10. Ten

“Coo-ee! Over here, you two! We’ve saved a couple of seats for you. We saw you were on your way down.”

Rita and Gerald are sitting side-by-side at the back of the bus, with two empty seats in front of them: which is a mercy, really, because it means they can act as a buffer between me and Alex, and save us from having to sit in stony silence all the way up the mountain.

There aren’t many opportunities for silence — stony or otherwise — with Rita in the vicinity, though. She babbles on about her Fred, and all the things they used to get up to together, as the bus winds its way up the volcano that towers over the island, passing through pretty little villages and making me cling desperately to my seat as it navigates the narrow, twisting roads that take us right through the clouds and above them.

“But it turns out ferrets ain’t supposed to eat cheese,” Rita ends sadly as we pull up at our first stop — the Las Ca?adas crater that sits just below the cone of the volcano, 2,000 meters above sea level. “So that was the end of that.”

“Do you know what she’s talking about?” Alex whispers as we get off the bus in the car park. “Because I’m not sure I do?”

“I lost track somewhere after that first viewing point we stopped at,” I admit, not wanting to tell him I’ve been looking out of the bus window and daydreaming about me and Jamie, and what I’m going to say to him when we finally meet.

“Has he called yet, then?” asks Alex, seeing me glance at my phone.

“There’s no service this high up,” I tell him, wishing he wasn’t so good at knowing exactly what I’m thinking all the time. “So I expect he has by now, yes. There’ll probably be a message waiting for me when we get back to the hotel.”

Alex looks like he’s got a sarcastic response to this on the very tip of his tongue, but, fortunately for me, Gerald chooses this moment to ask him to take a photo, and Alex waves away the phone he’s holding out, before putting his rucksack on the ground and rummaging through it.

“Here,” he tells Gerald, producing an expensive-looking camera with an enormous lens attached to it from the bag. “Let me take one with this instead. It’ll be much better, I promise. I can airdrop it to your phone if you like.”

I watch curiously as he holds the camera up at eye level and starts fiddling with the lens, while Gerald poses obligingly in front of the giant rock formations that stand like sentinels at the edge of the caldera, holding both thumbs aloft, like a children’s TV presenter.

“So, are you some sort of photographer?” I ask as Gerald wanders off, and Alex turns to the cone of the volcano itself, which towers behind us, its tip white with snow.

I’m starting to wish I’d taken his advice on the shoe front.

“Yup,” he replies, clicking away with his back to me. “I am, indeed, some sort of photographer. Excellent detective work, Scooby.”

“Really? That’s so cool,” I tell him, ignoring the now-customary sarcasm. “So, what kind of photographer? Is it a hobby, or do you do it for a living?”

“Do you ever get tired of asking questions?” he says, looking at me over the top of his sunglasses. “It’s my job, actually. Although it did start out as a hobby.”

I’m slightly surprised by this, but only because it’s hard to imagine a man like Alex Fox having something as mundane as a job. To look at him, you’d think he spent his days writing poetry, and listening to Leonard Cohen, while thinking very deep thoughts about…. whatever it is someone like Alex thinks about. He just has that kind of intensity about him, somehow. The more I think about it, though, the easier it is to see a career as a photographer blending in quite nicely with all of that. It is artistic, after all. I expect he has a house filled with tasteful black and white prints of objects you can’t quite place at first, but which have a deeply profound meaning, if you’re clever enough to figure out what it is.

“So, what kind of things do you photograph?” I ask, following him down the stone path that leads to the largest of the rocks. “I’m assuming it’s not always volcanoes?”

“No,” he says, crouching down and producing a different lens from his bag, which he expertly switches with the one on the camera. “Not normally. I wish it was, though. It’d be a lot more interesting.”

He starts clicking away again, and I turn slowly around, taking in the view. From where I’m standing, it’s almost impossible to tell how high up we are. The rocky surface of the crater seems to stretch out in all directions, looking like the set of an old Western movie, sun-bleached and sepia-toned. If it wasn’t for the noticeably thinner atmosphere — and the fact that I distinctly remember ooh-ing and ahh-ing along with everyone else as we passed through the clouds on the way here — it would be easy to believe we were still at ground level, and a few centuries back in time. Off to one side, the cone of the volcano rises into the sky, providing the perfect backdrop for the many photos everyone around us is taking of it; Alex included.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I remind him when he straightens up at last. “What do you take photos of?”

“Ooh, is young Alex here a photographer, then?” asks Rita, joining us. “That’s lovely, that is.”

“Er, yeah,” Alex admits, looking like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. My spidey-senses tingle. “I take photos of… of people. And events.”

He starts fiddling with the buttons on the camera again, looking uncharacteristically sheepish.

“Events?” I ask innocently. “What kind of events? You mean like awards ceremonies and stuff? Conferences? Concerts?”

“Something like that,” he mutters, not looking at me.

“Hmm,” I say, thoughtfully. “What other kinds of events are there, I wonder? What kind of event would require a professional photographer?”

“Ooh! I know!” says Rita. “Weddings! He could be a wedding photographer!”

Bingo.

I manage to hold in my laughter for almost five full seconds before it bursts out of me in the — slightly embarrassing — shape of a low chuckle.

“I don’t only do weddings,” Alex says defensively. “That’s just what pays the bills. I do a lot of other stuff, too.”

I can tell he’s glaring at me, even with the dark glasses still in place.

“Sorry,” I say, biting my lip. “It’s just the idea of you — the dark dementor — taking someone’s wedding photos. It’s like finding out Darth Vader worked in a pre-school, or took ballet lessons.”

“Didn’t you say you hated weddings, though, Alex?” says Rita. “On the plane? I’m sure you said that.”

“He did,” I confirm smugly. “He said they were a waste of money.”

“They are,” mutters Alex, replacing the camera in his bag. “Trust me; I would know.”

“You must be a real joy to have around at one,” I observe dryly, imagining him skulking around behind the happy couple, scowling and sighing as if he’s there under duress. “Especially with that attitude.”

“I don’t have an ‘attitude’,” he retorts, zipping the bag closed with a little too much force. “I’m just not taken in by the fakeness of it; all the emphasis on flowers and dresses and place settings, when you just know they’re going to end up divorced in five years’ time, anyway. It’s so pointless.”

“Oh, come on,” I tell him, exchanging glances with Rita. “That’s a bit much, even for you, don’t you think? Not all marriages end in divorce. Some people actually do get to live happily ever after, you know.”

“Yeah?” he says, snorting. “It figures you’d believe in ‘true love’ and all that nonsense.”

“Right; and you don’t, I suppose?” I reply, needled. Alex just shrugs dismissively.

“Not really,” he says. “Like I said, it’s all just for show. Most of the couples I photograph only really care about the photos, and what they’ll look like on Instagram, or whatever. They barely even seem to like each other. It’s all about appearances; trying to be something they’re not, just so they can fit in with everyone else around them, who’re all trying to be something they’re not. It’s so… unauthentic.”

I think about last night at dinner, and how I felt like I was pretending to be someone else.

But it’s not the same thing.

Is it?

“You don’t know that, though,” I argue back. “You’re just judging them based on appearances, which makes you every bit as bad as you think they are. You don’t know anything about them, really. And anyway, you don’t have to be cynical about absolutely everything, you know. Whether you like it or not, some people do fall in love, and it does last forever. Doesn’t it, Rita?”

I turn to her for backup, but Rita just blinks uncertainly.

“Maybe we should head back to the bus,” she says, clearing her throat nervously. “It looks like it’s getting ready to go. Now where’d that Gerald get to, then?”

She turns and shuffles off, my question unanswered. After a second, Alex shrugs again, then goes after her, leaving me standing there in the dirt, wondering what just happened.

I thought I could have counted on Rita to back me up on the existence of true love. Not that I know much about it, mind you…

Turning dejectedly on my platform heel, I turn and hobble over the rough ground to the bus, wishing more than ever that I’d worn something just a little more appropriate than wedges. Once on board, I find that Alex and Rita have swapped seats, leaving me and Rita together, while Alex sits behind us, fielding comments from Gerald, who appears to be keeping up a fairly constant running commentary on everything we pass.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” Rita whispers to me as the bus moves off. “I don’t want that Gerald getting any ideas, you know? He just seems to have latched onto me; a bit like you and young Alex.”

“I haven’t ‘latched onto Alex’,” I whisper back indignantly, resisting the temptation to point out if anyone’s been ‘latching on’ to anyone else, it would be Rita herself. “I just felt sorry for him, that’s all. There’s a sadness about him somehow. I wanted to know what it is.”

I consider telling her about the birthday flowers I saw in Alex’s room, and the bottle of champagne he isn’t going to be sharing with anyone… then I remember the look on his face when I started asking questions about it, and decide against it.

“I’ve changed my mind now, though,” I go on, thinking about the little speech he just gave. “Seriously, what was that all about back there? Him ranting on about people being fake just because they want some nice photos of their big day? It’s so… judgy.”

“Oh, I don’t know, love,” says Rita, surprising me again. “Young folks do seem to set a lot of store by that Instagram these days, don’t they? It weren’t like that in my day, you know. Me and Fred, we got married at the registry office, we did. Quick ceremony, then down the pub for a pint, and home in time for The Archers on the wireless. It were perfect.”

“I’m sure it was,” I reply doubtfully. “But everyone’s different, you know? When I get married, I think I’d like to have the ceremony on the beach. I have this vision of us sipping champagne as the sun goes down… or, actually, maybe that would be better for the engagement than the wedding? I’m not sure. Anyway, I know there’s got to be a tropical beach involved somehow. And a sunset. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting a nice wedding.”

“My Fred proposed on the beach,” says Rita, effortlessly bringing the subject back to her Fred. “Well, next to the beach. It were in Skegness, on a bench. He left me waiting there for 20 minutes in the rain, the bugger… then he came back with a bag of fish and chips and a ring he’d found in the pawnshop.”

She sighs happily at the memory.

“See, that’s true love, Summer,” she says, looking wistfully out of the window. “It was wet and windy, and the stupid old sod had forgotten to put vinegar on the chips. But I’d still give an arm and a leg to be back there on that bench, so I would, smellin’ them greasy chips.”

I swallow down the lump that’s somehow risen in my throat at these words, but am saved the trouble of responding to them by the tour guide, who chooses that moment to tell us all that we’re almost at the cable car station. Before long we’re disembarking yet again’ me shivering in my thin shirt as the fresh air hits me, and Rita wondering aloud if they might sell fish and chips in the restaurant, because she’s ‘taken a notion’ for them now.

“Don’t say it,” I groan as Alex brushes past me, casting a smug look at my inappropriate attire as he passes me, wearing a thick hoodie, which he’s presumably produced from his Mary Poppins backpack.

He pauses, and looks back at me, as if he’s considering something. Then he dives back into his bag and pulls out a sweater, which he hands to me.

“Here,” he says gruffly. “It won’t match your outfit, but it’ll keep you warm.”

“Um… thanks,” I say, surprised. “Did you… did you just happen to have an extra sweater in your bag? Were you expecting a knitwear-related emergency?”

“No,” he admits, looking slightly embarrassed. “Well, not for me, anyway. I noticed you weren’t exactly dressed for mountain climbing when you came to my room, though, so I thought I’d better come prepared.”

“Wow, that’s unexpectedly nice of you,” I tell him, putting on the sweater. It smells faintly of the aftershave he always wears, and I have to stop myself from inhaling it as I pull it over my head.

“I’m an unexpectedly nice guy, Summer,” says Alex, watching me. “Great look, by the way.”

I look ruefully down at the sweater, which is so long it reaches past the hem of my shorts, making me look like that’s all I’m wearing.

“Don’t worry about it,” says Alex, doing that mind-reading thing again. “You’re not the only person who didn’t realize it would be cooler up here.”

A quick look at the crowds of people surrounding us as our tour guide leads us up the short hill to the cable car station confirms the truth of this statement. Sure, there’s a handful of smarty-pants hikers in boots and stretchy climbing gear, but there’s also plenty of ‘normal’ people in shorts and flip-flops, which makes me feel a bit better.

“This way, please!”

The tour guide herds our group towards the cable car station at the top of the hill, and my stomach lurches traitorously as I look up to see one of the cars coming towards us, rocking slightly as it docks — or whatever it is that cable cars do — so the passengers can get off.

“It’s a lot smaller than I expected,” I whisper to Alex as we join the end of the long queue of people all waiting for their opportunity to be suspended in midair, relying on what looks to me to be a suspiciously thin cable for survival. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

“It’s totally safe,” he reassures me. “Don’t worry; it probably takes hundreds of tourists a day up there. If it was going to crash, I’m sure it would’ve done it by now.”

I wish I could be quite so sure. But the line moves forward, and, before I know it, I’m standing inside a small metal box, which dangles precariously from something that looks a bit like my mum’s washing line, and stretches all the way up to the summit of the volcano.

“Do you want to hold my hand again?” Alex asks, looking pained to be making the offer. “You’re not going to throw up, are you?”

“No, I’m absolutely fine,” I lie, grabbing his arm as the doors close and the carriage lurches suddenly forward. “I’m cool, remember?”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he replies, deadpan. “You’re the coolest.”

Surprisingly, though, I do manage to remain relatively ‘cool’ as the cable car sails upwards, the ground disappearing beneath us as we glide upwards, much more smoothly than I’d expected.

“You okay?” Alex asks as I press my face against the widow, trying to take in as much of the view as possible.

“Yeah,” I reply, pleased with myself. “Yeah, I really am.”

And it’s true. I, Summer Brookes, am on top of a mountain. And, okay, I didn’t climb it, exactly, but I’m here, all the same; and as the cable car finally comes to a stop and the doors whoosh open, I feel like if I can do this, I can do anything.

I’ve crossed two items off my list of resolutions already. I’ve gotten onto an airplane, and I’ve climbed — been carried — up a mountain.

Cool girl Summer has arrived.