Eloise smirks. ‘If you say so.’ Circling around Shell and Chloe to stand next to me, she casts a look over at Cameron who’s propping up the bar in white shorts and an open-necked shirt, talking to one of his mates with a pint in his hand. Switching her attention back to the new arrivals, she arches one eyebrow. ‘This ought to be fun. I’m sure Cameron’s going to love this.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ I down the rest of my prosecco, immediately reaching for another. ‘Jake doesn’t think of me that way. And he made me take liability for the accident, the sod.’
***
‘Happy Birthday, Jones. How many drinks have you had?’ A deep voice says at my elbow an hour later, making me jump.
‘What do you want?’ I say flatly, not in the mood for judgement, especially after Cameron’s behaviour tonight. I’m half-cut on prosecco and perfectly willing to go the whole way. The alcohol’s making me feel addled and short-tempered, harking back to my thirteen-year-old self. The one who was angry at the world. The one who made a horrific mistake. The silvery burn on my lower back is itching like mad.
‘I just came to say happy birthday, and catch up,’ he says, surprised. His odd-coloured eyes give me an appraising look and I bristle, feeling as if he can see right through me. I don’t like it at all.
‘Oh. Sorry.’ Grabbing another prosecco from a passing friend, I notice Jake’s faint northern accent is less pronounced than it used to be. He’s standing close, talking straight in my ear above the music and jostling bodies. I ignore the heat coming off his solid frame, putting the glass to my mouth and gulping the rest of it down. It’s my fourth. Or maybe fifth. I’ve lost track somewhere. All I know is that someone’s turned Razorlight up on the speakers, and my boyfriend is acting like a shit. Hmm, the room is blurring at the edges. Maybe I should get some air.
Twisting around, I head up the wooden stairs, tripping over the top one onto the deck before righting myself by grabbing the railing. Jake follows me out. Taking a moment to admire the view, I breathe deeply, feeling more drunk in the fresh air rather than less. It’s barely 10pm. Twilight’s fallen while I was below deck talking, dancing, and drinking, and night is swiftly approaching. The pink sun – reminding me of Winsor and Newton’s Permanent Rose – has almost settled below the horizon and the lights along the Sandbanks peninsula from the row of hotels, bars, and houses are becoming more noticeable. They look, I think hazily, like a constellation of twinkling stars.
Where’s my prosecco gone? I notice Jake holding an empty glass and wonder if he took it. I also notice he’s wearing dark blue jeans and a plain grey T-shirt that fits him perfectly without being too tight. It suits him, with his black hair and chiselled face. And the scar too; I really like his scar. Each time I see him, he seems to get better looking. Wait, what? I shake my head. Stop it.
‘Have you got any idea,’ I blurt drunkenly, ‘how much my insurance premiums shot up after the accident? It cost me a fortune.’
‘It wasn’t personal, Jones, it was the principle. You caused the accident, so it was right you pay for it. I’m sorry if it’s hit your petrol and art-supply budget. But I’m sure you found a way of dealing with it.’
‘I thought you were joking when you said you’d be claiming against me. From what I remember, it was both our faults.’
‘You know it wasn’t.’ He stares at me, unblinking. ‘Besides, what good would it do for me to let you off? You’re not going to learn about consequences or about taking more care that way, are you?’
‘Just because you’re in the Marines it doesn’t mean you can order me around. You’re not my dad!’ We stop and stare at each other. My cheeks tingle with warmth. ‘Sorry, I’ve had a few drinks.’
‘Yeah,’ Jake nods, ‘I can see that.’ His face softens. ‘Look, I’m just trying to keep you safe.’
‘But you’re not my brother, or my boyfriend,’ I reply, ‘so it’s not your job to do that. I’ve told you before.’ Immediately I go crimson. Why the hell did I mention him being my boyfriend? Sighing, I flex my shoulders to release the tension. The truth is, Jake turned twenty earlier this year, and just the thought he’s so ahead of me in life makes me feel hopelessly inadequate. Despite his upbringing, I always feel like he’s got it together, while I float around in a bit of a haze. It probably doesn’t help that Dad always seems so worried about me. But I don’t need people hovering; it makes me feel suffocated. Makes me want to run. I try not to do that – try not to be like Mum.
‘Okay.’ He holds his hands up, palms out in surrender. ‘I get it. Look, the accident happened, and hopefully it’ll never happen again, so let’s drop it, okay? Did you get good A-level results?’
‘Yes, so I’m off to uni soon.’
‘What about your drawings? I always thought you should try and sell them.’
‘You did?’ The only stuff he’s seen are the doors on my old bedroom wall, the hidden piece under my bed and the stuff I sketched down the park when were young. ‘Thanks. Well, I did some pieces for my art coursework, and they were displayed in the hall, but I’d never try to sell them.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they’re not good enough.’
‘Really? We’ll have to agree to disagree. You look lovely, by the way.’ He gestures to my dress. ‘Strapless suits you.’
‘It does?’
‘Yes. You have great collarbones, even if they’re buried under that necklace.’
My mouth drops open. ‘What?’ I squeak. ‘Did you just compliment my collarbones?’
He screws up his odd-coloured eyes, before opening them again. ‘I did. And I sounded like an idiot.’ He laughs self-consciously.
It wrong-foots me, and I let out a giggle. Then I go to lean on the railing with my elbow and almost miss. I grab a tight hold of it instead. ‘Yeah, smooth.’ I’m not just referring to him. I pause to look into his eyes. At least he seemed sincere about my collarbones, and from the glimpses I caught of him downstairs, he doesn’t leer into cleavages the way Cameron has been.
He clears his throat. ‘So, that guy you were with? Is he your boyfriend?’
‘Yeah.’ I tighten my hand around the rail, and sway with the motion of the waves. I’m beginning to feel sick. A surge of fury at Cameron’s behaviour boils in my chest. How could he humiliate me at my own party? Losing his temper, treating me as worthless because I won’t sleep with him, and making me crave his attention by withdrawing it. So immature.
‘Only he doesn’t seem very into you – or at least, he’s trying to give that impression.’
‘Oh, bugger off, Jake. I don’t need you picking holes in my relationship. What’s it got to do with you, anyway?’
‘I was just going to say you deserve better.’
‘Well, don’t.’ His comment and concern catch me on the raw. Maybe I don’t deserve better. Because if what people deserve directly correlates to what they get, then Mum wouldn’t have left. Or at least, she would have come back well before now. So, I can’t be that much of a good person. I can’t deserve to be happy, can I? My brain is muddled by the alcohol; I can’t make sense of anything. I’m just angry, angry, angry. At her, at Cameron, at the world, at Jake. People are always letting me down or leaving.
‘Jones—’ He steps towards me, raising his hand toward my cheek, compassion in his eyes.
He feels sorry for me, and it makes it all worse. ‘Don’t!’ I bat his fingers away. ‘I told you, don’t say anything. Please.’ Reaching for the railing beside me, I miss, just as the wake from a passing ship sends the boat rocking. Stumbling backwards with the force, nearly falling over, another layer of embarrassment is heaped onto my existing humiliation.
Jake’s hand steadies my elbow and tugs me towards the railing so I can grab it. ‘Thank you,’ I mutter, while the skin of my elbow tingles at his touch. His hand slips away, and he buries both hands in his pockets.
Standing shoulder to shoulder for several long minutes, we fall into silence. He seems to know I need it, and my stomach is pitching a
nd rolling all over the place, so I use the time to steady myself, afraid I might throw up on his trainers.
I stare out into the darkness of the waves until I’m calmer. Jake, I realise, helps me feel better. There’s a reassuring confidence and solidity about him.
To lighten the mood, I tease, ‘So, taken up any more dares recently?’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I think for a moment before saying playfully, ‘Like swimming to land to prove what a good swimmer you are, as you once boasted.’
‘You don’t believe I could? Come on, I’m a Marine.’
Tilting my head to the side, I squint at the distant land, pursing my lips. ‘You couldn’t,’ I say. ‘It’s way too far.’
‘Wanna bet?’ He crosses his arms over his chest.
Laughing, I shake my head. ‘No, don’t be so s-silly,’ I slur.
‘What’s it worth?’
‘Nothing.’
‘A kiss?’ He raises one eyebrow, a dimple flashing in one cheek.
For a moment I’m both breathless and speechless at his question, and don’t know what to say. Did he just say a kiss? No, I’m drunk, I must’ve imagined it. Like when you’re ill with flu and don’t know what’s real or not. Still, the thought of kissing him makes me feel … odd, and my stomach somersaults. I don’t like the feeling; it’s like being out of control. Like when you spin around and around and when you stop you can’t walk straight and the world just tilts crazily.
At my silence, he throws back his head and laughs, ‘Don’t look so horrified! I’m only joking!’ He gives me a little mock punch on the arm, before backing away.
‘Oh.’ Embarrassed, I let out a giggle. Relieved. Disappointed? Confused.
‘I will take the bet though.’ He whips his top off over his head.
‘What?’ I gape at his toned body and broad shoulders, open-mouthed.
Digging his mobile phone out of his pocket and thrusting it into my hand, he strips down to his boxers.
‘Jake! What the hell are you d-doing?’ I hiccup.
‘Proving a point.’ He grins. ‘I rarely back down from a dare. Tell Owen I’ll meet him on shore later. Happy Birthday, Jones.’ With that, he leaps over the rail and plunges into the choppy blue sea which appears almost black in the darkness.
I watch in astonishment as he swims away from the boat with long, steady strokes. Not once does he look back. His head is turned toward shore and he simply keeps going. I have a moment of utter terror during which I wonder whether to throw in a life jacket or summon one of the crew. But then I realise that he is a Marine and we’re probably only anchored a mile or so off the peninsula. His dark hair blends into the inky darkness of the sea and I can no longer see him. Shaking my head, my stomach lurches. What do I do?
Owen wanders onto deck and picks up Jake’s top and jeans, squinting after his friend. ‘Is that Jake swimming back toward land?’
‘Erm, yeah.’ I push Jake’s phone into his hand. ‘Here. He … he said he’d see you on shore.’
‘Right,’ he muses, shoving the phone in his pocket and pulling on his earlobe.
‘Should I be worried? Should we tell someone?’ I bite my lip.
‘Nah, he’s more than capable of taking care of himself. He’ll be fine.’ He tugs on his ear again, lanky frame towering above me. ‘Um, why exactly did he jump overboard?’
Hesitating, I grab my hair from where it’s flying into my eyes and tie it into a knot. ‘It’s possible I dared him.’ I pause. ‘Didn’t think he’d actually do it though.’
He laughs and then looks at me searchingly. ‘Well, he never could resist a challenge. Plus, he is a bit of a show-off sometimes, when he’s trying to impress.’
‘Don’t know why he’d be trying to impress me.’ Holding a hand to my mouth, a burning feeling rises up my throat. Turning around, I bend over the railing and am violently sick. As I do so, I realise I never thanked Jake for the postcards.
***
Ugh, I behaved like a complete idiot last night. I feel awful. Physically, emotionally, mentally. I look awful too. My skin is normally milky pale, but this morning it’s practically transparent. My hair is lank despite me drunkenly washing it at 1am to get the sick out of it. Holding the vanity mirror from my handbag up to my face, the grey circles under my eyes almost match the shade of my irises. I’m eighteen today, at last, and should be bouncing around with a grin on my face. Instead, I’m lying in bed wishing for a quick death. ‘Why did I keep on drinking?’ I ask my bedroom ceiling with a groan, thinking of last night’s drunken text-message argument with Cameron. He’d disappeared once we docked, and had stopped answering his phone to me too. What a dick. But I know I came across as desperate and paranoid; not attractive.
I trudge into the kitchen half an hour later in a cotton skirt and vest top, my hair in a loose plait. I feel more human, but it’s still touch and go. Guess you’re not really supposed to drink your own body weight in prosecco, especially when you only have about a metre and a half in height and eight stone to absorb it all.
‘Happy eighteenth, love!’ Dad exclaims as I enter the kitchen, holding a cup of tea towards me. Fleur leaps from her bed, wagging her tail and spinning around, her triangular shaped ears flapping out behind her. Yapping away as if she too is wishing me happy birthday.
‘Ugh,’ I grunt, grimacing. ‘Shhh.’ I wave my hand at Fleur and push her gently away, ignoring her sad eyes. Bless Dad. There are purple balloons and Happy 18th Birthday bunting hanging from the walls and ceiling.
He blanches, putting the tea down. ‘You okay, love? You look …’
‘Like crap?’
‘I was going to say green.’
Letting out a snort, I walk over and give him a big hug, even though it doesn’t help with the nausea. ‘I know. Thanks, Dad. I appreciate the effort.’ Stepping back, I sit down gingerly at the table, accepting the glass of orange juice he pours. Fleur pads over and sits beside me, resting her silky little head on my knee. Taking pity on her, I stroke her velvety tan ears from top to bottom, just the way she likes it. I feel soothed straightaway, as I always do. She’s got such an adorable little face.
‘Was your party good?’
‘The party –’ I take a sip of juice and nod as the sugar hits my system ‘– was eventful.’ His face drops at my tone. ‘But great, yeah,’ I add hastily, ‘amazing, thank you.’ He and Grandad shelled out a lot of money for me to have the birthday I wanted. Or rather, that El wanted for me. It’s not his fault I got hideously drunk and argued with my boyfriend, dared Jake to jump off the boat, was sick everywhere, and generally made a pain of myself. That’s all on me. Once I’m feeling better, I need to text my friends and say sorry, as well as find a number for Owen or Jake. I’ll deal with Cameron later. ‘The staff were really nice, and we had fun. We danced, the music and food were good, and everyone loved the prosecco.’ Especially me. ‘I got in just before one,’ I explain, continuing to stroke Fleur’s ears rhythmically, ‘and the others went back to El’s.’
‘Well, glad you had fun, and got home safe. That’s good. Breakfast?’
‘I can’t face it at the moment. Sorry.’
‘Not a problem. Maybe later?’ Sinking into the sturdy wooden chair next to me, he hands me a thick envelope. ‘Happy Birthday, Leila. I know it’s not very personal, but it’s what you wanted, right?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ I hug him gratefully, knowing there’s a wad of notes in the envelope. I’ve been desperate for some new oil paints and supplies to take with me to uni. ‘Absolutely perfect.’
‘This arrived for you yesterday too,’ he says quietly, producing another white envelope from his pocket with an L on the front.
Gulping, I take it from him, noticing there’s no stamp on the envelope. She’s close then, must have delivered it by hand or got someone else to. Sometimes my full name and address are typed on the envelope along with stamps and postmarks. Those times, I realise she must be travelling. I don’t know which o
ne is worse. When she’s so far away, or that when she’s in the neighbourhood she never knocks on the door. Taking a deep breath, I tear open the flap with my left index finger, wondering if this time, finally there’ll be a note. Peering into the envelope I see there isn’t, but—
I gasp. Nestled inside is a little key charm in solid platinum, with ‘18’ set into the circular part of it, the part you’d hold if it was a real key. The one and eight are made up of sparkling jewels. ‘They’re real diamonds, aren’t they?’ I whisper.
He leans over to examine the charm as I hold it up so the jewels twinkle and refract the sunlight coming in through the window. ‘Looks like it,’ he murmurs, smiling sadly.
‘I’m sorry, Dad. It must be hard for you too.’ He looks like he’s going to say something as I lean over and hug him again, but then Fleur lets out a protesting whine because I’ve stopped pandering to her. ‘Oh, stop it, you,’ I say softly as I sit back in my chair. I’m going to miss her when I’m gone.
‘I can’t believe you’re off to uni soon,’ Dad says with a catch in his voice.
Something catches in my throat too. ‘I know, it’ll be weird.’
‘I don’t know what I’m going to do without you here to cook and clean up after us.’
‘I know,’ I say miserably, the familiar guilt rising. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I was joking, love! We’ll be fine. Ray and I can cook for ourselves and divvy the chores up. I’m getting someone in once a week to clean from top to bottom too. You’ve done a great job looking after us the past couple of years but now it’s your time to fly. You need to live your life. Neither of us wants to get in the way of that. Don’t think about it for another minute. We’re just going to miss you, that’s all.’
‘Me too.’ Blinking back tears, I extend my left arm. ‘Can you put the charm on, please?’ My hate and resentment of my mother have slowly diminished over the last couple of years, replaced by something like gratitude that she left if she couldn’t care for me the way Dad has done so brilliantly for the past seven years. There are still times when I miss having a mum, and other moments when the old familiar anger creeps back in, but it’s faded – like a patch of sunlight when the sun goes behind the clouds.
The Last Charm: The most page-turning and emotional summer romance fiction of 2020! Page 9