The Last Charm

by Ella Allbright

  Leila

  July 2013

  The Holiday Charm

  Glancing down at the peach wrap-dress and wedges, I sigh. I can’t stand wearing heels and I don’t do dresses. My favourite outfit lately is leggings and an oversized T-shirt, but I can only get away with it when working on one of my paintings. This was the best I could come up with at short notice when rifling through Eloise’s wardrobe this morning, the spare key to her flat in my bag as always.

  God, I hate these kinds of events. As I gaze around the white tent at all the strange faces, panic makes my stomach spin and leaves me gulping. I can’t believe I let Edwin bully me into coming, but as the owner of Dorset Coastal Art Gallery and my boss, he insisted I attend for PR purposes. The gallery needs more exposure, and we need to bring in a different type of client, high-end ones with loads of money to spend, rather than OAPs on their annual summer seaside holidays. As Edwin flew out to an auction in the South of France this morning, and I’m his only employee (receptionist, girl Friday, general dogsbody, and soother of crushed artiste egos), there wasn’t anyone else he could call on.

  Last night he ambushed me while we were locking up, thrusting a VIP ticket into my suddenly damp hand. One he’d, in his own words, ‘purloined from an event sponsor,’ telling me it could be worse, and at least there was a plus one so I could bring someone with me. The only problem is, El is in Majorca this weekend for a teaching colleague’s hen do, and Ethan is away for work and becoming all too distant when he is here. Dad is finishing off a massive plumbing job, Chloe’s away for a dirty weekend with Owen, and Shell is working today, which makes sense given she’s a professional florist specialising in wedding flowers, and it’s high season.

  When I’d resigned myself to attending this pretentious, noisy, awful event, and every other avenue for a plus one had been exhausted, I decided to knock on Jake’s door, having caught a glimpse of him when I got home from work yesterday. I’m sure he has his reasons for not coming to see me straight away. When he answered, I felt a bit awkward, especially as I’ve been wearing his jumper occasionally, breathing in the scent of him whenever one of his brief postcards arrives. It’s probably a bit weird, but it comforts me.

  I was hesitant about asking him to come with me today. Yes, we’re friends now, but he still makes me jumpy and uneasy. I don’t like it, or how I feel when I think about him. How it felt when he touched the scar on my back at Christmas. The way that, even when he’s teasing me, he still makes me feel better about myself than most guys I’ve dated.

  Still, if it’s a choice between coming here alone or having him at my side and shoving those uneasy feelings aside, I know which I prefer. To my relief, he agreed readily, grinning and saying he’d meet me down here as he had other plans this morning. I bit my tongue to stop myself asking whether it was a hot date. It’s none of my business; he’s just a friend.

  Sighing, I survey the room. Everyone looks wealthy and polished – the women in expensive sundresses and the men wearing shirts with chinos. I hope Jake doesn’t show up in something too casual.

  ‘What are you wearing?’ A voice laughs behind me.

  Spinning around, I tut at him, my cheeks filling with heat. Think of the devil, and he’ll turn up. ‘Thanks a lot. And I could ask you the same question.’ But although not as dressed up as most men, he looks good in faded blue jeans and a navy Ralph Lauren polo top stretching across his broad chest. A pair of sunglasses hang from the vee created by the open buttons of his collar and if I didn’t know him as the guy from down the road, I’d say he belongs here. The top suits his wide shoulders and brings out his eyes. For a split second my fingers itch to paint him. I stamp down on the feeling as a few women around us give him admiring looks.

  He grins. ‘Relax! I only mean that I can’t remember ever seeing you in a dress.’

  ‘Well, thanks for the observation, but when the situation demands it, I’ve been known to put a dress on.’ Lie. Even for the Sixth Form leavers’ ball, I refused to wear a dress. The tight black lacy short-sleeved top which ended just above my belly button and matching floor-length skirt are still hanging at the back of my wardrobe. Dad said I looked like I was going to a funeral, but El said I looked amazing, especially as it made my long silver-blonde hair, tipped with pink at the time, stand out so much. I think Mum always wore dresses. A different one every day. I push the thought away as Jake stares at me.

  ‘It’s not that you don’t look good,’ he murmurs. ‘The shape suits you, it’s just you’re so fair … especially with your light hair and grey eyes, and the peach makes you look washed out. You need stronger colours.’

  ‘Since when did you become an expert on women’s fashion, and start wearing designer stuff?’ I say, prickly but not sure why. ‘You’ve come up in the world, haven’t you?’

  When Jake’s eyes flash, and the people around us turn at my raised voice, I know I’ve gone too far. I realise I sounded mean. ‘Sorry –’ I lower my volume ‘– I didn’t mean that how it came out. I’m nervous.’

  ‘I know.’ Shrugging my grumpiness off, he turns and lifts a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing brunette kitted out in a short black skirt and white blouse. She smiles and flutters her eyelashes. He smiles politely in return before turning and handing me the drink. I notice how she walks away with a swing of her hips, but he’s only looking at me.

  ‘It’s stuffy in here,’ Jake says, gesturing to the bubbly. ‘This will help you cool off. And to answer your question, my mate’s girlfriend is a colour stylist, and whenever I see them, she talks about it. As for the designer stuff … when you spend most of your life at sea, there isn’t much opportunity to spend money, so I’m doing okay. I can afford the nice stuff. Thanks for noticing,’ he finishes drily. ‘By the way, speaking of clothes, did I leave my navy jumper at yours when I dropped in at Christmas?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’ The back of my neck burns as I sip the champagne, avoiding his eyes.

  ‘Okay, must have lost it somewhere then,’ he muses. ‘So,’ he says, turning and gesturing to the knots of people chatting away and chinking glasses, ‘shall we do this? I take it you’re supposed to be circulating and telling people about the gallery? Let’s get it done so we can relax. It’s a beautiful day.’

  I tilt my chin up. ‘I’m not here to relax, I’m here to work.’

  ‘Lighten up,’ he says with a laugh, ‘you can do both. Besides –’ he leans in, and I catch a whiff of his aftershave ‘– it’s sunny and they’re serving alcohol. In an hour or two no one will be able to talk. They’ll all be too pissed. Then the polo will start, and they won’t give a shit about talking shop.’

  ‘Jake,’ I giggle, ‘stop it!’ But two girls next to us nod their heads in agreement.

  He raises his eyebrows at them. ‘Ladies.’ Drawing me closer with an arm around my waist, he turns me to face them. ‘This is my friend Leila; she runs the best gallery in Bournemouth,’ he ad libs. ‘Do either of you like art?’

  He gives them a wide smile, a dimple flashing in one cheek. Both the girls stare at him, and I swear I hear one sigh. Something sparks in my stomach. Looks like he can be quite the charmer when he needs to be. I shrug the thought off. This is Jake. I bat away the shimmery feeling I had at last year’s concert, when he put me on his shoulders. I push the burn of his fingers on my bare knees from my mind, and the way it feels with his arm around me now, holding me steady.

  I fish business cards from my bag and hand them over with shaking hands. One of the girls, a petite blonde in a strapless pink chiffon dress, pulls a face while staring at my charm bracelet. ‘Oh, look at that bracelet, how sweet. Where on earth did you get it from?’ The tone of her voice leaves me in no doubt that because it’s not designer, it’s not good enough. Which makes me feel like I’m not good enough.

  ‘It’s a family heirloom,’ Jake says smoothly. ‘It’ll be worth a fortune one day, won’t it, Leila?’

  I nod jerkily. He’s trying to help but his comment hurts almo
st more than hers does and his rare use of my first name throws me; it’s a foreign sound from his mouth. The bracelet’s already worth a fortune, more than all the diamonds and riches in the world. It’s a part of me, who I am, tracking my journey through life. My only connection with my absent mother, apart from our shared DNA.

  Leaning closer, he whispers in my ear, ‘Nice new holiday charm, by the way. I love the little palm trees against the sunset.’

  The charm arrived a few weeks ago, two days after I got back from a girlie holiday with El, Chloe, and Shell to Corfu. It was a week of sunshine, laughter, shared memories, and wine, and I was sad to come home. The fact I hadn’t really missed Ethan told me a lot.

  Jake’s lips brush my neck as he turns his head away, and my cheeks tingle with heat. ‘Thanks,’ I murmur in a daze, my breath catching in my throat. When did he get so hot?

  ***

  I hate it when Jake’s right. A couple of hours later, I’ve done my rounds of the room and most people have drifted outside to watch the polo. The few groups that remain in little clumps in the corners have softly slurred voices and the mood is mellow. I’ve had two or three glasses of champagne and I’m feeling fuzzy-headed and a bit sick. But I’ve given out lots of business cards and received plenty back in return, with three appointments for private viewings booked in next week. I realise that while I don’t like networking, I can talk about art. My back and feet are aching, and my throat’s sore from all the talking, but once I got going, it wasn’t too bad. Edwin will be pleased with my success.

  Grabbing a sparkling water from a blonde waitress who looks even more exhausted than I feel, I wander from the tent. Shielding my eyes from the sun with one hand, I gaze at the crowd, searching for Jake, wishing I’d brought sunglasses. I feel guilty he’s had to spend so much time alone, but after getting me talking to the first three or four groups of people, he’d started looking a bit redundant so left me to it with a murmured ‘See you later.’

  Something clenches in my stomach as I spot him in the stands by the stage with a woman. Looks like he’s been just fine. While I’m hesitating between going over or calling it a day and making my way home, Jake spots me and waves. Grimacing, I push my way through the crowds. There are too many people, and I feel suffocated, especially as ninety per cent of them are taller than me. Finally making my way to the row Jake and the girl are sitting in, I murmur a few ‘Excuse me’s before coming to a stop in front of them. Someone a few rows back mutters something and I realise I’m blocking the view.

  ‘Move up?’ Jake says to his companion, and she grudgingly slides along so he can make space for me next to him. I brush aside the dirty look she gives me. I’m obviously ruining their little party. ‘So, how did it go?’ he asks as I shove my handbag under the bench and roll my shoulders.

  ‘Good, thanks.’ He’s close, and I fix my attention on the players, watching as they grip the saddled horses with muscular thighs. The play is energetic and aggressive, and without meaning to, I find myself drawn in.

  ‘Only good?’ Jake says, turning toward me. That earns me another huffy expression from the blonde beside him, and I wince. He’s made quite an impression on her if she’s feeling so possessive.

  ‘Great, actually,’ I reply in a surly tone. ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Yeah, if you are,’ he fires back, raising both eyebrows.

  ‘Sorry. What I mean is, thanks for coming.’ I’m not going to tell him the girl with him is pissing me off.

  Rolling his eyes, he waves my thanks away. ‘’S okay.’ He nods his head at the sandy pitch. ‘Do you like polo?’

  ‘I’ve never watched a match before, but it’s better than I thought it’d be. I’m not a massive fan of the way the horses are being ridden though.’ I point at a stocky player who’s urging his pony on with heavy hands.

  Jake squints at him. ‘Yeah, maybe he’s a bit full on, but the horses look quite healthy to me. Their coats are glossy, they’re moving fluidly. I think they’re being treated well.’

  I raise my eyebrows, ‘How do you know? You’re not in the horse’s shoes.’

  ‘Nah, but I’m good at riding,’ he jokes, elbowing my side, clearly not talking about horses.

  I roll my eyes, something catching in my throat. ‘If you say so. After all, you’ve probably had enough practice.’ I’m imagining all those pretty girls in different ports. Does he send them postcards too? I hate the thought of it.

  ‘Speaking of which, are you seeing anyone at the moment?’ he asks lightly.

  Twisting my head to look at him, I nod. ‘Yeah, Ethan. I’ve been with him a few months.’

  ‘Don’t look too enthusiastic,’ he mocks.

  Flushing, I shrug one shoulder. ‘I don’t think it’s going to work out,’ I admit in a strained voice, thinking of Ethan’s resentment when I see my friends or need to work late and cancel plans. I recall his subtle jibes about my painting, which he calls my little hobby. There are echoes of Craig in his behaviour. No wonder I haven’t felt much like painting recently.

  ‘I see.’ Reaching out to put a hand on mine, he’s interrupted by his companion clearing her throat and wrapping glossy manicured nails around his upper arm to get his attention. ‘Jay-Jay, there’s only two minutes of this chukka left. Can you and your friend talk afterwards?’

  Jay-Jay?

  He gives her a dazzling smile, and stands up. ‘No need. We’re off. It was nice to meet you.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’ Her expression is astonished. ‘Are you going to call me?’

  ‘I’ll look you up when I’m back on shore leave.’ He smiles politely. ‘Take care of yourself.’ Leaving her gaping after him, he nudges me towards the end of the row. ‘Go. Now,’ he urges under his breath.

  Giggling, I obey. A few minutes later we’ve broken free of the crowds. With a relieved sigh, I bend over and undo the straps of my wedges, hooking my fingers through the ankle loops to carry them as we fall into step along the promenade, moving away from the event. ‘That poor girl, Jake.’

  ‘It could have been worse, believe me,’ he replies. ‘God, if she called me Jay-Jay one more time …’ He clenches his eyes shut before opening them and looking at me. ‘And she wittered on and on, for the whole two hours!’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing, mindless stuff. I stopped listening after the first twenty minutes. It’s okay to be quiet sometimes, you know? Come on,’ he says, ‘let’s go lie on the sand and watch the sea. I know it’s not Durdle Door, but—’

  ‘Okay,’ I interject quickly, not wanting to recall sad memories today.

  Jumping down onto the beach, he holds his hand out to help me. Pretending not to see it and holding my dress secure with one hand, I leap down next to him. I’m not sure I can hold his hand with all the conflicting feelings swirling around inside me.

  The sand scorches the bottom of my feet and I yelp. ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Hot, isn’t it?’ he says curtly before striding off ahead, his shoulders set.

  By the time I’ve followed him over to the spot he’s chosen, picking my way past the noisy families and groups of friends dotted along the beach, his face is neutral, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses while facing out to sea. I’ve upset him, but I’m not sure how. Perhaps he felt rebuffed because I wouldn’t accept his help? I didn’t mean to be rude. I just need time to sort my head out.

  Choosing a safe topic, and hoping to defuse the mood, I settle on the sand and put my shoes down beside me. ‘Summer’s a funny time of year, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well—’ I gaze at the turquoise waves rolling onto shore, taking in the crowds and music, the children laughing as they play in the sand with buckets and spades. ‘Everyone in the world seems to swarm to the coast, traffic backing up and snaking everywhere in boiling lines. People start gardening or cycling to get themselves out in the sun, and there are dozens of weddings to attend or festivals to drink at. It’s pretty non-stop.’

  ‘
What’s wrong with that? Sounds good to me.’

  Deciding to throw out an olive branch, I answer honestly. ‘The whole thing is my idea of hell. Then again, other than the few good people I have around me, the ones I love most in the world, my idea of hell is other people. I’m sure a famous author or poet said so once. Whoever he was, he talked a lot of sense.’

  ‘Do you know how anti-social you sound?’ Jake’s voice has mellowed, his tone amused.

  Shrugging, I watch a seagull swooping down towards the water in search of a snack. ‘I’ve got bigger problems than that.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Okay.’ He finally looks at me, pushing his sunglasses up into his thick black hair. ‘But I’ve got to admit that when I’m out at sea and think about you, I don’t imagine you at a party, wading through crowds or fighting it out for a pack of supermarket BBQ sausages.’

  The visual makes me laugh. ‘No?’ I fan my face, baking in the afternoon sun. He thinks about me when he’s away. Heat prickles along my skin, and the echo of the waves beating on the sand feels like a second heartbeat thudding in my chest. Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud.

  ‘No. I think of you in your dad’s back garden, quiet, with a brush in your hand and a canvas in front of you. I imagine your bracelet moving on your wrist and the charms glinting in the sunlight.’ He flicks one with his finger – the round disc with the sea, setting sun, seagulls, starfish, and a boat engraved on it with a tiny blue stone – the one I received during the second half of Year 10. It’s the most apt one, given our setting. ‘And,’ Jake adds, ‘I think of you unmoving, with that expression on your face, the one you get when you’re concentrating.’

  ‘What expression?’

  ‘Scowling and chewing your lip.’

  ‘I do not scowl!’

  ‘You do, I swear.’ He holds both hands up to fend me off as I try to whack him.