The Summer Without You

by Karen Swan

  Ro stared at him for a long time, not sure whether to laugh, to cry, to call 911. ‘So let me just get this straight: when I met you, you assaulted me for taking pictures of your children.’

  He looked taken aback. ‘It wasn’t assau—’

  ‘It was assault!’ Ro exclaimed angrily, shouting him down so that he fell silent. She took a deep breath. ‘And now you’re saying you want to pay me to take pictures of your children. Is that what you’re saying?’

  He stared at her for a long moment, his mouth flattening into a tense line. ‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘Will you do it?’

  Ro laughed at the absurdity of the situation. ‘Of course I bloody well won’t! Do you think I’m completely bloody nuts? You are quite literally the last person I ever want to see again, much less work with!’

  There it was – all her rage from the beach thrown back at him, her hands balled into furious fists, her breath coming fast and shallow. How did he have the nerve – the nerve! – to stand in her studio and commission her after his earlier stunt?

  ‘I see.’ He inhaled sharply, his eyes taking in the pictures all around them, other people’s memories held up as totems of happiness and love and lives fulfilled, his hands stuffed into his pockets so that his shoulders were hunched. ‘I’m sorry that I made you feel . . .’ he said, his eyes on the floor. Ro thought he seemed exhausted by the confrontation, out of words, and as his eyes met hers, she could almost believe he really was. Almost. ‘I’m truly very sorry.’

  She watched him walk away, past the yoga studio towards the highway, his car keys bunched in one hand, his head bowed.

  Melodie’s head popped through the doorway. ‘Is everything OK? I heard raised voices.’

  Ro looked up at her. Where did she begin? ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘You look really upset. I’m so sorry, Ro. He seemed so polite at the door.’

  Ro tried to smile, to brush it off, but her face contorted with the mixture of shame and anger she felt in his presence. He had seemingly come in peace, but she felt as thrown by his apology as she had his aggression at their first encounter. She shook her head and put it down to still emerging from the meditation. She had succumbed to it too deeply – finding Matt there – and now felt like she did when she slept too long in the day and woke too suddenly – heart pounding, dizziness, vague bewilderment as to what the time was, where she was and why.

  Always why. Because even when she was fully awake, the answer to that last question eluded her. Why was she over here when Matt was over there? Why hadn’t he talked to her before booking his flights? Why . . . why hadn’t she been enough?

  Chapter Eleven

  Ro was in the shower when Bobbi turned up that Friday evening – she could actually feel the change in the house even under running water, as though the walls were vibrating with the extra charge – and she felt a flutter of excitement at the thought of seeing her sophisticated housemate again. It had been a long week – no other customers had looked in to the studio after Wednesday’s unwelcome visit, no more contact from Matt – and she was eager to hear about someone else’s news apart from hers and Hump’s.

  It wasn’t to say Hump wasn’t great. He was. With Greg and Bobbi back in Manhattan during the week, the downshift in energy in the house was welcome, and she and Hump had fallen into an easy rhythm together of quiet mornings where they didn’t disturb each other (Hump was usually out first, kayaking on Georgica Pond) and hooking up at the studio at lunch after she’d finished Melodie’s mid-morning class. Hump would bring her a coffee and a flagel, having handed over his shift to one of his team of drivers, and would spend some time at his computer, dealing with advertisers, printers and mechanics as she drifted around the studio, playing Angry Birds on her phone and watering the hydrangea. In the evenings, once Ro had come in from her nightly bike ride – provided Hump wasn’t ‘entertaining’ a particularly pretty blonde/brunette/redhead he’d met on one of the Humper runs – they’d sit on the porch together, Ro rolling a bottle of Bud in her hands and taking ever bigger sips as she slowly began to acquire a taste for beer.

  Ro loved how easy she felt in Hump’s company. They had been living together for precisely eight days now and already they didn’t feel the need to fill silences or talk incessantly, bringing each other up to date on their long and winding life journeys to this point.

  Bobbi, on the other hand, had somehow managed to dominate the house even all the way from Manhattan, texting Hump the names of interior designers he hadn’t asked for and filling the freezer with her special diet boxes of food, which were scheduled to be delivered to Sea Spray Cottage every other weekend. (No one had heard from Greg, of course. It seemed that when he was in Manhattan, he went underground, just working round the clock.)

  Ro wrapped herself in a towel and stuck her head out through the bathroom door just as Bobbi ran up the stairs, two at a time. ‘Bobbi? I didn’t think you were coming out this weekend.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what Hump just said,’ Bobbi grinned, panting lightly as she winked back down at their housemate, who was standing below them with his hands in a ‘what gives?’ gesture. ‘But the weather’s so good and we . . .’ She tried to get her breath back. ‘Well, we had such a good time last weekend, didn’t we?’

  Ro remembered the disastrous yoga class, their coffees-on-the-go, the heavy Saturday night and lazy Sunday on the beach, and felt touched that feisty, indomitable Bobbi had enjoyed it as much as she had.

  ‘Well, it had its high and lows,’ Ro quipped, making Bobbi burst out laughing as Ro gave a giant sniff. ‘You’ll be relieved to hear I’ve moved over to vinyasa yoga.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yes. It’s got a lot more sleeping on the floor in a dark room. Much more my thing.’

  ‘You just wait till I get you going to Tracy Anderson’s classes. That’ll wake you up. She’s got a place over in Water Mill.’

  ‘Who’s Tracy Anderson?’

  Bobbi burst out laughing, as though Ro had said something extremely funny. ‘You kill me, Ro, you really do.’ Then suddenly the smile was gone and it was back to business. There obviously wasn’t time for laughing. Bobbi rarely had the time to laugh. ‘So anyway, there’s a season opener on at Wölffer Estate Vineyard tonight and that’s why I had to come down. My boss is making me do it. We built their stables in Sagaponack and I gotta be there. Contacts, you know? But I was thinking, you could come with me and make your own contacts too? You can zoom in on the wives and talk about their kids and shit, while I talk phallic house extensions and offices with the husbands.’

  Kids and shit? ‘Well, to be honest,’ Ro hesitated, ‘Hump and I had planned to go over to Montauk tonight. They’re showing old surf films at Navy Beach; it’s a fundraiser for one of the Sandy charities.’

  ‘But this is a fundraiser! This is totally a fundraiser,’ Bobbi argued, her eyes wide and intense like someone was questioning her invoice. ‘It’s just a better-dressed one.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’ Ro couldn’t help but smile as she took in Bobbi’s lean black Saint Laurent trouser suit and spike heels.

  ‘What’s Greg doing?’ Ro asked Hump, who was still standing at the foot of the stairs. ‘Is he down tonight?’

  Hump shook his head. ‘Working again.’

  There was a momentary silence as both Ro and Hump’s eyes slid over to Bobbi. Neither one of them had dared ask her what had actually happened between her and Greg last weekend, and Hump’s memory was as fuzzy as Ro’s.

  ‘What do we need him for? We’ll have a great time just the three of us,’ Bobbi said, her eyes shining brightly.

  Ro and Hump’s eyes met. Not good.

  ‘Hump, you up for a night of good wine and taking home a sexy chick in a little party dress?’ Bobbi called down the stairs. ‘You’ll forgo me two nights’ rent if I get you in there, won’t you?’ She put her hands together in a ‘pretty please’ pose that Hump was far too soft-hearted to refuse. ‘It’s for work, Hump. Otherwise I’d totally be in the city. Totall
y.’

  Hump tried to look stern – technically speaking, this was breach of contract – but Ro could tell from the gleam in his eyes at the mention of women in little party dresses that he’d been reeled in. ‘As long as it’s not black tie.’

  ‘It’s not black tie. Just jacket and tie – with flip-flops, if you really must. But if anyone throws you out on account of ’em, you are not with me.’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘Ro?’ Bobbi turned triumphantly back to her.

  ‘I don’t have anything to wear for something like that. I’ve brought three pairs of trousers, three shirts, five T-shirts—’

  ‘None of it yours either,’ Bobbi nodded, frowning. ‘We’ve got to take you shopping. I really don’t think I can take looking at you in that Annie Hall get-up all summer. In the meantime, I’ve got a dress you can borrow.’ She started marching towards her bedroom. ‘We’ve got an hour to be out.’

  Ro trotted after her in alarm, shaking her hands in frenzied little waves. ‘We are not the same size, Bobbi.’

  ‘No. But it’s a DVF wrap – it’s pretty much a one-size-fits-all,’ Bobbi said dismissively, then as she saw Ro’s expression, more encouragingly, ‘Honestly, it’ll be fine.’

  It was not fine. The label inside the dress said, ‘4,’ and whatever that meant, Ro knew it didn’t equate to ‘14’ in British sizing terms. There was a ten missing somewhere between the two women, and Ro had a feeling most of it could be found on her bust and hips.

  She tugged the front edge of the skirt further round her thigh again and straightened up – slouching in her usual style only flashed her leg like Angelina Jolie’s at the Oscars. She peered down her own décolletage sadly. Even she could see it was magnificent. If only Matt was with her now . . . he’d be so happy.

  At least the dress wasn’t red, that was one mercy – she was attracting enough attention at this party as it was. Rather, it was a chocolate-brown giraffe print with a wide Japanese-style obi belt, and if it had fit, she would have rather liked it. As it was, she felt conspicuous to have her figure so on display – Hump had actually choked on his Coke when she’d walked in earlier, and Bobbi’s face had betrayed an envy that paid no heed to the fact she looked like a model in her ivory body-con sheath.

  ‘Here you go,’ Hump said, coming back with her drink.

  ‘Thanks,’ Ro murmured quietly, taking a sip.

  ‘Not your thing?’ he asked, noticing her discomfiture.

  ‘Hump, I am in a dress ten sizes too small and wearing flip-flops.’

  ‘And that’s why you are the coolest woman here,’ he grinned, checking out her lime-green Havaianas – the only option she had over her Converses and hi-tops. Like the rest of her clothes, Bobbi’s shoes didn’t fit.

  At least he was wearing some too – a yellow pair, not so much in solidarity as in a branding exercise for the Humper.

  Ro tried raking her fingers through her hair again, to calm it. She’d been so freaked out trying to cram her curves into the teeny-tiny dress, she’d not had time to blow-dry her hair.

  ‘I wish we’d gone to Montauk,’ Ro whispered. ‘We could be wearing jeans and digging our fingers into cones of fries while watching surf dudes ripping it up.’

  ‘Yeah, agreed,’ Hump replied. ‘We don’t need to stay long if you don’t want,’ he said, just as his eyes pinned onto a glossy redhead sashaying past in a hot-pink mini kaftan and who held Hump’s stare as she passed. Ro detected a slight change in his movements; she kept forgetting that not all women looked at him like a brother.

  She stared into the crowd, feeling more alone than ever. Hump was with her – for the moment – but Bobbi, true to her word, had honed in on her contacts before she’d even had a glass put into her hand and was currently holding the floor with a group of men in blazers and chinos who were hanging on to her words with more than professional interest.

  ‘Ro?’

  Even before she’d turned round, Ro knew who was calling her. She’d know that voice anywhere.

  ‘Melodie!’ Ro exclaimed with delight. ‘Look at you!’ she cried, gesturing to Melodie’s cobalt-blue silk jersey bandeau dress and sea-green turban. Her spectacular shoulders were on display – Ro had never met someone with dazzling shoulders before – a gold snake clasp wound round her upper arm and gold flat sandals wrapped round her calves. Almost just the sight of her – so exotic and serene amid the skintight dresses and plastic surgery – was enough to put Ro in a meditative state.

  They had known each other only two days and yet it could have been two years, the women sharing an almost immediate and intense intimacy that Ro struggled to achieve with friends back home whom she’d known for over a decade. Yesterday and this morning, they had shared breakfast together, sitting on the steps outside their studios and chatting easily, Ro confiding in Melodie about Matt’s abrupt absence in a way that she hadn’t with a single other soul. Just putting a voice to her fears and anxieties – define ‘pause’. What if he didn’t come back? What if he met someone else? What if he didn’t really want to marry her? – had seemed to lessen the burden of walking around with a bright smile, pretending that all this was her choice. And if their breakfast chats lightened the load in her head, Melodie’s mid-morning class was like a recharging session to her heart, somewhere she could retreat and feel close to Matt, though he was nearly 9,000 miles away.

  She linked an arm through Hump’s proudly. ‘Melodie, this is Hump, of Hamptons Humper fame, and also my housemate and landlord.’

  ‘And friend!’ he added.

  ‘And friend. Of course.’ Ro rubbed his arm.

  ‘So you’re the genius behind people getting Humped this summer,’ Melodie smiled enigmatically.

  ‘Yeah!’ Hump grinned.

  ‘The ads have struck a nerve,’ Melodie added. ‘I’ve been at quite a few lunches where it’s come up. Outrage has generally been the common response by my friends.’

  ‘That was the idea,’ he beamed, eyes twinkling with delight.

  ‘So you’re actively courting controversy, then?’

  He shrugged. ‘You know what they say – the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.’

  ‘Oh, I know all about that,’ Melodie sighed, looking down and noticing his unorthodox footwear. Bare toes weren’t usually part of the ‘jacket and tie’ uniform. She smiled, seemingly liking him all the more for it. ‘You know, I can hardly believe we haven’t met before tonight. We’ve been neighbours for a few weeks now.’

  ‘There’s always chanting next door whenever I’m in the studio.’

  ‘Oh? Feel free to join us sometime. Ro’s become an immediate convert.’

  ‘That’s because it’s a lying-down form of exercise,’ Hump grinned, joshing her with his elbow and almost making her spill her drink. ‘Personally, I prefer to go for the adrenalin rush.’

  ‘Oh, but me too, every time.’

  Hump looked a little baffled. ‘Yeah, but . . . you can hardly say that sitting in a dark room chanting gives you that.’

  ‘On the contrary, I’ve had some women report back that it was . . . transcendental.’

  Transcendental? Her tone suggested . . . Ro’s eyes slid over to Melodie, wondering whether she meant what Ro thought she meant.

  Melodie looked back at her. ‘You’d agree, wouldn’t you, Ro? It’s had a powerful effect on you, even just within a few sessions?’

  ‘Well, yes, but not . . .’ She cleared her throat, embarrassed. ‘Not in that way.’

  Hump looked thoroughly amused. ‘Well, if I see any women wandering around the Square looking flushed . . .’ he laughed.

  ‘You’ll make the most of it?’ Ro offered, just as a man in a linen blazer came over to them, resting a shoulder gently against Melodie.

  ‘Darling.’

  ‘Oh.’ Melodie smiled, turning slightly to open up the group. ‘May I introduce my husband, Brook Whitmore?’

  Ro looked at the man in surprise. Melodie hadn’t mentioned him at
all during their intense conversations, and she didn’t wear a ring. ‘Hi,’ she said, holding out one hand and clasping the edge of her dress with the other. ‘Ro Tipton.’

  Brook Whitmore smiled warmly as they shook hands. He was suavely handsome in the mould of Pierce Brosnan or Alec Baldwin – all twinkly eyes and robust health, even though he must have been around twenty years older than her, judging by his bright grey hair. Melodie was forty-one – eleven years older than Ro – and he looked to be nearer his late fifties, early sixties, though he wore it well.

  ‘Ro! It is such a pleasure to meet you finally. Melodie has not stopped talking about this brilliant young British woman in the studio next door.’

  ‘Oh,’ Ro nodded, wishing she had extended the courtesy both ways.

  ‘She was telling me all about your business. Family media, wasn’t it you said, darling?’

  Melodie nodded proudly, her eyes fixed on Ro.

  ‘Very enterprising. I hope it’s going well for you?’

  ‘Mmm, well, hmm.’ Ro pulled a face, her shoulders slumping. ‘No, not so much, actually. But it’s early days still – I know that. I’m going to put a sign up in Bob’s hardware store. I need to be more proactive about getting people to know I’m there.’

  ‘It’s not always easy being ahead of the curve,’ Brook said. ‘Just you hang on in there. It’ll happen. Sometimes folks just need a little while to get their heads round new ideas.’

  Ro smiled, grateful for his kindness. She wouldn’t necessarily have picked him out as Melodie’s husband – he looked so conservative and old school in his brass-buttoned blazer – but he exuded a sense of generosity and calm that she could imagine had appealed to her new friend. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Nothing that’s anywhere near as exciting or glamorous as your world, I’m afraid. Insurance.’

  ‘Ah,’ Ro replied, with nothing whatsoever to say on that subject – unless her outrage at her car insurance premium going up counted as riveting conversation. ‘Sorry, I’m being rude. Have you met my housemate Hump? Hump Slater. He runs the—’