One Perfect Summer

  ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

  God only knows why my passengers are tipping me after the terrible mood I’ve been in on their tour, but I accept their money with a genuine smile in the hope that I’m making up for some of my bad behaviour. When the last of them has disembarked I fold up the notes and stuff them, together with a few pound coins, into the pocket of my skinny jeans. I’ve had to retire my white sundress – it’s too cool to wear it now. I step back into the punt and pile up the cushions and blankets so they can be locked up for the night, then I wrap my arms around the whole lot and turn to see two black shoes standing on the jetty in front of me. My eyes dart upwards to find Lukas smiling down at me.

  ‘Can I take these?’ He extracts the cushions and blankets from my arms. I recover quickly and, with a roll of my eyes, I climb out of the boat.

  ‘This way,’ I say bluntly.

  All men are bastards.

  He follows me to the shed, where Sammy is folding up the blankets from other boats. She glances at Lukas and then grins at me before looking back at him.

  ‘Hel-lo,’ she says in an unusually camp manner, taking the bundle from him and placing it on a bench, without once taking her eyes off him. I give her a wry look – it’s not what she’s thinking.

  ‘Sammy, this is Lukas. Lukas, this is Sammy.’

  ‘I haven’t seen you around,’ she comments with a smile as she leans up against the doorframe and folds her arms.

  ‘No, well, I’ve yet to go punting,’ he replies with slight discomfort.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ I say to Sammy before turning away.

  ‘Are you not coming for a drink?’ she calls after us, sounding disappointed.

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘Not tonight.’

  I walk away from the punts and turn right onto Magdalene Street.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Lukas asks, struggling to keep step with me as I cross the bridge. Diners sit out on the balcony of a restaurant overlooking the river. The autumn leaves have started to fall and they look like little brown boats floating on the water. It’s busy this evening; ever since the students returned Cambridge has come back to life. At times, in the summer, it felt like a ghost town.

  ‘Home,’ I reply. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I . . . I wondered if I might take you for a drink?’ he stammers as we pass the Pickerel Inn. I glance through the wrought-iron gates to the courtyard at the side. It’s already heaving with people.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I . . . I thought it might be nice. I’d like to know how your summer was, what you got up to.’

  ‘You could have asked me that earlier.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I lost track of time talking to my tutor and then I realised I was late for an important phone call.’

  I shake my head and scoff: ‘What student has important phone calls?’ I intentionally place the emphasis on ‘student’ – who does he think he is?

  ‘If you must know . . .’

  Ooh, have I annoyed him? Don’t care.

  ‘. . . my mother was calling me from hospital. My brother’s wife has just had a baby who is premature. We weren’t sure if he was going to make it through the night.’

  I stop in my tracks. ‘Oh.’ How bad do I feel? ‘Is he okay? The baby?’

  ‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘He’s still having some difficulty breathing on his own, but they think he’ll survive.’

  ‘That’s good.’ I smile awkwardly with relief.

  ‘So, can I take you for a drink?’ He regards me intently with those very blue eyes of his.

  ‘Like I’m going to say no now.’ I laugh uneasily.

  ‘Good.’ He starts to walk again. I hurry to catch up.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ I glance sideways at him.

  ‘There’s a pub around the corner . . .’ He points up ahead. ‘The Punter. I believe it’s quite nice inside.’

  ‘It is.’ Jessie and I stop there occasionally on our way home.

  We reach the pub and Lukas opens the door for me.

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ he asks.

  For some reason I think twice about ordering a pint of lager. I don’t really want to drink it in front of Lukas, but I’m damned if I’m going to change for him.

  ‘A pint of lager, please,’ I stubbornly reply.

  He doesn’t comment. He heads to the bar, while I go off to find us a table. I sit down and wait. I’m surprisingly on edge.

  ‘Here you are,’ he says a short while later, placing a pint glass on the table in front of me. It looks so large and uncouth. Suddenly I really wish it were a glass of white wine instead.

  He pulls up a chair and sits down. I’m relieved to see that he’s also drinking lager.

  ‘So,’ he says with a smile, ‘how was your summer?’

  ‘Fab.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘A lot of reading, and a lot of punting.’

  ‘Did you make it home at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Really?’ He sounds intrigued. ‘Where is home?’

  ‘London. That’s where my parents live.’

  ‘You didn’t make it back there to see them at all?’

  ‘They came here for a long weekend.’

  ‘You’re not close?’

  I shift in my seat and look down at the table. That’s a bit personal. Not as much as we used to be, if truth be told.

  He notices my reaction. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ I take a sip of my pint and don’t enjoy it. ‘What about you? Oh, hey!’ I remember something. ‘How were your exam results?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What did you get?’

  ‘A First.’

  ‘Brilliant, well done.’ I’m impressed. ‘And did you spend your summer in Germany?’

  He nods and smiles. ‘I did. Part of it.’

  ‘Where else did you go?’

  ‘We also had a few weeks in Monaco.’

  ‘Monaco? That’s nice.’ I process this information. Hang on . . . He said ‘we’. Does he have a girlfriend? ‘Who did you go with?’

  ‘My family.’

  I feel a strange sense of relief. But I’d better double-check: ‘As in, your mother . . .’

  ‘. . . my father, my sister, my brother and his wife.’

  ‘The ones who’ve just had a baby?’

  ‘Correct.’

  I smile at him. ‘What’s his name? The baby.’

  ‘Maximilian. I’m hoping we’ll be able to shorten it to Max.’

  ‘Maximilian!’ I call in a light-hearted tone, pretending to be his mother; then, in a deep, cross voice, wagging my finger at an imaginary child as I say it: ‘Maximilian! Don’t be so naughty.’ Then, clutching my face with horror: ‘Maximilian! Come away from the edge!’

  Lukas laughs. ‘It has to be Max.’

  ‘I don’t know. Maximilian has a nice ring to it.’

  ‘My grandfather was called Maximilian. No one ever referred to him as Max.’

  ‘Not even “dear old Max”?’

  ‘No, never. It was always Maximilian or, more commonly, Herr Heuber.’

  ‘Is that your surname?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lukas Heuber.’ I don’t know why, but I put on a gruff German accent as I say it.

  He grins. ‘What’s your surname?’

  ‘Simmons.’

  ‘Alice Simmons.’

  Déjà vu. I’ve had this conversation before with . . . Joe. Argh! Out! Out! All men are bastards, remember? I turn my attention back to the one currently seated across from me.

  I find myself agreeing to let Lukas take me out for an early dinner the following Friday night. Jessie and my other punter pals were a bit put out when I told them I couldn’t punt with them that evening. We’re all working overtime on the Halloween Ghost tours that start now and continue until the end of October, and there’s even more camaraderie than usual on the river.

  I
didn’t tell them I was going on a date until the very last minute. I didn’t want to have to endure the teasing that I knew would come. Not that I’m thinking of it like that. A date, I mean. Lukas is just a friend. Sort of.

  He arrives at six o’clock on the dot. I knew he’d be on time, so I made sure I was. My hair comes halfway down my back and I’m wearing a black dress with white horizontal stripes and a black cardie. Initially I wondered whether this outfit was too dressed-up, but I suspected he would make an effort. Again, I was right.

  He’s about six foot two and he’s wearing a white shirt and a navy-blue wool jacket with black leather piping. He’s pushed his dark blond hair back off his forehead. He looks cool – like he’s stepped off the pages of a Hugo Boss campaign.

  ‘Ready?’ he asks with a raised eyebrow.

  As I’ll ever be . . . ‘Yes.’ I grab my bag from the hallstand and follow him out.

  He hasn’t commented on Jessie’s house, but I guess he’s seen more than enough impressive architecture in his time at Cambridge for it to not fully register. He turns left out of the gate.

  ‘It’s quicker this way,’ I point right, trying to put on my coat and walk at the same time.

  ‘We’re not going into town,’ he says over his shoulder.

  ‘Oh, really?’ I hurry to keep up. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  With curiosity I follow him down some steps to the road. We cross over it, his hand making my lower back tingle as he lightly guides me. He leads me to a slick black Porsche, which beeps and flashes as he unlocks it. I stare at him, confused, as he opens the passenger door for me and indicates for me to climb in.

  ‘Is this yours?’ I ask with incredulity.

  ‘One would hope so.’

  He owns a Porsche? ‘I thought students weren’t allowed to keep cars within the city perimeters?’

  ‘They’re not,’ he replies with amusement. ‘But I don’t keep it within the city perimeters.’ He again motions for me to get into the car, so I do, the smell of new leather instantly filling my nostrils. A moment later he’s in the driver’s seat and starting the ignition.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I repeat, a little flustered.

  He shakes his head.

  ‘I don’t like surprises,’ I add.

  ‘You’ll like this one.’

  He seems incredibly confident about that fact.

  He drives us west, away from the city. We hop onto an A road for a short while and then wind our way along country roads and through a couple of tiny villages with thatched cottages. Barely fifteen minutes go by before he’s pulling into a long gravel driveway. An enormous, modern-looking house looms up ahead. It’s three storeys high, square, with a flat roof, white walls and a lot of windows. The lights are off inside and it appears dark and unlived-in.

  ‘Whose house is this?’

  ‘A family friend’s,’ he tells me. ‘They’re not here.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘The south of France.’

  ‘On holiday?’

  ‘No, this is their holiday house.’

  Some holiday house . . .

  ‘One of them, anyway,’ he adds flippantly.

  Oh. Glad we got that straight.

  He climbs out of the car and opens my door, helping me out. I look around. The house is surrounded by tall trees with auburn leaves, many of which have fallen and crunch under my heels as I walk towards the front door.

  ‘We’re not going inside,’ Lukas calls. He points to the stairs at the side of the house. I follow him with increasing interest.

  We climb the two flights to the roof, and there, on an enormous, flat terrace, is a table for two, set within dozens of flickering candles in large glass vases. Then I notice the view. It stretches across the orange, red and yellow treetops to the gently undulating fields beyond. The sun is just dipping below the horizon, its orange glow spreading across the dark-blue sky. Wow. Lukas hands me a flute full to the brim with sparkling champagne. I stare down at it, bemused. Where did he get this from? And then I turn to see that dinner is already laid out on the table underneath silver domes, together with a champagne bottle, chilling on ice.

  ‘How did you do all this?’ I ask with amazement.

  ‘I had some help,’ he admits, gently chinking my glass with his own. He takes a sip but doesn’t elaborate. I don’t want to spoil the mystique so I don’t ask him to. The bubbles tingle as they hit the back of my throat. Lukas motions towards the table.

  ‘Shall we?’

  He pulls my chair out for me, pushing it back in again as I sit down. I feel a little like a princess. I feel a little overawed, if truth be told. Warmth emanates from the outside heaters standing nearby.

  I follow Lukas’s lead and lift off the silver dome in front of me to see a smoked-salmon starter on my plate. It melts in my mouth. I look out to the west to see that the sunset has intensified.

  ‘We’re lucky with the weather,’ I comment, then want to kick myself for not finding something more interesting to say.

  ‘Yes.’ He smiles. I take a large gulp of champagne, which goes straight to my head.

  ‘I was going to say I feel overdressed for a picnic, but this isn’t your ordinary picnic, is it?’

  ‘You look incredible,’ he says, and I blush at his unexpected compliment. ‘And I don’t do ordinary,’ he adds.

  ‘I can see that.’

  He refills my glass and clears our plates. He opens a silver chafing dish on a nearby table and the smell of something delicious wafts out. He serves up and I look down to see a large, rosy-red lobster tail, drizzled with warm garlic butter. I help myself to new potatoes and vegetables.

  ‘This is amazing,’ I say.

  ‘I’m glad you like it.’

  ‘You knew that I would.’ I remember his earlier confidence.

  ‘I was slightly apprehensive about the seafood,’ he admits with a smile. ‘It can be a risk.’

  Aha! So he is human. I laugh. ‘True. Did you have an alternative?’

  ‘Take-away.’

  We smile at each other.

  ‘And dessert,’ he adds.

  ‘Ooh, what’s for dessert?’ I ask, unable to help myself.

  ‘Patience,’ he chides.

  By the time dessert comes around, the sun has long since set and there’s a clear, cloudless night sky above us, twinkling with stars.

  Our last course is indeed worth waiting for: a chocolate fondant, oozing chocolate from the middle, with cream. Lukas tops up my glass once more. I notice that he’s barely drinking, which is good, because he has to drive me home.

  ‘I can’t believe I’ve drunk over half a bottle of champagne,’ I say with a giggle. I’m feeling very tipsy now. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to drive.’

  ‘I don’t mind in the slightest,’ he says. ‘Let’s take our coffees over there.’

  He nods at a pile of oversized comfy cushions near the low wall at the back of the terrace. Hang on a minute. I hope he doesn’t think I’m going to put out on the first date. A flurry of nerves passes through me, but I follow his suggestion while he goes to pour our coffees. He brings over two cups, and a small dish full of exquisite-looking truffles. I sit down on the soft cushions. It’s cooler away from the warmth of the outdoor heaters, even with my coat on. He passes me a blanket.

  ‘You’ve come amazingly well prepared,’ I say a little drily, draping it over my knees.

  ‘I can’t take all the credit,’ he admits.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I didn’t think of the blankets myself.’

  ‘Aah, your friend.’ I remember him saying he had some help.

  ‘Not strictly a friend . . .’

  ‘Oh. Who helped you, then?’

  ‘The same person who brought my car into the city tonight.’

  ‘You’re being very vague.’ Then it dawns on me. ‘An employee?’

  He doesn’t deny it as he takes a sip of his coffee.

  ‘Are yo
u very, very rich?’ I blurt out.

  He laughs and looks at me, his eyes shining under the flames of the candles surrounding us. Many have gone out, but just as many are still alight. ‘It’s not something I usually talk about.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You don’t need to apologise.’

  ‘So is your employee –’ the word feels strange on my tongue – ‘responsible for all of this?’ I indicate the setting around us, feeling a small stab of disappointment.

  ‘Physically, yes,’ Lukas reveals. ‘Theoretically, no.’ He smiles at me. ‘It was my idea.’

  ‘All of it?’

  He nods.

  ‘The menu?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The candles?’

  He shrugs. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The cushions?’

  ‘Yes.’ Pause. ‘But not the blankets.’

  I grin at him. ‘I’m glad we cleared that up.’

  ‘Me too.’

  It’s grown darker, and I realise that a few more candles have gone out. The sky above is bursting with stars. Lukas rests his head back on the cushions and I do the same, gazing upwards.

  He turns to face me and reaches over to take my hand.

  I freeze. This is it. He’s going to make his move now. What am I going to do? I think of Joe and feel overwhelmed with sadness. I try to conjure up rage instead, but it doesn’t work. My head feels cloudy and confused. I have no idea how I’ll react if he kisses me.

  But he doesn’t. Not yet, anyway. His hand is warm. He lets go and starts to trace circles on my palm. I turn to look at him and suddenly feel dizzy. I wrack my brain for something to say, something to stave off the inevitable, but my mind is blank. I look at his lips and back to his eyes, before my gaze once more falls on his lips. And at that moment I do want him to kiss me.

  Abruptly, he sits up. I regard his broad back with bewilderment.

  ‘I should take you home,’ he mumbles, getting to his feet.

  What?

  He holds his hand down to me. Flustered, I come to my senses and stand up without taking it. I feel humiliated. He must have known what I wanted. Notice the use of the past tense here.

  ‘Shouldn’t we clear up?’ I call after him as he stalks across the terrace to the stairs.

  ‘Klaus will do it.’

  Who’s Klaus? Oh, the employee.