Despite myself, I giggle.
Gabe watches me thoughtfully. ‘Do you know? That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you laugh at one of my jokes,’ he says.
Abruptly, I stop. ‘I laugh at you all the time,’ I protest defensively.
‘At me, but not my jokes,’ he says, pretending to be offended.
At least, I think he’s pretending but I can’t be certain. I feel myself sliding into an awkward situation. I can’t admit to hating stand-up comedy, that my idea of hell is listening to a man on stage making unfunny observations about his girlfriend, and I’m certainly not going to confess about the time I heard him practising and thought he was terrible.
The wind whips at my coat, like a child tugging at its mother for attention, and all at once I notice how dark and cold it’s become. I glance at my watch. ‘It’s getting late, we should go.’ This is true, but it’s also an excellent way to create a diversion. ‘They’ll be waiting for us back at the cottage,’ I add for emphasis.
Gabe pulls a face and, with his hands still in their big leather gloves, pretends to bite his nails.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,’ I reassure him, and link my arm through his to walk back to the bike. So what if I misread the signs? I didn’t want him to kiss me anyway.
Chapter Twenty-seven
As it turns out Gabe is an instant hit with my family, including Rosemary who, from the moment he walks into the kitchen and shakes her rubber-gloved hand – ‘Stepmother? No way! You look like sisters’ – is eating out of his hand. Blushing like a teenager she pours him sherry in one of her best Waterford crystal glasses and never once tells him to take his shoes off, while the rest of my family crowd round him, shaking hands or, in the case of my father, slapping him vigorously on the shoulder as if beating dust from a carpet.
Meanwhile I’m left to pour my own sherry and not allowed off the doormat until I’ve removed my boots. Honestly, everyone makes such a fuss of him that I almost feel miffed.
‘So, what happened to the muzzle?’ I whisper, once the introductions are over and we’re squashing ourselves round the dining-table, which is laden with a glistening roast and all the trimmings.
‘She seems pretty cool . . .’ shrugs Gabe, shuffling past Ed’s wife Lou, who’s listening politely to Rosemary’s daughter Annabel and her husband Miles explaining how they’ve decided to go for laminate flooring rather than carpet ‘because of the twins’. ‘. . . although she did give me some of that funny brown stuff to drink.’
‘Sherry,’ I inform him, then notice he’s about to walk straight into an exposed beam and yell, ‘Watch out.’
But it’s too late.
He bangs his head hard and grimaces. ‘Ouch. Jesus, that hurt!’
‘Oh, yes, mind your head,’ pipes up Ed. Ed being one of those annoying people who take pleasure in warning you after the event. ‘Those old beams can be very dangerous.’
‘Yeah, you’re not kidding me.’ Gabe forces a smile, while he rubs his temple. Pulling up a chair, he tries cramming his long legs under the table. He’s still wearing his orange boiler suit but my family are pretending not to notice. ‘The people who built this place must have been tiny.’
‘Indeed,’ nods Ed, gravely, his six foot five frame stooping low over the table. ‘Their poor diet stunted their growth.’
‘Wow that’s terrible.’ Concern flashes across Gabe’s face. ‘You knew them?’
A bellow of raucous laughter erupts from Lionel as he sweeps into the room with a handful of wine glasses and two dusty bottles of cabernet sauvignon he’s raided from his cellar. ‘Dear boy, this cottage was built in 1642. It’s over three hundred and fifty years old.’
There’s a pause, and just as I’m worrying that Gabe is offended by my father’s brusqueness, he replies good-naturedly, ‘Hey, what can I say? I’m American and the oldest thing we have is Joan Rivers.’ Which, as Gabe’s jokes go, isn’t bad at all. But there’s just silence and looks of confusion around the table.
‘Joan who?’ asks Annabel, politely, tucking her neat blonde bob behind her ears.
‘She’s kind of a comedian,’ explains Gabe, ‘and she’s gotta be nearly a hundred but the woman’s had so much surgery . . .’
I look at the blank faces around the table. They don’t have a clue what he’s going on about. Unlike me, my family are not on first-name terms with celebrities.
‘Oh, I know the one! Her face makes her look like she’s in a wind-tunnel,’ says a voice from the hallway.
Startled I look up to see . . .Rosemary. Appearing through the door with a jug of iced water she pops it in the middle of the table. ‘There was an “At Home” spread about her in one of my magazines.’
I look at her with surprise, and, I have to admit a certain grudging respect.
‘In the Lady?’ asks Annabel, frowning.
Last year Annabel bought Rosemary a year’s subscription to the Lady for Christmas, and whenever I go to Bath, copies are always spread out like a fan on the glass coffee-table, filled with riveting articles on needlepoint and how to deal with wayward nannies. Rosemary hides her secret stash of OK! and Hello! in the pantry. Now, caught out, she stutters incomprehensibly, her middle-class cover threatening to crack under Annabel’s glare.
Around the table we’re preparing ourselves for one of their arguments to erupt when Lou deftly changes the conversation, ‘So, Gabriel, what brings you to England?’ she asks, throwing him a friendly smile and passing him a bowl of buttered Brussels sprouts. He looks at them for a moment with absolutely no clue what they are, before tentatively taking a spoonful. ‘The Edinburgh Festival,’ he says, then bites into one suspiciously. ‘I’m going up there in a couple of weeks to put on a show.’
A couple of weeks? I feel a jolt of surprise. The time has passed so quickly. He’ll be gone in no time. I snatch a sideways glance at him, feeling vaguely troubled.
‘Oh, bravo, a theatre man!’ Lionel bellows, from across the table where he’s carving. He’s thrilled: my father lurves the thee-at-re.
‘No, actually, comedy’s my thing,’ corrects Gabe, swallowing with what appears to be great difficulty. When he thinks no ones looking, he surreptitiously slides the remainder of the sprout off his fork. ‘Stand-up.’
‘So how did you two meet?’ asks Rosemary, dabbing the corners of her mouth daintily.
‘Through an ad,’ says Gabe, and then, realising how that sounded, smiles. ‘Not that kind of ad, Mrs Hamilton. Heather was advertising for a roommate, and I needed a place for a few weeks.’
‘So you’re not Heather’s new boyfriend?’ demands Ed.
‘With the Range Rover,’ accuses Rosemary, in a tone that tells me she doesn’t believe a word of it. I glare at her as my cheeks redden.
‘Nope, that’s not me,’ says Gabe, good-naturedly.
‘So, where is your new boyfriend, Heather?’
Rosemary says ‘new boyfriend’ as if she’s putting inverted commas round the words and it’s only now I realise the table has suddenly gone quiet.
‘You mean James?’ I wonder why I feel as if I’m facing a jury. A jury consisting of seven pairs of eyes – six belonging to couples. ‘He had to work,’ I explain.
‘On a Saturday?’ pipes up Annabel.
‘It was really important,’ I protest, which is true. So why do I feel as if I’m making all this up, as if I’m trying to defend him?
‘Well, it would have to be,’ Rosemary murmurs, spooning a tiny portion of glazed carrots on to her plate, ‘for him to let you down at the last minute.’ She says this in such a way that I might think she was being genuinely sympathetic – if I didn’t know her better.
‘Yes, but did she tell you about the bouquets?’ interrupts Gabe, squeezing my hand supportively under the table. I throw him a look of gratitude. What a star.
‘Bouquets?’ repeats Lou, dark eyes sparkling. ‘Ooh Heather, how romantic. The most I ever get is a bunch of daffs.’ Turning to Ed, she pouts playfully while he looks all
affronted and indignant.
‘Yep, he sent three separate bouquets – a dozen red roses in each,’ continues Gabe, laying it on thick. ‘The guy’s crazy about her.’
‘And who can blame him?’ booms Lionel, with fatherly pride. ‘Wouldn’t you say, Rosemary?’
Rosemary has fallen unusually quiet. Silenced, no doubt, by the astonishing fact that I actually have a man sending me flowers and, no, I haven’t made him up. ‘Yes, absolutely,’ she says tightly. ‘More Brussels, anyone?’
After dinner everyone heads off to bed, until it’s just me and the boys in the front room, eating second helpings of apple crumble and custard and talking about – yes, you’ve guessed it – football.
‘Are you a soccer fan?’ Gabe is asking, prodding doubtfully at his custard. I made it earlier to show I’m not completely crap in the kitchen, although admittedly it did come from a packet.
‘Absolutely,’ says Ed proudly.
‘Yes old son,’ says Miles, slapping Ed’s arm. ‘An amazing win we had the other week. A real stroke of luck. The papers described it as a miracle.’
Ed and I exchange a look. ‘Uhm . . . yes, so they did,’ he says, and fills his mouth with apple crumble. It’s been a few weeks since that strange night at the pub, and although Ed and I have spoken on the phone, he hasn’t referred to it. Not that I’m surprised. Ed’s way of dealing with anything he doesn’t understand is simply to ignore it.
‘I heard England won a big game,’ says Gabe. ‘Awesome.’
‘Well, we’ve got some really good players, so I’m hoping for big things from them . . .’ grins Ed, delighted to be talking about his beloved football. ‘With any luck I’m pretty much going to be glued to the box these days. Thank goodness for Sky Sport, hey?’
‘I bet the missus isn’t too happy about that,’ grins Miles, nudging Ed knowingly.
Ed smiles uncomfortably and I get the feeling that Miles might have touched on a sore subject there. Oh dear, I hope I haven’t caused any trouble with that silly wish of mine.
‘Erm, Heather?’ Gabe is looking at me with a nervous expression. ‘About this custard stuff you all love . . .’
I glance at his bowl. His spoon is standing upright.
‘I don’t suppose you’d have any ice-cream,’ he asks apologetically.
‘Is it that bad?’ Shit, I really must be an awful cook. I can’t even make custard from a packet.
‘Worse,’ he confesses, trying not to a smile.
‘There might be some Häagen Dazs left from when I was last here,’ I whisper, not wanting Miles and Ed to hear me and want some too. Not that they’re listening. Their conversation has moved on to the housing market. ‘I’ll go and look in the freezer.’ Then I lean close to his ear: ‘Meet me upstairs in the bedroom in five minutes.’
As soon as I’ve said it I realise how it sounds. ‘So we don’t have to share the ice-cream,’ I explain hastily, indicating Ed and Miles who are also prodding warily at their custard.
But if Gabe notices my embarrassment, he doesn’t show it. ‘Which is our bedroom?’ he asks.
‘Up the stairs, first door on the right,’
‘Cool.’
‘I don’t think you’ll be saying that when you see the flowery wallpaper.’ I smile ruefully and, taking his bowl of uneaten custard from him, I leave on my quest for double chocolate chip.
‘Do you want to go on top or underneath?’ One tub of ice-cream later, Gabe is looking at me with one eyebrow raised.
‘Hmmm.’ I pretend to think about it for a moment.
‘Well?’
‘I always like to go on top,’ I confess, sticking the spoon back in the tub of Häagen Dazs and passing it to him.
He digs for chocolate chunks, then finds a large cluster. ‘Well, that’s lucky.’ He stuffs the spoon into his mouth and chews with his mouth open, letting the ice-cream dribble down his chin. ‘I prefer underneath.’
For the last five minutes Gabe and I have been standing at the doorway of my old bedroom, eating ice-cream and staring at the wooden bunk beds we’re going to sleep in tonight. When I was ten years old bunk beds were cute and fun. Twenty years later things are rather different.
Fortunately, however, Gabe isn’t unnerved by it and instead finds it amusing. Hence our double-entendre-laden conversation. Which is fun.
That’s not fun, Heather. That’s flirting.
Oh, my God, so it is. What am I doing? I have a boyfriend. A perfectly lovely boyfriend.
‘I’m sorry – I’m a pig. I’ve finished it,’ he says remorsefully, as he scrapes the bottom of the tub.
And Gabe has a girlfriend, I remind myself. A beautiful Hollywood-actress-type girlfriend. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve had enough,’ I say, suddenly uncomfortable.
‘Oh, OK.’ A little confused by this change in my mood, Gabe stops fooling around and puts down the empty tub. ‘So, what now? Bed?’
It’s an innocent enough question, but now I’m feeling so self-conscious that everything seems laden with innuendo. ‘Yes, definitely. We’ll need to get up early if you want to surf.’ And then, just to make sure there is no room for misunderstanding, I throw in a yawn for good measure. ‘And I’m exhausted.’
‘Well, if you want to use the bathroom first . . .’
‘No, it’s fine.’ I say briskly. Grabbing hold of a pillow I begin to plump it vigorously for want of something else to do. All this standing around in my bedroom is making me jumpy. ‘I’ll go after you. It’s at the end of the corridor.’
‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’
‘I’m sure.’
He bends down and rummages in his rucksack for his toothbrush. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him pushing up his glasses, which keep sliding down his nose, and try not to think how sweet he looks when he does it. No doubt he pushed his glasses up his nose yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. So why am I noticing it now? And why am I thinking it makes him look utterly adorable?
‘Back in five.’ He pulls out a toothbrush and some toothpaste, turns to leave, then pops his head round the door. ‘In case I forget, I wanted to say your family are awesome. I had a great time tonight.’
‘Me too.’ I feel guilty for my earlier grumpiness.
‘But there’s something else . . . something I should’ve told you before . . .’
I stiffen. Crikey, what on earth’s he going to say?
Taking a deep breath he makes his confession: ‘I snore.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
The next morning dawns another beautiful August day. Like a cat basking in the sunshine, Port Isaac stretches out, its cobbled streets and whitewashed cottages gleaming in the bright sunlight. It’s early and most of the village is still dozing. Down by the harbour, the wooden fishing-boats huddle quietly together, and around the cove, at the bottom of the steep grassy cliffs, the horseshoe shaped beach lies empty.
It’s the same all along the rocky coastline to Newquay. The day-trippers haven’t yet arrived, and for miles there’s just the frothy white waves rolling in and out like big wet butter curls and the distant squawking of a flock of seagulls circling overhead.
But not everyone is a sleep. Further out from the shore, where the light is dancing on the waves like liquid diamonds, a dozen or so shapes bob up and down on the water. With their shiny black bodies they could easily be mistaken for seals, but if you look closer you’ll see they’re surfers waiting, watching for their next wave. Most are local men who rise at dawn every day – summer or winter – and rush down to the beach for a precious few hours.
And then there is Gabe.
Straddling the board he rented early this morning, he brushes wet, salty hair out of his eyes and concentrates on the horizon. He’s been like that for the last few minutes, waiting for a set to come in. So far there have been a couple of meagre waves, nothing to get excited about, but now he sees something better.
Throwing his body flat on the board he begins paddling furiously. His hands are like m
ini-propellers, cutting through the water. It’s all about timing. Co-ordination. Skill. Like a hunter chasing its prey, he focuses on the wave in the distance, moving closer and closer until, nimbly lifting his muscular body high into the air, Gabe plants his feet firmly on the board, his arms stretching outwards like a tightrope walker’s as he catches the cusp.
He keeps his balance seemingly effortlessly, zigzagging backwards and forwards, faster and faster, swooping and dipping as the wave arches its back beneath him, trying to throw him off like a wild horse.
Click.
As the shutter of my camera releases I feel the glow of satisfaction. For the last hour or so I’ve been waiting for that exact shot. Sitting on this hillside running alongside the beach, I’ve been watching Gabe through the lens of my Nikon, trying to capture in one image the true emotion of surfing.
I’d forgotten how difficult, time-consuming and thrilling photography can be. When I first left college I was always taking photographs – it was like breathing, I had to do it every day – but in recent years I’ve stopped doing my own stuff. I tell myself it’s because I’m busy taking photographs for a living but if I’m honest it’s because it hurts too much: it’s a painful reminder of all the hopes and dreams I had, and how I haven’t achieved any of them.
Yet. I feel a tingle of excitement as I think about my letter to the Sunday Herald. Gabe posted it for me on Friday, so with any luck – I catch myself – with my luck, maybe I’ll get a reply this week.
I feel a rush of positivity – the same positivity that prompted me to take my camera from the bedside cabinet where it had lain for months, clean the dust from the lens and bring it with me to Cornwall. The same positivity that woke me up early this morning full of anticipation for the photographs I would take.
I focus once more. Gabe is still riding the wave, but he’s blurry now and I zoom in closer to catch the concentration on his face. His jaw is clenched and the sea sprays him with a salty film. I even catch a flash of his eyes, half hidden beneath the shaggy eyebrows. They seem to stare straight at me and then—