One Secret Summer

by Lesley Lokko

  She stood in front of him, unsure whether to offer her hand or her cheek. He leaned forward; there was a second’s hesitation and then she felt herself enveloped in the strangely familiar sense of his body. His arms were hard and muscled underneath his sweater. She let her own drop, alarmed by the immediacy of her body’s reaction to him, as if the intervening three months of silence simply hadn’t happened.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said, his mouth very close to her ear. ‘I wasn’t sure you would.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ She put a hand up to her face as if she’d been burned.

  He held her a little away from him. ‘Are you always like this?’ he asked, a faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Like what?’ She unwound her own scarf and pulled out the chair opposite.

  ‘I don’t know … so … direct? No, don’t answer that. Yes, you are.’

  It was different to how it had been in Djibouti. There, she’d been the one who was unsure, who’d waited to take her cues from him. She watched as he ran a hand through his hair, passing it over the faint stubble that showed up beneath the olive-toned grain of his skin. It was hard not to remember the touch and feel of his hair underneath her fingers. She sat down abruptly, unnerved. ‘So why did you come?’ she asked simply.

  He slid into his own seat, his eyes still on her face. He placed his hands, palms facing downwards, on the wooden table before her. ‘I don’t know,’ he said finally, shaking his head as if in disbelief at himself. ‘We finished the project ahead of time … I had leave coming up … I … I just wanted to see you again.’

  Niela looked at him. He seemed to be struggling with something, a deeper, somehow more difficult truth. She was struck again by the horizon that was always present in him, the distance he maintained that both drew her in and yet pushed her away. He seemed to be nursing something, a lost, buried secret, some emotion or experience he felt he couldn’t share. There was a darkness in him that frightened her, and yet for all that, she understood it too. It was the same darkness that was in her, not as the result of her nature, but because of her past. Once or twice he would let something slip, like now. Turning up in London on the spur of the moment after months of silence was no accident, however offhand about it he tried to be. He wanted something, needed something, but he was unable to say what. His presence, she saw, was answer enough. At least for now. ‘Come,’ she said, finishing her coffee and standing up. ‘Let’s go. Let’s get out of here.’

  She lay slightly apart from him, dozing fitfully. The yellow glow of the hands of her alarm clock showed 1.49 a.m. The traffic outside had finally slowed to a halt; her tiny flat was just off the Goldhawk Road and the stream of trucks and lorries had lasted well beyond midnight. He was so used to the calm silence of Islington that he’d forgotten what other parts of London sounded like. His hand was buried in her hair; he stroked it gently, enjoying the weight and feel of it against his palm. The bedside lamp gave off a soft yellow glow, illuminating her dark skin as if from within. His eyes travelled down the length of her body. She slept with one leg thrown outside the cover, her arms curled tightly against her ribs. One full, rounded breast lolled against the other; there was a slight sheen to her skin that made him want to trace the contours of her body with his mouth, a saltiness on the tongue. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her stomach, admiring the smooth, clear line of her body all the way down past the tight whorl of her navel to the lovely hollow made by the muscles of her thighs. She was perfect, in almost every conceivable way. He pulled her towards him; now that he was here, with her, he found he just couldn’t let her go.

  54

  MADDY

  London, June 1997

  It was exactly two weeks since the wedding. A fortnight. She corrected herself quickly, trying the word out on her tongue. ‘Fortnight’ wasn’t a word that Americans used. She heard Rafe on the phone sometimes – ‘Yes, it’s been a fortnight already. I can’t believe it.’ She wondered who he was talking to. Sometimes he told her – ‘Oh, that was so-and-so …’ He seemed to have many friends. Or at least people who rang up and were keen to know who Maddy was. She didn’t know the difference. It wouldn’t have made one, she thought to herself with a wry smile. She knew no one. No one knew her. They hadn’t had a honeymoon; Rafe was too busy at work. They would take a proper holiday later on in the year, after the big reception they were planning, when Martha and Sandy would come. He’d taken a couple of days off, which was all his team could afford. When he’d gone back to work, Maddy lay in bed every morning, long after he’d left the house, listening to the distant hum of traffic on the Euston Road, a few minutes away. She liked the area he lived in – Fitzrovia, he called it – a shabby-chic neighbourhood named after a developer called Fitzroy, whose house still stood somewhere along the streets that ran on either side of the square. The Post Office Tower loomed above them like a fat steel and glass finger – at night it was lit up in a dazzling array of colours. Students, tourists, office workers and the odd local inhabitant all came to Fitzroy Square at lunchtime; from the tall windows of the living room on the first floor, Maddy could see them, sitting in groups of two or three, tossing crusts to the pigeons who’d learned to gather in their wake. Rafe’s flat covered the first and second floors of a handsome building on Cleveland Street, a minute’s walk from the square. ‘It’s your flat too, darling.’ The words sailed straight over Maddy’s head. She couldn’t comprehend it. The most expensive item she owned was the chocolate-brown leather coat she sometimes wore when she went for a stroll in Regent’s Park. The flat was nice in an offhand, unlived-in sort of way. Diana’s touch was everywhere – from the leather chesterfield sofa in the living room that was simply a smaller version of the one at the family home to the pale blue flowered bed sheets and the white bathroom towels with a black linen stripe. There was even a print in the dining room that she thought she recognised as a copy of the one in Diana’s living room.

  She traced out a pattern on the quilt with her fingertips. It was only nine o’clock. The whole day was in front of her. Rafe would be home late. A heavy caseload: two or three complicated operations that had been postponed until his return. She rolled on to her back, thinking about what he might be doing at that very moment. He sometimes explained things to her – anterior cervical discectomy; laminectomy; a stereotactic biopsy – a foreign language but one she was slowly getting used to. She loved the way his hands carefully traced the arc of his movements during an operation – cut, incision, probe; there was a delicacy and a lightness of touch that was at odds with someone so physically powerful.

  She pushed aside the quilt impatiently and slid her legs out of bed. She had to get up. She walked to the windows and pulled back the curtains. She had a whole day in front of her. She ought to fill it with something useful. Give it some shape, some purpose. She couldn’t lie around in the flat for ever. She had to find something to do. It was logical, she supposed, to start with what she knew. The theatre. She ought to find out what was going on, what was showing, who was playing … the usual stuff. Get a feel for the place, the players, the performers. Find an agent. Put herself forward. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, mouthing the words to herself. She’d said something along those lines to Harvey at Sunday lunch. ‘I might try and find an agent,’ she’d said, hoping she didn’t sound too full of herself. As usual, it was Diana who’d answered.

  ‘Whatever for?’

  Maddy blushed. ‘If … if I want to find work,’ she stammered.

  ‘Work?’ Diana’s tone made it sound as if that possibility were simply too remote to even be worth considering.

  Maddy found herself agreeing. ‘Oh, I know it’s kinda unlikely … I mean, you have so many fine actors here … such a great tradition of theatre … with Shakespeare and everything … I don’t think I’d stand a chance … but you never know …’ She was speaking too fast, and saying too much but she couldn’t help herself. There was something about Diana that brought out the child
in her, desperately seeking to please. Rafe had stepped in that time to save her. Remembering it brought the heat back into her cheeks. She had to find a way to deal with his mother. Nothing she did was right. Even the damn photograph. She blushed further. She’d been standing by the console in the living room, wondering what to do with her hands. Her eye had fallen on a silver-framed picture standing to one side. She’d picked it up, of course. A group of teenagers, huddled in the spray of a waterfall, sunlight catching the drops and pooling around their feet. She recognised Diana immediately. She was laughing, her face turned towards the camera. She was holding on to a young man; dark-haired and deeply tanned. ‘Who’s that?’ Maddy asked, frowning. He looked strangely familiar.

  ‘Who?’ Rafe came up to her.

  ‘Him.’ She pointed with her finger.

  ‘Oh, that’s Uncle Rufus.’

  Maddy stared at the photograph. Yes, it was … a much younger, much darker version. He reminded her a little of Josh, she thought to herself suddenly. Even though she’d only seen him once, there was a resemblance there. It was hardly surprising; Josh was Rufus’s nephew after all.

  ‘What’re you two looking at?’ It was Diana. She came to stand beside them, fingers curled protectively around her wine glass.

  ‘Just these old photographs. That’s the one of all of you in Crete, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, that one.’

  ‘You look so young,’ Maddy ventured shyly.

  ‘Mmm. It was the summer I was seventeen. Our parents shared a villa there every summer.’ She nodded in Harvey’s direction.

  Maddy was surprised. ‘You’ve known Harvey since you were seventeen?’

  ‘I’ve known him all my life.’ Diana gave a small laugh. ‘We were neighbours. They moved in when I was four. The boy next door.’

  ‘That’s … that’s so romantic,’ Maddy said, blushing as she said it.

  ‘Is it?’ Diana murmured. Her eyes lingered on Maddy for a second.

  ‘It’s funny. Your brother, Josh … he looks more like your Uncle Rufus than your father,’ Maddy said, looking at Rafe. Diana’s hand went out; she took hold of the frame and put it firmly back in its place. She’d offended her; that much was clear. Her mouth had tightened into a thin line. Maddy looked at her, momentarily confused. What had she said? Diana turned away from the console. From the stiffness of her posture and the way she held on to Rafe’s arm, quickly pulling him away, it was clear that the conversation was over. Maddy remained where she was, standing uncertainly by the door. She’d done it again – put her foot in it, said something she shouldn’t have, spoken out of turn. She grimaced; that old, nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach was back. It seemed to follow every encounter with Diana but she’d no idea why.

  She straightened the bed sheets, pulling the cover nice and tight and plumping the feather pillows up. She picked up their discarded clothing, setting the room to rights. It didn’t take long. She’d come over from the States with all her possessions in two giant suitcases, pretty much the same way she’d come to New York. She’d given everything else away. A few pans, some plates, a chair or two … nothing that she couldn’t replace. It was a strange feeling – in less than a day she’d uprooted herself, boarded a plane and was gone, just like that. There would be no trace of her in New York, just as there was little trace of her on the farm. In that way, she supposed, she was more like her father than she’d ever imagined. There one day, gone the next. Almost as if she’d never been. Aside from a weekly call to her mother, and two to Sandy, there was no one left behind who would miss her, or even notice that she was gone.

  She walked out of the room and down the short flight of stairs to the kitchen and living room, which were on the floor below. She made herself a cup of coffee and carried it through to the living room. It too was tidy and silent. She wandered over to the window, absently touching the few ornaments that lay around the room. The wooden bowl from Swaziland that a friend had given him; the polished silver fruit bowl that lay empty of fruit … the television against the wall, a book on the coffee table. He didn’t have much. She ought to go out and buy things, fill it up. Put her mark on it too. It was her home now. She sipped her coffee slowly, watching the signs of life on the street below. No rush, she thought to herself. No rush at all. She had time … more than she’d ever had. At that moment, it felt as though she had nothing but. All the time in the world and nothing to fill it with.

  55

  JULIA

  London, June 1997

  Julia hurried along Upper Street, her stomach churning with nerves. She was fifteen minutes late. She hated being late. Especially now. Tonight. She had a date. With Aaron. After nearly a fortnight of waiting in agonising indecision, he’d come up to her in the library one Wednesday afternoon and murmured something for her ears alone. ‘Can I see you again? Apart from work, I mean?’ The relief that flooded through her was so acute it almost brought tears to her eyes. Idiot, she hissed at herself under her breath. Idiot. You’re behaving like every woman you despise. Well, despise herself she might, but the truth of it was, here she was hurrying along Upper Street to some restaurant he’d chosen, unable to think about anything other than the fact that she was late and that he’d barely spoken five words to her in the past two weeks. Yes, she was behaving like every single lovestruck woman she’d ever encountered, but what could she do? Overnight, it seemed, her feelings had changed and the strength of the dislike she’d felt for Aaron Keeler ever since she’d clapped eyes on him was matched only by the strength of attraction.

  She saw him sitting to one side, his eyes fixed on her. She tried to slow her pace so as not to appear too eager. As always, his expression was difficult to read. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, shaking her head as she approached. ‘Katie caught me at the last minute.’

  His smile was slow, but steady. ‘No problem. I was enjoying waiting for you to walk in. I like watching you walk.’

  She caught her breath; it wasn’t the answer she’d been expecting. She sat down abruptly, aware of the heat slowly mounting in her cheeks. ‘I walk like a duck,’ she said, not sure why she’d said it as soon as the words escaped her lips. It wasn’t even true.

  ‘Funny sort of duck,’ he said mildly. ‘Definitely not a Regent’s Park duck.’

  She laughed. ‘I don’t know why I said that,’ she said, shrugging off her coat. ‘Nerves.’

  ‘Are you nervous?’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m always nervous around you. You might pick up a bottle and throw it at me.’

  ‘It was a glass,’ Julia protested, smiling. ‘Not a bottle. I don’t know why everyone keeps talking about a bottle.’

  ‘Everyone?’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Well, not quite everyone,’ Julia conceded, blushing. ‘Just the odd … you know, person who brings it up.’

  ‘And who might that be?’ His voice was teasing.

  Julia blushed even further. She certainly didn’t want it to sound as though she was constantly talking about him. ‘Oh, no one, really,’ she said, as offhandedly as she could. ‘Er … what’re you drinking?’

  ‘Whisky and soda.’ He held up his glass. ‘For my nerves.’

  She couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You’re full of it, Keeler,’ she said, picking up the menu and pretending to study it.

  ‘Full of … ?’

  She felt the full weight of his blue eyes upon her. ‘Shit,’ she said calmly, putting down the menu and reaching across the table for his glass. She raised it to her lips and drained it in one fiery gulp. ‘And don’t pretend you don’t know it.’

  His expression changed; under the release of laughter he touched her arm. She looked down at his forearm, at the fine dark blond hairs and wide hands, skin sliding tightly over tendons, lightly tanned and freckled, a band of slightly paler skin showing at the edge of his thick black leather watch strap. She felt something inside her turn over.

  The waiter came and went; a meal was ordered, a bottle of wine, cof
fee, some cheese … She ate and drank mechanically, her whole being concentrated fiercely on the man in front of her whom she’d hated for so long. Lady Barrington-Browne was right. Love/hate … practically the same thing if you ask me. She heard the words as if she’d spoken them out loud. Absurd. Love? How could she love Aaron Keeler? She barely knew him. But suddenly, she wanted to. Very much.

  He was conscious of her hand tucked into his arm as they walked away from the restaurant towards his flat. It was June, though you wouldn’t have guessed it. The brilliant blue skies of the previous weekend had given way almost overnight to a thick blanket of grey. At least it wasn’t raining, he thought to himself as they turned off Upper Street and made their way towards Napier Terrace. There was a second’s brief awkwardness as he unlocked the front door and stood back to let her pass. He stared at the back of her head as she made her way up the short flight of stairs in front of him. Her hair, which she usually kept pulled off her face, had come loose and swung glossily from side to side as she walked. He hadn’t been joking; he did like watching her walk. In fact, he liked watching her, full stop. He’d often caught himself wondering at the body beneath the smart suits she wore to work. Nice legs, he’d noticed, more than once, it had to be said. She was tall and boyishly slender but the silk shirt she wore parted just enough to reveal the slight swell of her breasts. She was beautiful, he thought to himself, but in a restrained, controlled sort of way. All edge, corner, angle … hers wasn’t the voluptuous softness of most of the women he found attractive. No, Julia Burrows’s attraction was different – to do with the way she talked; the way she held herself, the distinct, hard-edged cadence of her accent … something a different sort of person would have been at pains to conceal. Not her. Take me as I am. Her pride in who she was had as much to do with who she wasn’t trying to be – a far cry from most of the people he came across. She had more integrity – yes, that was the word! – than anyone he’d ever known. Without even trying, she impressed him. And who could he say that about?