for some turps; B&Q held the same fascination for her as the Selfridges shoe department did to most other women.

  She found what she needed – and what she didn’t, but no way was she walking away from that ceramic Chinese runner duck; it would look adorable outside the studio door – and brought it to the counter, just as the bell above the door jangled and some more customers came in, their voices tumbling over one another like wrestling puppies.

  ‘You just visiting?’ the man in the grey overalls asked, as he scanned the barcodes into the till.

  ‘Actually, I’m staying for the summer,’ Ro nodded. ‘I’m a photographer. I’ve got a studio in Amagansett Square.’

  ‘Yeah? You can put an ad in our window if you like. Five bucks a week. Lots of passing trade.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll do that,’ Ro said politely. She’d need to think about how she advertised here. People wouldn’t just wander past the studio on foot like they did back home. Everyone drove everywhere. She couldn’t just wait for people to stumble across her.

  ‘That’s forty-six dollars eighty-four,’ the man said, and she handed over her Visa card. She had yet to get some cash out and knew that was another job for this morning. ‘I’m Bob, by the way.’

  ‘Ro.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Ro.’ He offered his hand to her and she shook it with a smile. Her eyes fell to the display by the till as she waited to sign: LED torches, gum, copper travel-sickness bangles, waterproof cases . . .

  She picked up one. It was large with double zips, a hanging cord and a belt clip – ideal for keeping her camera dry should she dare to venture out on a kayak again. ‘Do these really work?’ she asked sceptically, examining the seams.

  ‘Best I ever found. I use mine all the time. I keep a boat out in Shelter Island and it’s saved my cell more times than I can count.’

  Ro deliberated. Phones weren’t cheap, but her camera was a whole other level at £3,000 new. ‘You’re sure, though? They don’t leak even a little bit?’

  The shopkeeper shrugged, looking up at someone behind her. ‘Ted, how you found that waterproof case I sold you?’

  ‘Fine, Bob. Not let me down yet,’ the man replied.

  Ro turned politely – and froze.

  Him! From the beach!

  His face, when he saw her, echoed hers – mouth agape, eyes wide with horror. In front of him, his two children were pulling twine off a coil and watching as it looped over his feet on the floor. He looked down at the sudden distraction and Ro quickly turned and grabbed the duck and brown bag full of miscellanea from the counter. Bowing her head low, she darted past him. He caught her by the elbow, but she yanked it away angrily. No way was he going to accost her again.

  ‘Get your bloody hands off me!’ she spat, and he recoiled immediately, holding his hands up in the air like she was pointing a gun at him.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Hey, wait!’ she heard the shopkeeper call, but Ro didn’t turn back. She wasn’t going back there for a stupid waterproof case when that maniac was around. She pushed the door open so it hard it almost flung back in her face, and ran down the street to the Golden Pear.

  Hump was waiting for her, two enormous steaming cups of coffee sitting in front of him. He looked up from reading the local paper as she burst in, breathless and agitated, turning back to make sure she hadn’t been followed.

  ‘Hey, what’s up?’ he asked, frowning as he saw her expression. ‘Now what’s happened?’

  Ro shook her head, too upset to talk. How could she have run into him – him of all people – twice in under twenty-four hours? She pulled her chair back and it scraped jarringly across the floor, but she didn’t register; she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror as she sat down: Matt’s unflatteringly oversized grey T-shirt clung to her in some places, billowed in others – giving her the shoulders of a prop forward – and her red and turquoise striped swimsuit had soaked through her beige shorts, giving her the bottom of a toddler. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like nothing.’

  She shrugged and took a gulp of coffee.

  He leaned forward on his elbows. ‘Why is it that whenever I leave you alone for ten minutes, you come back looking like your dog just died?’

  ‘I don’t have a dog.’

  ‘Matt have this much trouble with you?’

  ‘No!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘It’s really nothing.’

  ‘It’s a long story, I bet.’ She met his eyes at her own refrain, just as the waitress came over with their plates. ‘It is? Jeez, I think you’d better tell me this long story. What else we got to talk about?’ he said, gesturing to their over-stacked piles of wholegrain pancakes with fruit that seemingly came as the sidebar to tea and toast. ‘Trust me, we’re gonna be here a while.’

  Chapter Seven

  Ro sat on the porch, an untouched beer in her hand and an ache in her bones, her hair finally washed and wrapped in a wobbly towel turban. She hadn’t stopped all day. Hump had been out doing his beach runs since 9 a.m., giving her time alone in the studio to finish setting up. All the portraits were hanging now, and she had finally managed to get the brackets up for the small TV screens – although not without quarrying a few holes in the walls first, which meant they were hanging slightly lower than she’d originally intended. She’d also found a good-sized square table at an antiques store further up the road that Hump had sweetly collected for her – making a small diversion via the studio on one of his runs to Indian Wells Beach and strapping it to the roof bars – and which now stood centrally in the room, stacked with the oversized album books and a potted blue hydrangea.

  After all that activity in the morning, things had been rather quieter after lunch – no one had stopped by, although she’d seen a few women darting into the spa – but she was grateful for that today. As if the 4 a.m. start wasn’t bad enough, her body was still lingering in Greenwich Mean Time and since 5 p.m. had been ordering her to go to bed.

  She’d closed up on the dot of five and Hump had given her a ride home, where she’d wallowed in the bath for an hour while he’d caught up with the latest bids for tomorrow’s advertising board, before sitting cross-legged on the bed and trying to Skype Matt. She’d calculated the time difference between here and Cambodia was twelve hours, which in a way was almost an easier, cleaner time-cut to navigate than back in London, where the seven-hour lag was more inconvenient and meant he was always out by the time she woke up and in bed by the time she got back.

  She looked up, hearing the agricultural rumble of the Landy long before she could see it – Hump had gone to collect Bobbi from the Jitney stop on Main Street – and Ro unfurled her legs from beneath her, taking a nervous breath as she waited to see Bobbi again.

  She couldn’t h
elp but smile as the cheery yellow car rounded the corner, up the drive, and she saw Hump talking away as Bobbi looked about her dubiously in the basic cab. A Merc it wasn’t. The passenger door opened and Bobbi slid out – sliding was all she could do from that height, in such a tight skirt.

  Ro stood up. ‘Hi!’

  ‘Hey! How are ya?’ Bobbi called back, striding towards her and leaving Hump to get her bags from the back. She enveloped Ro in a fierce hug, pulling back to study her face, and Ro wondered whether Bobbi had forgotten what she looked like during the six-week gap between their two meetings.

  ‘Weird seeing you without a patch,’ Bobbi said. ‘Your eye OK now?’

  ‘Oh yes, totally. I’d forgotten all about it,’ Ro said, waving away her concerns with the beer bottle. ‘Want one?’

  ‘Sure,’ Bobbi replied. ‘Only, let me just change quickly. I can’t bear wearing black out here.’ She gestured to her skin-pinching black skirt suit, which Ro thought would fit her right leg. ‘You gonna give me the tour, Hump?’

  Ro sat back in the chair as the two of them disappeared inside, occasional words floating out to her: ‘Ercol? Hump, are you serious . . . ?’

  They emerged several minutes later, Bobbi looking refreshed and unnaturally colourful in an almost-neon-peach skinny-knit top, thong sandals and white shorts. Her legs were even better than her pencil skirts had let on – slim, toned, brown – and Ro felt instantly dowdy in her rolled-up navy chinos and Matt’s ancient school rugby shirt. (She was beginning to wonder if she’d gone overboard packing half his clothes to wear over here. The view in the mirror at the Golden Pear hadn’t been pretty.)

  ‘I mean, I heard people used to have avocado baths, but . . . I thought they were suburban myths, you know?’ Bobbi was saying as they stepped back onto the porch. She clasped his arm intently. ‘Hey, listen, I say this with love, OK? All I’m saying is I’ve got contacts. Use ’em.’