Crash. He’s in the water.
Startled, I glance up from my camera and look out to sea. Without the magnification of my lens the rest of the surfers are now just tiny figures in the water. I scan backwards and forwards across the waves, glittering in the bright sunlight. But there’s no sign of him.
‘Gabe!’ I yell, standing up on the hillside and waving my hands high above my head to make it easier for him to see me. Not that I’m worried or anything because I know he’s a good swimmer. He’s lived near the ocean all his life, he told me, and is practically a fish in water. But the currents are pretty strong around here, and if you’re not used to them you could easily get caught up in one and dragged down under the water and . . . My mind spirals.
‘Gabe!’ I shout louder this time. Shit, if anything’s happened to him I’ll never forgive myself. I should’ve told him to be careful, warned him about the undertow, taken more responsibility . . . I click on the lens cap, I take the camera from round my neck and hold it as I make my way down the hillside, tripping on tufts of grass.
It seems to take for ever, but eventually I reach the car park at the bottom and look again at the beach. There’s still no sign of him.
Now I’m fretting. Something’s wrong. Tugging off my socks and trainers I discard them by the bike and jump over the wall. My bare feet land on the soft, damp sand and I run into the sea. Breathlessly I scan the water. I can see lots of other surfers but no Gabe. Where the fuck is he?
Panic takes a stranglehold. What if he’s hit his head and is lying unconscious in the water, or badly hurt or—
I’ve got to do something – alert the lifeguard or ring 999 or . . . A sob escapes. I so wish he was here.
‘Boo!’
I almost jump out of my skin and swing round, clutching my chest.
Gabe is standing behind me holding his board, with a grin spread across his face.
I feel a burst of heady relief – followed swiftly by fury.
‘What the fuck?’ I yell. ‘You nearly frightened me to death.’
‘Hey, c’mon, it was a joke.’
‘A joke?’ I shriek. ‘I thought you’d drowned!’
‘I wiped out and when I came to the surface I was on the other side of the cove.’
‘But I was looking for you and shouting—’ I break off, furious that tears are pricking my eyes.
‘You know you’re cute when you’re angry.’
I throw him an evil glare. ‘You are so not funny.’
‘Of course I’m funny. It’s my business to be funny.’ He laughs with mock-indignation. ‘I’m a stand-up comedian, remember?’
Now this is the point where I probably ought to keep my mouth shut . . . ‘Well, that’s another thing.’
Except I don’t.
‘I hate stand-up comedy.’
No sooner have the words flown out of my mouth than I want to stuff them back in.
For a moment there’s silence and then, ‘You hate stand-up?’ Gabe is staring at me in astonishment. ‘And you don’t think I’m funny?’
Oh, fuck. I consider bluffing briefly, but realise it’s no use and shake my head meekly.
‘At all?’
I move my head just a twitch, hardly daring to look him in the eye, but when I do I see his solemn blue eyes filled with hurt. I wince. Me and my bloody big mouth. What did I have to go and say that for? I’m such a stupid idiot.
And then when I’m in the middle of beating myself up, Gabe throws back his head and roars with laughter. Literally roars, his jaws so wide I can see every single one of his gleaming white molars.
Confused, I watch him until he grabs my hands and snorts, ‘I might not be funny but, goddamn it, you are, Heather Hamilton.’
I’m bewildered and humiliated. ‘I thought you were dead,’ I protest.
He smiles sheepishly. ‘I know and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh.’ He picks up his board, tucks it under his arm, and we start to make our way up the beach towards the car park. We walk in silence, until Gabe turns to me, eyebrows raised. ‘So, c’mon, the suspense is killing me, why don’t you think I’m funny?’
I squirm. He is never going to let this drop, is he? But maybe he should know, constructive criticism and all that. Maybe he’ll even thank me for it. ‘I saw you rehearsing and I just don’t think you should pretend to be someone you’re not,’ I blurt finally.
‘What do you mean?’ Gabe seems more than a little offended and I regret my bold honesty-is-the-best-policy strategy.
‘You know, being angst-ridden, chain-smoking, all those stupid voices and daft jokes, all that anger and negativity.’ In for a penny, in for a pound.
‘Comedians are supposed to be angry and negative,’ points out Gabe.
‘But you’re not,’ I say simply. ‘You’re easy-going and laid-back, and most of the time you’re pretty happy.’ I allow myself a smile. ‘You’re American – what do you expect? You’re from the world that has a nice day.’
‘But it’s part of the act,’ he protests, pushing back his wet hair.
‘But that’s just it. It’s an act. Why can’t you be yourself?’
‘I’ve spent thousands asking my shrink the same question,’ he wisecracks.
There’s a pause.
‘Oh, I dunno.’ Suddenly serious, Gabe glances at me sideways, and I see that he’s using flippancy to cover something that’s a big deal for him. ‘I guess I’ve never thought about it before but maybe I don’t think I’m funny as plain old me.’
‘But you’re much funnier when you’re being plain old you. Forget the jokes and talk about you.’
‘But is anyone going to want to hear about me?’
‘Try it and see.’
At the bike, Gabe digs out the towel he’s packed under the seat, and sits on the wall to dry his hair. ‘For someone who hates stand-up, you’ve sure got a lot of opinions on it,’ he says.
I shrug. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got a big mouth. Next time tell me to shut up.’
He laughs. ‘So, what now?’
‘What do you feel like doing?’
‘I’m easy,’ he says, unzipping his wetsuit.
I resist the urge to make a double-entendre. ‘Well, how about I give you a guided tour of the village before lunch?’ I suggest.
‘Great. You mean I get to be a real American tourist?’
‘You are a real American tourist,’ I remind him teasingly.
He screws up the towel and chucks it at me. ‘Shut up, Heather.’
Chapter Twenty-nine
‘This is my old school.’
‘Wow, it’s so cute,’ marvels Gabe, peering at the small stone building tucked away at the end of the street. ‘Like a little doll’s house.’
‘You’re just used to everything in the States being so big.’ I grin good-naturedly. ‘Don’t tell me, your school was the size of a football pitch?’
‘No, I went to Venice High. Remember Grease, the movie?’
‘That was your school?’
‘Yep.’
‘Crikey, how glamorous.’
Gabe bursts out laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Believe me, Venice High is anything but glamorous.’
We continue up the steep hill and pass the post office, ablaze with hanging baskets. ‘You mean Port Isaac is more exciting than Hollywood?’ I gesture to a sleepy tabby cat on the window-ledge and a little old lady hobbling out clutching her shopping basket.
‘You’ll have to come visit some time, see for yourself. I have a spare room.’
‘Don’t tempt me.’
‘But I’ll need to make up some house rules . . .’ He grins and I blush, remembering my own list, which was several pages long.
‘And this is where I had my first kiss,’ I announce, gesturing to a spreading oak tree, tucked away at the edge of a field. ‘His name was Seb Roberts and I was thirteen.’
‘What an awesome place for a first kiss. Mine was in the den at home and my mom caught me. Ther
e I was with my hands up Hopey Smith’s T-shirt, feeling up her trainer bra. Boy, I have never been so embarrassed.’
I laugh, then feel a twinge of sadness. ‘I remember wanting to run home and tell Mum all about Seb, but she’d died the year before . . .’
Gabe reaches out and squeezes my hand. ‘Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t think.’
‘It’s fine, honestly,’ I reassure him. ‘It’s just the little things that make you remember.’
We stare at the oak tree, its mighty trunk all knotted and twisted. It’s been there for years and it will remain there for years.
‘But I had my father instead. He was my surrogate mum. Growing up I confided everything in him, I still do. That’s why we’re so close.’
‘Is that why things are difficult with your stepmom?’
We’ve started walking down the hill.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Two’s company, three’s a crowd . . .’
‘No, it’s not that. She’s just not a particularly nice person. She’s really cold, always has been. We’ve never got on.’
‘But your father must like her.’
‘I guess so. I don’t know why. Mum was so full of life, always laughing and fun. Rosemary is serious, nagging him to do this and that. It drives me crazy.’
‘Maybe that’s her way of caring.’
‘Well, its a funny one,’ I grumble. ‘But less about Rosemary.’ I stop in front of the Badgers Arms. ‘Have you worked up an appetite yet with all this sightseeing?’
‘As if you have to ask. I could eat a horse.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ I laugh, ‘but what about a ploughman’s?’
‘What the hell’s that?’
‘Aha.’ Pushing open the door to the pub I hold it open for him to pass. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’
After placing our order, we carry two pints of cider into the garden where we find my family clustered round a wooden table eating lunch.
‘We were wondering where you two had got to,’ booms Lionel, through a mouthful of Cheddar cheese and Branston. Ripping off a chunk of bread he beams at us jovially.
‘We got up early so Gabe could surf.’ I plonk down my cider and kiss Lionel’s cheek.
‘How does it match up to California?’ asks Ed, surfacing from beneath the Sunday Times sports section, which, according to the headline, appears to be devoted to the England football team.
‘Yeah, it was awesome.’
‘Good waves, huh?’ chimes in Miles, trying to sound knowledgeable when I know he hasn’t a clue. He’s sitting next to Annabel and they’re each holding a twin’s reins and looking harassed as usual.
‘Come on, budge up, everyone,’ instructs Lionel, who has noticed us hovering.
‘No, it’s OK, we can sit over there.’ I gesture over to where a couple are leaving the next table.
‘Nonsense,’ says Lionel. ‘A family that eats together stays together.’
Everyone shuffles up obligingly and a gap opens next to Rosemary. I glance at it with dismay. She’s the last person I want to sit next to. Fortunately Gabe slides along the bench first, and I throw him a grateful smile.
‘You know, we’ve got to stop meeting like this,’ he quips light-heartedly and Rosemary blushes like a schoolgirl, and dabs her frosted-pink mouth with a napkin.
‘Two Cheddar-cheese ploughmans,’ hollers a voice, and we look up to see a ruddy-faced member of staff carrying two large plates. We wave her over and she puts them down before us.
Gabe stares at his, bemused. ‘What’s this?’ he asks, spearing a pickled onion with his fork.
‘Try it. You’ll love it.’
Bravely he takes a bite and the whole table falls quiet as we wait for his reaction. There’s the sound of crunching and then, ‘Eugggh, you eat these for pleasure?’
Everyone laughs. Honestly, his expression is priceless. In fact, I’m laughing so much I reach for a napkin to wipe my eyes when I hear a voice: ‘Heather?’
And get the shock of my life.
‘James?’
The laughter dies in my throat. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I gasp, then add quickly, ‘I thought you were in Paris?’
‘I managed to fly back early.’
‘But how . . .’
‘I had your address so I drove straight to the cottage. When you weren’t there I guessed you might be at the pub, Sunday lunchtime and all that . . .’
The table has fallen silent again but I can feel looks flying around. Which is when I realise how this must seem. Gabe and I and my family, all together, all laughing, all very cosy. Abruptly it dawns on me that I shouldn’t still be sitting on the other side of the table from James. I should be jumping up to give him a hug. I should be delighted he’s made such an effort in coming all this way to see me. I should be introducing him excitedly to my family.
I leap up and throw my arms round him. ‘Everyone, this is James. My boyfriend,’ I add in explanation. As I say the word ‘boyfriend’ I catch Gabe’s eye and look away, feeling awkward.
There’s a murmur of ‘Pleased to meet you’ but none, I have to say, with the same enthusiasm that greeted Gabe. Even Rosemary, whom I’d thought would be firing questions, is now so taken with Gabe she barely gives James a second glance.
‘Do you want to order some food?’ I try to make amends, but James shakes his head.
‘No, thanks, I’ve already eaten. I’ll just grab myself a drink at the bar. Would anyone else like one?’
‘Another glass of merlot,’ says Lionel, jovially.
‘I’ll come with you,’ I offer.
‘No, it’s fine, you carry on with your lunch.’ He says it without a hint of sarcasm, but it still stings.
‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’
‘Positive,’ he says, and turning, he walks stiffly across the grass and disappears inside the pub.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were coming.’ Holding my hair back against the wind, I turn to James. We’ve left everyone at the pub and are walking hand in hand along the rocky clifftop that fringes the beach. The same beach where only a few hours ago I’d been with Gabe.
‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’
It was certainly that.
‘I felt terrible cancelling at the last minute.’
‘It’s OK. Don’t worry about it. I got a lift with Gabe.’
‘I noticed,’ he says evenly, and I can tell from his expression that he’s not exactly happy I rode pillion on my flatmate’s motorbike.
‘Well, I thought with him being Californian he’d like to surf, and he’s never been to Cornwall before and—’ I stop trying to justify myself. ‘Though it was a bit scary on the bike,’ I admit.
‘I can imagine.’ His face softens. ‘But don’t worry, you’ll be in the Range Rover on the way home. Heated seats and all.’
I feel a twinge of disappointment. The bike might have been terrifying, but it was also an incredible thrill.
‘And I brought along some brochures on Tuscan villas you might want to look at on the ride back. I remember you saying you’ve always wished you could own one, and I know it’s not the same but I thought maybe we could rent one this summer.’
I gaze at him in amazement. He thinks of everything. I can’t remember mentioning it to him, but I suppose I must have. He pulls me close and wraps his arms round me. ‘I’ve provisionally booked one in Florence that I think you’ll love.’
Despite his good intentions, I can’t help feeling annoyed. Suddenly my fantasy of lazing around a villa in Tuscany doesn’t belong to me any more: it belongs to James and his brochures. ‘Are you sure you’re OK to drive back tonight?’ I ask, changing the subject. ‘It’s just that I’ve got this meeting tomorrow morning with Lady Charlotte so I have to go home.’ I roll my eyes. ‘This wedding’s a bit of a nightmare.’
‘Hey, it’s fine. I’ve got work too. I just wanted to come down and meet your family.’
‘But I fe
el terrible you had to drive all this way.’
‘A promise is a promise,’ he says quietly, silencing me with a kiss. ‘And, anyway, I missed you.’
Only now, hearing those words, does it occur to me that, actually, I haven’t missed him at all. In fact, until he appeared I’d forgotten about him. But that’s only because I’ve been so busy with my family and Gabe and . . . well, everything, I tell myself firmly. And banishing my doubts, I kiss him back. ‘I missed you too.’
‘You’re leaving already?’ It’s late afternoon and Lionel is hugging me goodbye on the little patch of front lawn, ‘Can’t you stay a bit longer? It’s quiz night this evening at the Forrester’s. What do you say we go down and clean the place up, hey?’ he says hopefully. Squeezing him tightly, I smile apologetically.
‘Sounds great, but I’ve got to get back to London. Work,’ I add, pulling a face.
‘It was lovely to meet you, Mr Hamilton.’ James holds out his hand formally.
Lionel ignores him. ‘I’ve got a lovely ripe Brie and a bottle of shiraz I’ve been saving,’ he continues, pretending he hasn’t heard what I said. He always does this when people say something he doesn’t want to hear. Usually it’s when Ed’s nagging at him to go on a diet and do more exercise. ‘We can have it later to celebrate our win.’
‘Lionel,’ Rosemary reprimands him, placing a bony hand on his flannel bicep as if to hold him back, ‘didn’t you hear what Heather said? She has to go to work tomorrow. People don’t just stop getting married because you’ve got a lovely Brie.’ She smiles at James and takes his hand. ‘So lovely to meet you at last, James. We were beginning to wonder if you were a figment of Heather’s overactive imagination.’
I roll my eyes but James smiles, says he’ll wait for me in the car, then strides across the gravel to where the Range Rover’s parked, and Gabe is packing his stuff into the little panniers on the sides of the bike. He looks up and throws me a look of sympathy.
‘Actually, no one’s getting married tomorrow. It’s in a couple of weeks, a huge society wedding,’ I say proudly, to Rosemary. I know it’s supposed to be a secret, but I can’t resist: ‘The daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Hurley.’
‘You mean Lady Charlotte?’ asks Rosemary, visibly impressed. ‘She was in OK! last week doing a fashion shoot.’