A Cornish Summer

by Catherine Alliott

  I took my phone from my pocket. Put it back again. Because I was also torn about ringing the one person I really wanted to talk to about this: Mum. I feared what she’d say. My mother resembled Hugo in that she thought people should be left to do what they wanted, but, whereas Hugo took the less confrontational path, the path of least resistance to keep the peace, Mum didn’t. It wasn’t about an easy ride. It was more of a philosophy. She felt people should be allowed to make mistakes because that was how they learned. Especially the young. She felt it was good if children failed exams, if it made them want to do better the next time. And she felt today’s young generation was too goal-oriented. She also thought things happened for a reason, the reason being all about learning who you are, gaining insight into your own character, which let’s face it, takes years, and if you’re shielded from doing it in your formative ones, it doesn’t help you later. So she disagreed with having the immediate path too tidy and swept by others.

  Her tutoring job both depressed and distressed her, and, but for the excellent money, she’d give it up in a heartbeat: go back to proper teaching. This obviously distressed me because I knew why she was in London, but she never complained. Never spoke of it. I just knew. Knew that she found spoon-feeding an uber-rich child to do something they weren’t intellectually capable of continuing later borderline immoral. It sat more than uncomfortably with her. Of course, this was completely different. But I knew which way she’d lean, if I actually asked for her advice. Mum didn’t watch like my father had, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have an eye. A view.

  I walked on, deep in my thoughts, neither texting Ted nor ringing my mother.

  Once at the cottage I lay down on my bed for a bit. I stared up at the ceiling, feeling, if I’m honest, slightly traumatized by the day’s events. But then, I am prone to exaggerate. Notwithstanding the hyperbole, however, as I’ve got older, I’ve noticed that I’m less able to surf the hummocks; to withstand those emotional shockwaves through my body; less able to shrug off the bumps and pitfalls of life. These days, I need to recuperate quietly, lick my wounds. But perhaps that’s just me.

  After a bit, I heard Celia clattering away downstairs, back from the beach. At length she came up. She put her head around the door. Saw my face.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing. Just having a little lie-down.’

  She regarded me a moment. Knew this famous face of mine. And I knew she thought – Hugo.

  ‘OK. Well, I’m here if you need me. Edward and I are going out for supper later.’

  I made myself smile. ‘Have fun.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She smiled back and shut the door.

  After a while I got up. I had a bath and changed and tried to make myself look pretty. I wished, not that Ted wasn’t coming, but that he’d come yesterday. Before I’d taken this body blow. When I was still in the mood for fresh starts and new relationships and a bit of scent behind the ears and painting my toenails. Wished that I already had this evening under my belt. Perhaps was even vaguely going out with him. Instead of which, I had it all to come. Not the best way to approach a hot date.

  Funnily enough, though, once the make-up was on, plus a clean dress, I felt better. I squared my shoulders in the mirror. Tucked my straight dark hair behind my ears. Come on, Flora. Candles on the table. Plump those cushions. A snog on the sofa. You can do this. Down I went.

  Celia had gone by now and the place was clean and tidy, which was nice of her. No cushion-plumping necessary. All the lunch debris in the garden had been cleared away, too, which was a relief. I didn’t want to look at it. Fuck off, Mum.

  Instead I set about making the fish pie, the only thing I’m good at, but, as Celia and I agree, you only need one. More than one, and guess who’s doing the cooking? It involved smoked haddock, salmon, scallops, eggs and two different kinds of cheese and breadcrumbs, not to mention cream and lemon juice, and I flicked on some music and opened a bottle of wine as I went about it. Then I laid the table with a cloth in the garden, found some candles and even began to enjoy myself – the wine helped. So that by the time Ted rang the doorbell I was approaching the mood.

  ‘You don’t need to ring,’ I told him as I answered the door. He was standing there with a bunch of flowers.

  ‘I dithered,’ he admitted. ‘But somehow these made it too formal to barge in.’

  I grinned as he handed them to me. ‘Thanks. I love white roses.’

  ‘Except they’re refusing to open. They’re all tight and clenched and they’ve resisted all my advances. I even put them in the airing cupboard.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re nervous.’

  ‘Or playing it cool.’

  Over supper, which Ted was suitably enamoured with, and which he helped make a salad for, or at least tossed some leaves in a bowl, and opened some more wine, he asked me how Roger’s portrait was coming along.

  ‘It’s good. I might not have said that three days ago, but today it’s good.’ I popped a scallop in my mouth. Chewed on in silence.

  He blinked, amused. ‘That’s it?’

  I sighed. Put my fork down. This again. ‘Thing is, Ted, it’s so sort of … internal.’ I tried to explain. Never could. ‘I can’t really talk about it. It’s not that I’m precious about it, it’s just – I don’t know. It would be like talking to myself. Having a conversation with myself, and what’s the point of that? To be honest, I’m always amazed when people have an opinion on it. I mean, good or bad. I do it for me.’

  He nodded. ‘I get that.’

  ‘I do it for me, and it’s about me, and I have a friend who’s a poet who says the same. Says when people say they’ve enjoyed his latest volume, he thinks, what on earth are you doing reading that? What do you mean, you bought it in Waterstones? It’s weirdly private, but of course, it’s not. Disconcertingly, by definition, it’s also incredibly public.’

  ‘Do you hate exhibiting?’

  ‘Oh God, I’d loathe it. But I don’t have to, mine are private commissions. But ask Celia about opening nights, she almost cuts her throat. One time, a couple of years ago, she didn’t even show up. It was a joint exhibition, so the other guy did, happily, but it wasn’t nerves or stage fright; it was just – what are you all doing here? Looking into my heart?’

  I paused. Ted was regarding me intently. He came to and nodded down at his plate, which was almost empty. Mine was almost full and I hadn’t taken much. Couldn’t really eat. I drank, though. No problem there. He was looking very Fisherman’s Friend tonight, I decided, in his navy-blue cable-knit jersey and jeans. His tousled hair was quite grey, I realized, and whose wasn’t? His huge frame leaned back rather precariously in one of our tiny wrought-iron garden chairs and I hoped it wouldn’t collapse.

  He smiled. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Captain Birdseye.’

  He laughed. ‘Thanks!’

  This was better and I endeavoured to keep it light. The mood I was in could have me being far more revealing about myself than I’d like. All that stuff about painting. I could feel myself coming over all confessional.

  ‘Minus the beard, of course.’

  ‘Oh, I did that once, but d’you know what?’

  ‘It came through white?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s a young man’s craze at the moment, so all the older guys think, hey, yeah, I can do that – and look like Father Christmas. They think they’re so cool and they get edgy new clothes to go with it and …’ I tailed off. I didn’t like the way I was sounding. Mean. Cavilling. And I knew why.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘No, just ignore me.’ I gave a wan smile. ‘I’m not entirely myself tonight. I’m sure you looked totally hot.’

  ‘I’m sure I didn’t, and you’re right, I did buy some new clothes. Bright red. Even got a sack of toys as well.’

  I smiled down at my plate.

  ‘Want to tell me about it?’

  I sighed. Put my fork down. ‘Not reall
y.’ But after a pause, I did anyway, knowing I couldn’t think about anything else, and knowing it would be rude not to.

  He nodded thoughtfully when I’d finished. Frowned.

  ‘Not sure the affair is entirely appropriate.’

  I sat up, delighted. ‘It’s not, is it?’

  ‘Not really. I mean, some would say it’s fine, but it’s slightly taking advantage, isn’t it? I’ve met your Peter. He’s a bit of an innocent.’

  ‘He’s a baby!’

  ‘And I think he’s wrong about Oxford.’

  ‘Yes. I know!’

  ‘I don’t think he realizes quite what he’s turning down.’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘Quite what an opportunity it is.’

  ‘I love you.’

  He shouted that laugh up to the sky, and again, I enjoyed hearing it. Suddenly it came to me.

  ‘Will you talk to him?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, he likes you, I could see that yesterday. And you’re an academic, he’ll respect you. Oh, please talk to him, Ted, promise me you’ll do it!’

  He laughed. ‘Sure. If you think it’ll do any good.’

  ‘I do, I do!’ I was forking fish pie into my mouth, suddenly hungry, ravenous, and then weirdly – not. I put my fork down.

  ‘He’ll listen to you,’ I said decisively, feeling better than I had for – ooh, two hours. Sorted. Fixed. I liked that.

  ‘Well, he may not. And I’m not sure I can interfere on the female front …’

  ‘No – no, he wouldn’t like that. Doesn’t know you. And also, he’d smell a rat. Because – how would you know?’

  ‘Well, how would I know about anything?’

  ‘Because obviously I’ve told you, and that’s fine. But not – you know. Janey. Excuse me.’

  I was rapidly clearing the plates. Ted rose to help but I shooed him down. ‘No, no, you stay here. Honestly, I prefer to – to stack the dishwasher on my own. Bit anal, about where it all goes, plates touching, that type of thing.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ He lowered back down.

  ‘Back in a mo.’

  He stayed put and I hurried inside. Threw the plates in the sink any old how and got my phone out. The number had to be found first and I panicked briefly about not having it, but – oh, thank God. There it was. When Peter had gone sailing with him in Cowes a couple of years ago, invited to race with him in the regatta, Tommy had sent it to me. My thumbs flew about.

  ‘Do not, under any circumstances, talk to Peter. I have a new plan.’ I paused. Deleted new plan. I swallowed, my mouth dry, trying to think. How not to sound cunning. Calculating. ‘I have a feeling I should try again myself.’ I left it at that. No explanation. Did it look a bit weak? ‘Mother to son’ I added. More emphasis was needed. ‘So please do not, OK?’

  The shortest of missives, but the composing of it had taken longer than I thought. When I turned, Ted was behind me, bearing the salad bowl.

  ‘Hi!’ I leaped a mile in the sky. Pocketed my phone.

  He blinked. ‘Hi …’

  I knew he’d seen it. I patted my pocket. ‘My mum,’ I told him. ‘I’d um … told her earlier. About Peter. She was just asking how it was going.’

  ‘Ah. And what does she think?’

  ‘She, er – she – agrees with you.’ I flew to the fridge, my face hot. ‘Cheesecake? Not mine, I’m afraid, but it’s from the bakery.’

  ‘Sure, why not.’

  I handed it to him. ‘I’ll get the plates and cream.’

  I waited. I hadn’t managed to send the message. He needed to go. He looked a bit disconcerted, but then he went out with the cheesecake. I furtively retrieved my phone and pressed send. Then I joined him outside in the garden.

  Equilibrium had been more than restored, in fact I was verging on euphoria. I suddenly found myself laughing again, eating all my cheesecake, and having another piece. The banter flowed easily, and we chatted and laughed and drank away in the dusky evening light. The dark came upon us quite quickly, crept up on us without our noticing, and the chill, too. I popped inside for a sweater. We agreed it was nicer to stay outside, although we did relocate to the creaking swing seat on the lawn. The one with the old-fashioned floral hood, positioned to watch the sun sink over the horizon, or, in this case, the moon to rise and send its milky glow across the water. At length Ted put his arm around my shoulders in an easy motion, laughing at something I’d said. He gently pulled me close. I snuggled happily. The chair rocked slightly with our shifting positions.

  ‘Only fair to tell you I can get motion sickness even on this,’ I told him as it swayed.

  ‘That’s seductive. Do we need a bucket?’

  ‘I’ll give you fair warning if we do.’

  ‘Excellent news.’ When I looked up to smile at him, his eyes were shining down into mine. He took my chin in his hand and lightly kissed my lips. Drew back a moment to gauge my reaction, which was not a bad one at all. Indeed, I believe he must have seen that it was good. He kissed me again, more thoroughly this time, and I found something unclenching and uncoiling within me. It was as if the white roses inside in a vase on the breakfast bar had taken this moment to relax: to unfurl their petals, hold their heads up to the sun and submit to nature’s warmth, or perhaps, to a Cornish summer.

  As we regrouped and he held me, it felt so good. I could feel his heart beating through his vast blue jumper and I’m sure he could feel mine. But then we heard something else. The front door was opening then closing.

  ‘Flora?’ called Celia.

  We glanced at each other warily.

  ‘Out here,’ I called back.

  We instinctively shifted positions a bit, although Ted didn’t take his arm away from my shoulders, and I was glad. I waited for Celia to come out into the garden. The candles were still burning on the table, French doors open, occupation obvious. I heard hurried footsteps, and then she popped her head round the covered swing seat. Her eyes found me in the dark. She looked a bit hectic.

  ‘Flora, can I have a word?’

  She hadn’t greeted Ted and was definitely distracted. She’d gone again. Casting Ted an apologetic look, I shrugged, and followed her inside. She was looking more than hectic; she was looking positively manic. Her hair was weirdly greasy and standing on end, her face was a bit puffy and shiny, and she had a strange look in her eyes, pupils hugely dilated. She seized my arm and pulled me into the sitting room, so Ted couldn’t hear.

  ‘Edward and I,’ she breathed, really close up in my face, ‘have been to a spa. In a hotel. You have a meal first, very fancy, and then you go up to the spa bit and they give you a massage, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Full works. Side by side, tiny towels. Dim lights, music, candles, couple of Thai girls.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And Edward, right, is about to pop.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘He’s about to pop. He’s got like this massive …’ She looked at me imploringly. ‘You know, Flora.’

  ‘Oh!’ I did. Suddenly.

  ‘So obviously we need to hustle it upstairs. He’s just parking the car.’

  ‘Right.’ I blinked. ‘Well, yes. Obviously.’

  ‘So I need you to go,’ she hissed urgently.

  I frowned. ‘But … Ted and I are in the garden. We won’t see him come in, we won’t see you go up …’

  ‘Yes, but the point is you’re here! And you know how Edward has to have complete privacy. At all times.’

  ‘What … no one in the house at all?’

  ‘Remember how we always had to wait until his flatmate was out?’ She glanced nervously at the door.

  ‘You said that was because the walls were so thin.’

  ‘Flora, please don’t be awkward. He’ll be back any minute, and you owe me this.’ Her dark, crazy eyes bored into mine, very close. She looked slightly unhinged.

  ‘Yes.’ I swallowed. ‘I do. I see. Quite right.’

  ‘Why don’t you go to Ted’s?’
she hissed.

  ‘Celia, we’re not there yet.’

  ‘Well, just – hurry it along a bit. At his place.’

  ‘No!’ I glanced gardenwards, alarmed. ‘No,’ I whispered. I licked my lips. ‘Can I sleep here?’

  She hesitated. ‘Could you … you know … sneak up later? Maybe read for a bit? In the garden? For about an hour?’

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with his B and B?’

  ‘The owner lives there. It’s her flat, she’s about.’

  ‘Right.’ I remembered now. Not just impotent Edward, but tight Edward. What was wrong with that fancy hotel? She was looking a bit tortured, though. ‘OK, I’ll sit outside.’

  ‘And tell Ted to go out through the garden. Not round the front. Are these his?’ She picked up his keys and wallet from the breakfast bar. Thrust them at me. ‘And blow out the candles. I’ll lock the French doors behind you.’

  ‘Do not!’ I yelped. ‘How will I get back in?’

  ‘True, good point. Now go.’ She thrust a handy guide book at me. ‘Here. To read.’

  I went. She watched me blow out the candles then she ran across and shut the French doors. Drew the curtain in a huge swish. Great. At precisely that moment, I heard the front door open. Edward doubtless eased in, greased from head to toe in baby oil, pupils horribly dilated, monstrously priapic. I shuddered.

  Ted regarded me quizzically in the darkness as I tiptoed back across the lawn to him, my finger to my lips. I sat down beside him quietly.

  ‘Problem?’ he murmured.

  I mimed that complete silence was crucial. He complied, but his eyes and ears were pricked, like a horse out hunting. I kept my finger to my lips. Muffled voices came from inside. Celia seemed to be entreating, insisting, pleading now. Imploring for them to head upstairs. But Edward had worked up a head of steam and I had severe misgivings about Celia being able to hustle this particular masterpiece upstairs. Clearly Edward was all for exhibiting downstairs, on the sofa, before the wood-burning stove, perhaps.

  ‘Darling, here, now!’

  Ted thrust his fist in his mouth. His eyes were wide and enquiring at me.

  ‘No – no, darling – upstairs!!’

  ‘I can’t!’

  ‘Yes!’