28. Twenty-Eight

“Ididn’t do it deliberately, did I?” says Gerald indignantly, sitting down heavily. His hair looks like he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly, and he’s very pale. “How was I to know they’d be havin’ a smooch right at the exact bit of the beach where she wanted me to scatter her ashes?”

“Oh, anyone could see that was going to happen,” replies Rita, raising a jewel-encrusted hand to summon the waiter. “You should have been on the lookout for it. I told you the leaves would be right about them two, didn’t I? So, tonight was the night, then, was it?” she goes on eagerly, turning to me and Alex. We’re sitting at opposite ends of one of the squashy sofas that serves for a seat in this bar, and determinedly not looking at each other. “The leaves are never wrong,” goes on Rita. “Never.”

“I think Gerald looks like he could use a drink,” says Alex, in a tone that suggests he could use one himself. “What d’you say, Gerald?”

Gerald nods shakily.

“Sorry about throwin’ my Margo over the pair of you. I didn’t realize it was so windy,” he says, sounding uncharacteristically helpless.

“That’s okay,” says Alex soothingly, surreptitiously trying to dust off his clothes without Gerald noticing. “I’m sure you must’ve got as much of a shock as we did.”

I’m not sure about that at all, but I nod encouragingly, while Rita finally manages to get the attention of a waiter and gives him a lengthy order, seemingly picking everyone’s drinks at random.

“Margot and I came here every year,” says Gerald, who’s starting to regain a bit of color in his cheeks. “Like clockwork, we were. So when she found out she didn’t have long, this is where she wanted to be.”

He reaches up and rubs fiercely at his eyes, and my heart contracts with pity for him, followed by a jab of guilt for myself, when it occurs to me that this is the first time he’s told us about his wife: probably because it didn’t occur to any of us to ask.

I risk a quick look at Alex. He’s sitting next to Gerald, listening intently to the older man as he talks about his wife’s illness, and how she’d hoped to be able to travel here with him one last time, but didn’t make it. Alex is giving him his full concentration, in that way he does that manages to be interested without being intrusive. He’s good with people, I realize. He’s chatted to Julian about the cricket results (despite having confessed to me that he’s more of a tennis guy), stopped Alice from steering her scooter into the pool (but without making her feel bad about it), allowed Rita to read his tea leaves…

He even kissed me passionately on the beach a few minutes ago, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t just do it out of politeness, like he does with Julian and the cricket, but it’s hard to know for sure, because we haven’t had the chance to talk since it happened, and now he’s sitting as far away from me as possible.

Does that mean he regrets it?

Was it just a moment of madness, or something more?

And even if it wasn’t, how does it change the fact that, after tomorrow, we’re going back to our different corners of the country, and the chances of us being randomly seated next to each other ever again are slim to none? We’re not even sitting next to each other in this bar, let alone anywhere else.

That doesn’t seem to bode well, somehow.

Just as I’m about to shift my over-thinking up a notch, Alex puts a stop to it by choosing this moment to catch my eye. He smiles over at me from where he’s sitting sandwiched between Gerald and Julian and now I’m in real trouble, because now he’s smiling at me and leaving in two days. And that’s without even getting into all the complicated non-marriage stuff.

I’m doomed, aren’t I? I’m never getting over this.

Our drinks arrive. Mine’s a Sex on the Beach, as is Alex’s (“for obvious reasons,” says Rita, nudging me in the ribs), and we both drink them a little too fast, holding them up in a toast first while Julian gives a heartfelt — and totally fictional, given that he’s only just found out she ever existed — tribute to Gerald’s dead wife, Margot.

“He should’ve told us he was recently widowed,” says Rita, looking over at the man in question with renewed interest. “It might have made us a bit more sympathetic when he kept going on about the darts all the time, the silly old codger.”

She tuts in exasperation, but I can tell her heart’s not in it anymore. The Rita who dismissed Gerald as a mildly irritating “limpet” who couldn’t take a hint has had a wake-up call.

I think we all have.

“Is this triggering for you, Rita?” I ask, the thought suddenly occurring to me. “Does it remind you of when your Fred died?”

Rita almost spills her drink by way of response.

“Died?” she chuckles through a mouthful of margarita (“Because it’s got my name in it…”). “Fred’s not dead, love. The git lives in Watford with his fancy woman and a whippet called Steve. Has done for… ooh, must be 10 years now.”

“But… but… what about all that stuff you said about true love?” I splutter. “You know… the fish and chips? The engagement ring? Skegness? You said you’d give anything to go back?”

“To Skegness?” says Rita, wonderingly. “I prefer Tenerife, love. I just said that to get you to stop thinking everything has to be perfect all the time. Me and my Fred, we weren’t perfect — not by a long shot. But we were happy. Well, up until he ran off with the fancy woman, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

I take a large gulp of my drink.

“Life’s like that, though, isn’t it?” she goes on. “It’s not always perfect, but if you wait for it to be perfect, you just end up missing it. That’s why we booked that meal for you and young Alex tonight. So you didn’t end up missing each other, even though fate were obviously trying to put the two of you together.”

“Wait: you booked dinner for me and Alex?” Now it’s my turn to almost spill my drink. “I thought it was a freebie from the hotel? That’s what he told me?”

“Oh, that’s what he thinks, too,” says Rita, tapping the side of her nose as if she’s confiding a state secret. “It was Chloe’s idea to book it and get the hotel to say it was from them. Said it was the least she could do, she did. But we all chipped in. Then Gerald had to go and ruin it all by throwing Margot at you.”

“Wait: this was Chloe’s idea?” I say, my brain catching on something Rita just said.

It was the least she could do.

Where did I hear that recently? I frown as I sip my drink, trying to remember.

Then it comes back to me.

The diary.

Of course: I wrote that line in my diary, about Chloe, and how great she’d been after the whole mess of the prom. And, now I think of it, didn’t she say it again, just a few days ago? Something to do with how she was going to help me win Jamie over, because it was the least she could do?

Why would she say that, though?

“Oh my God, Summer, I can’t believe you snogged Alex!”

With a soft whumph, Chloe collapses onto the sofa beside me, clutching a Bloody Mary.

“Okay, I’m going to need all the deets,” she says, making herself comfortable. “Come on, spill.”

“Chloe, did you get with Jamie at the school prom?” I say in a conversational tone that totally belies the utter turmoil in my mind right now. “In the equipment cupboard?”

I didn’t even know I was going to say it until I spoke. But, as soon as I did, I realize I’ve always known — or at least suspected — deep down that this was the real truth about that night, and that I’ve just been refusing to acknowledge it, because if it remained unspoken then it couldn’t possibly be true.

But now it’s out there. And the way Chloe’s face instantly turns pale under her suntan is all the confirmation I need.

“Summer, I’m sorry,” she says, in a whisper I can barely hear above the sound of the music. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did it. I—”

“I do,” I reply, calmly stirring my drink with my straw. “You did it because you couldn’t stand the thought of me having something you didn’t. Because everything’s a competition with you, Chloe, isn’t it? And I always have to lose.”

I didn’t really know I was going to say that either. I’ve never spoken to Chloe like this in my life. The strange thing about it, though, is that I’m not saying it angrily, or in the heat of the moment. I honestly don’t care what Chloe and Jamie did over a decade ago. I don’t care about Jamie at all, any more.

I do care about standing up for myself, though. And it’s been a long time coming, but I’m finally able to do it.

“I’m so, so sorry, Summer,” Chloe says again, looking like she’s about to start crying. “It meant absolutely nothing, I swear. That was the only time it happened. And I’ve been trying to make it up to you. That’s why I came out here. I figured out why you were here when I saw your Instagram, and I thought if I could just help you along, maybe it would help make up for what I did.”

She opens her eyes wide, the way she does when she’s trying to win someone over. It normally works, too. But not this time.

“Will you forgive me?” Chloe asks when I don’t say anything.

“I’ll think about it,” I say coolly. Then, without another word, I get up and go to sit next to Alex, who raises his eyebrows in a question.

“Everything okay?” he asks, as Rita calls over the waiter to order yet another round of drinks.

“Yup,” I say, smiling at him confidently. Everything’s fine.

The evening wears on. Chloe spends a few minutes sitting on her own, looking shell-shocked, before slinking off to her room. Gerald tells us some stories about Margot, who was, he says, “Quite a looker”. Julian makes sure the drinks keep magically being replenished. Alice has a bit too much and has to be talked out of trying to do a wheelie on her scooter. Alex and I exchange cautious glances, which gradually get bolder until we somehow end up sitting as close as possible, my leg pressed against his thigh, and my brain working overtime as I try to figure out how to bring up the subject of What Happened on the Beach, and its even more fascinating sequel, What Happens Next?

I never quite manage it, though. Instead, I have another drink, and — on Alice’s insistence — give them a quick preview of one chorus of Shallow, which everyone agrees is much better than Lady Gaga’s version.

“You’ll knock ‘em dead, Summer,” says Julian.

“It’s a shame that Bradley Cooper isn’t here to sing it with her,” muses Alice.

“That’s it,” declares Gerald, who’s back to his old self again. “I’ve had it trying to keep up with young Summer and her love life. I thought we were trying to get her together with Alex here, not Bradley whatshisface?”

My shoulders tighten with tension as I sneak a look at Alex, but he just laughs good-naturedly. “I don’t think you’d be saying that if you’d heard my singing,” he says. “It’s like the sound a cat makes when it’s trying to cough up a hairball.”

That’s all it takes for everyone to immediately start urging him to give us a song, and the last thing I remember after that is the hotel security guard hauling Gerald down from the top of the table when he offers to sing one instead.

I wake up what feels like several hours later with my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth and a thumping in my head that it takes me a few seconds to establish is my own heartbeat, and not the hotel disco.

I’m officially never drinking again.

I struggle my way out of the bed sheets and stagger to the bathroom, where I almost fall into the toilet when I try to sit down and realize the seat’s been left up.

That’s weird.

Why would I have raised the seat?

Did I throw up in here? Is that it?

I run my tongue experimentally around the inside of my mouth, but all I can taste is the sickly aftermath of the cocktails Julian kept ordering for me. Anyway, I might have been a bit tipsy, but I’m not so drunk I wouldn’t remember throwing up, so I lower the seat again with a crash and head back to the bedroom, where I walk straight into the dressing table, which someone has moved to the opposite side of the room for some reason.

Rubbing my eyes, I look around, squinting in the darkness.

Everything has been moved.

The bed, the sofa, the dressing table, the wardrobe…. At some point between me heading out to dinner and coming back, someone has snuck into my room and moved everything, just to mess with me.

I bet it was Chloe. Chloe did something bad… didn’t she?

Or… what if it was Jamie, trying to get back at me for … wait: why is Jamie mad with me again? Or is it me that’s mad with him?

“Aaargh!”

There’s a sudden roar as I stumble into the sofa and pitch forward, landing on top of a pile of blankets that whoever broke into my room must have left there. At first I think the roar is coming from me, and I clap my hand over my mouth in an attempt to stop it, but the noise keeps on going, and now the blankets underneath me are moving around, too, as if there’s something underneath them that wants to throw me off.

I jump up, screaming in fright, then screaming even louder when a dark shape rises up from the shadows on the sofa, its arms reaching out for me, and a weird hissing sound coming from its terrible lips. I turn around to run for the door, but it’s too late: The Thing’s hands are on me, and before I can even think about wriggling out of its grasp, it speaks.

“Shhh, Summer! You’re going to wake everyone in the hotel.”

“A… Alex?” I gasp, twisting my head around uncomfortably so I can see him.

Alex is standing behind me, wearing a t-shirt and boxer shorts, his hair sticking out in every direction possible. The hissing sound, I now realize, is him trying to shush me, and it finally works, leaving me standing there with my jaw hanging open in disbelief.

“What are you doing in my room?” I ask at last. “Did we…? We didn’t…?”

“No.” Alex shakes his head. “Of course not. You were super drunk. I just put you to bed. And I’m not in your room; you’re in mine.”

He presses the switch on the wall behind him, and the lights come on — stinging my eyes, but making it instantly clear that the reason everything’s the wrong way around isn’t because someone’s been moving the furniture, it’s because this isn’t my room.

It’s his.

“Wait…”

I look down at myself, braced for the sight of my second-best set of underwear — or worse — and breathing a sigh of relief when I find myself wearing an oversized t-shirt which smells faintly of Alex’s cologne.

“Don’t worry, you put it on yourself,” he tells me, seeing the relief on my face. “I didn’t look. I mean, I wanted to, obviously, but…”

“You were too much of a gentleman,” I finish for him, feeling stupid. “Thanks. And thanks for looking after me. I’m really sorry for…”

I wave my hands around vaguely, hoping that this will adequately convey to him all the things I’m currently sorry for, up to and including the fact that I didn’t realize how utterly, heart-breakingly lovely he was until it was too late to tell him without making even more of a fool of myself than I have already.

I’m not sure my weird hand gestures quite sum all of that up, really.

“Um, I should get back to my own room,” I say. “So I can leave you in peace and also get an early start on all of the ‘feeling mortified’ I’m going to be doing every time I think about this.”

I wave my hands again.

It would be great if you could stop doing that, Summer. Any time now would be good, thanks.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” says Alex. Hope rises in me like sunshine.

“You don’t want me to leave?” I ask, a little too quickly.

“Well, no,” he replies seriously. “I’m worried you might choke to death in your sleep. That’s why I brought you in here, rather than just making sure you got into your own room.”

“Oh. Right.” I swallow, wishing my mouth didn’t still taste like alcohol. And that I had never so much as touched any alcohol in the first place. (And that I knew whether I was wearing underwear underneath this t-shirt, because I’ve just this second realized how short it is on me.)

“I’m absolutely fine, you know,” I tell him, tugging at the hem of the t-shirt. “I’m going to have the mother of all hangovers in the morning, obviously, but I’m not drunk anymore: just embarrassed. So you don’t have to look after me.”

“No, but I want to,” he says sweetly. “And I’d also just like to get some sleep, to be honest.”

I look at the super-king sized bed. It does look pretty inviting, to be fair. And, despite what I said to Alex, my head’s still spinning in a way that makes the thought of navigating my way back to my own room, and getting into the bed there, feel like a challenge I’m woefully unequipped for.

“Okay,” I say, allowing myself to collapse gratefully onto the bed. “I’m just going to lie here for a bit and rest my eyes. Then I promise I’ll go back to my own room.”

My eyelids flutter closed. I force them reluctantly open again, because it feels like bad manners to just fall asleep mid-conversation, and watch as Alex carefully folds himself back onto the sofa, his long legs hanging over the side at an angle that cannot possibly be comfortable.

“Hey,” I croak, knowing this is most likely going to be yet another thing I’ll have to apologize for in the morning, but too tired/drunk/stupid to care. “I’d offer to swap places with you, but I know you’re much too gallant to accept, so why don’t you just sleep in the bed? It’s definitely big enough for both of us.”

Alex hesitates.

“I promise to keep to my own side,” I say in a small voice. “I can barely keep my eyes open anyway, so I don’t think I’m capable of jumping you, even if I wanted to.”

Even if I wanted to?

What the hell did I say that for?

I open my mouth to try to make this statement make more sense — or at least not sound like I’m outright repulsed by him — but my mouth isn’t cooperating, and, in the meantime, Alex gets off the couch, and walks around to the other side of the bed, where he carefully slides between the sheets as if he’s inserting himself into an envelope.

I giggle, confirming that my voice is, in fact, still working.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “I was just thinking how bizarre it is that the wildest night I’ve had in months was spent with a bunch of pensioners.”

Alex reaches over and switches off the night, plunging the room back into darkness.

“It’s not something I had on my bingo card,” he admits. “None of this was, though. This whole trip has been totally different from how I imagined it.”

I really want to ask him if he means good different or bad different, and if the wistfulness I think I can hear in his voice is because he’s thinking about her — about Rebecca, and how she should be the one lying in bed with him, rather than me. But the room is growing fuzzy and I can’t be sure whether I’ve asked the question or just thought about asking it, so I allow my eyes to close, and tell myself I’ll worry about it tomorrow.

For now, it’s time to sleep.