‘No idea,’ Matt answers but he’s scowling so hard he has a uni-brow.
Maybe Jeremy was warning Tyler off his sister, I think to myself, but the two of them seemed too friendly for that, what with the fist bumping. Maybe it was the other way around and Jeremy was warning Tyler about Eliza being evil and not worth the effort. That would definitely make much more sense.
Suddenly Sophie sits bolt upright on Matt’s lap. ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she says, covering her mouth with her hand.
Matt leaps straight to his feet, pulling Sophie up with him. ‘Come on,’ he says to her, ‘let’s get some air. See you around,’ he says to me over his shoulder as he leads her away.
‘Nice to meet you,’ Sophie manages to slur.
A few seconds later Jeremy is back. He sits down beside me. ‘You met Sophie then?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, though I’m not sure she’ll remember me in the morning.’
He laughs.
‘Are she and Matt going out?’
‘Going out?’ he asks, lifting his eyebrows at me. ‘Dating, you mean?’
I nod.
‘I guess you could call it that. They hook up every summer but it’s not like it’s Facebook official or anything.’
I nod again.
When I turn my head he’s still looking at me, the flames dancing in his eyes. I wonder some more about the conversation he just had with that guy Tyler but don’t want to ask and Jeremy lies back, resting on his elbows so his face is now in darkness. I follow suit. I like it here, in the ring of semi-darkness, observing but unobserved.
‘So, what are parties like in London?’ Jeremy asks.
I swivel my head in his direction, away from the mesmerising flames. ‘They’re not that different to this one. Just fewer bikinis and a bit less Kanye West.’
He laughs under his breath. ‘Can I get you another beer?’ he asks.
‘No, I’m good,’ I say, holding up my bottle. I’ve not even drunk half of it.
I glance at his beer, which is still undrunk, half buried in the sand.
We spend the next half-hour talking about music and school and the euphemisms of our different languages for such intellectual topics as kissing and getting stoned. We’re both lying in the sand laughing and I’m starting to feel the rush of beer to my head from having finished my bottle and half of Jeremy’s when Parker appears once more and drops to his knees in a spray of sand in front of Jeremy.
‘Dude, it’s on!’ he says, his eyes bulging.
Jeremy sits up, suddenly serious. His eyes rove the crowd which has gotten quieter in the last half-hour. Only a few couples are left making out in the sand and more people are passed out than are actually dancing.
‘Where’s Eliza?’ Jeremy asks.
‘I think she’s with the girls,’ Parker answers. ‘They’re all staying. You on for it?’
For what? I think, glancing at Jeremy.
Jeremy is frowning. He glances at me then at Parker. ‘No,’ he says to Parker. ‘Not this time.’
There’s a pause while Parker gives him a strangely complicated look that seems to be saying a whole lot of stuff I’m not supposed to get. I sit up. ‘It’s cool,’ I say. ‘If you need to go somewhere. I need to get back anyway. I have to be up at some ridiculous time in the morning – the kids need someone to puke on and get them breakfast.’
Jeremy frowns some more. He seems disappointed, at least, that’s how I read it, but then he nods at me. ‘OK, I’ll take you home,’ he says.
Parker backs away. ‘OK, call me, dude!’ he says before turning around and running off down the beach. I notice that half the boys seem to have vanished and only a pack of girls remains by the fire, no longer dancing but sitting in a big group with their knees drawn up, gossiping amongst themselves.
Jeremy walks behind me all the way to the car. He doesn’t say much and his hand is notably absent from my back. He’s distracted and silent on the whole drive back too and I stare out the window and obviously, because I’m a girl, start over-analysing the situation while telling myself to be cool and act indifferent. I study him out the corner of my eye. Why did he invite me? And why did he spend most the night talking to me if he doesn’t like me? And if he likes me does he like me like me or just like me? And do I even care? Even listening to my internal dialogue makes me want to smack my head repeatedly against the dashboard. Do boys ever have internal discussions like this one or are their thoughts just boobs boobs boobs?
Jeremy turns to me just as I’m contemplating this and the perfect smooth curve of the dashboard. He has parked up outside the house but hasn’t killed the engine. ‘Thanks for coming tonight,’ he says. He leans forward, across the handbrake. I swallow. Is he going to kiss me? Do I want him to? I’m not sure. I freeze. He kisses me on the cheek.
I let out the breath I have been holding, feeling a mixture of disappointment but also relief. Relief because I do not want to be kissed by any boy ever again. They are all, without exception, untrustworthy a-holes. But disappointed because that’s not to say that I don’t want a boy to try to kiss me.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ I say, fumbling for the handle. Jeremy leans across me to throw open the door and I get a waft of aftershave and I can’t help myself – I inhale deeply.
‘Any time,’ Jeremy says, smiling at me. ‘See you around.’
And then the car door slams and I’m left standing in the driveway watching his headlights as he reverses down the drive.
5
It’s one in the morning and I’m lying on my bed, shoes kicked off, half undressed, trying to summon the energy to take the rest of my clothes off and my make-up. I cannot, so instead I drag my laptop across the bed towards me. I put in my headphones and start listening to some Dry the River. It helps to drive out the Lil Wayne that was pounding on the beach and to remind me of home.
For the first time since I arrived I feel homesick. I have a sudden craving for baked beans, an episode of Coronation Street and for people who speak English.
With trepidation I open up my email. Megan has sent me about a thousand messages all asking a variation of did you pull Jeremy?
I log out. Megan can wait until tomorrow.
The next thing I know a dog has hold of my foot and is tugging on it. I kick out and hear an angry yell. I open one eye. Brodie is standing at the foot of my bed scowling. She is dressed, though through my cracked open eyelid I see her T-shirt is on backwards and her skirt is rucked into her pants.
‘You’re still in your clothes,’ she says to me.
‘So I am,’ I say, blinking blurrily at her. I sit up, frowning at the darkness. What the hell time is it?
‘What time is it?’ I ask her.
‘I don’t know,’ Brodie shrugs. ‘I’m only four. I can’t tell the time.’
‘Huh,’ I say, rubbing a hand over my face trying to come to my senses. I swipe my finger over the track-pad of my computer which is still lying next to me on the bed. It blinks to life and the white light scores my eyes. It is 5.58 a.m.
Good God.
‘Brodie,’ I say. ‘It’s way early.’
‘I can’t sleep,’ she shrugs. ‘I’m hungry. I want breakfast.’
I close my eyes and count to three, wondering how on earth parents do this every single morning. Brodie pokes my thigh. I groan and swing my legs off the bed. They hire nannies is how, I remind myself. Tinny music is still coming out of my headphones, which must have fallen out of my ears during sleep. I shut down my computer.
‘OK,’ I say, staggering slightly as I stand. ‘We’ll get breakfast. But first let me freshen up.’
Brodie follows me into the bathroom and watches as I wash my face and brush my teeth.
‘Did you make out with Jeremy last night?’ she asks from her position perched on the bath.
I stare at her, my mouth filled with minty foam. ‘No,’ I splutter.
‘So you didn’t make it to first base? Or second?’
‘How do you even know ab
out bases?’ I ask, staring at her in the mirror.
‘If you get to fourth base on a first date that makes you a dirty skanky ho.’
The toothbrush I’m holding clutters into the sink and I splutter a spray of toothpaste all over the mirror. ‘Whoa,’ I say. ‘Where did you learn that?’
‘Noelle Reed.’
I frown at the name. It rings a bell.
‘Noelle says that if you go all the way to fourth base on the first date you’re a total skanktron.’
‘OK, OK,’ I say, ushering Brodie out of the bathroom. ‘That’s enough. Let’s have less of the skank words, thank you.’
‘Why?’ Brodie asks as I usher her down the stairs, tiptoeing past Mike and Carrie’s room.
‘Because it’s a rude word,’ I whisper. ‘Who is this Noelle Reed?’ I ask, thinking that maybe Brodie has been watching some show on MTV without her parents realising. Maybe Noelle’s a character on Jersey Shore.
‘She’s a girl at camp,’ Brodie informs me.
I stare bug-eyed. What the hell kind of camp is this place?
I bend down so I’m at Brodie’s level. ‘Don’t say those words in front of your mum or dad, OK? Actually best if you don’t ever say them again in front of anyone.’
Brodie shrugs at me, looking uncertain, but just then I hear Braiden start yelling from his cot upstairs so I leave Brodie with the cereal box and milk and run upstairs to rescue him. A few minutes later, when I come downstairs I find most of the cereal on the floor and a puddle of milk on the table.
I’m still clearing it all up while the terrible two play in the den when Mike makes an appearance. He’s reading the newspaper and has the phone propped against his shoulder as though he’s waiting on hold for a call.
‘Thanks, Ren,’ he says, poking his head around the door of the den and seeing the kids happily ensconced. ‘How was last night? Did you have fun?’
I see him do a double take at my clothes and cringe. I must look like a dirty skanky ho.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It was, um, fun.’
‘You don’t sound so sure,’ he says.
‘No. It was just a late night.’ My eyes are blurring as I try to focus. ‘I fell asleep in my clothes,’ I add hastily to remove any doubt of my dirty stop-out status.
‘Well I’m going to take the kids to the beach today. Carrie has to work and she insists that I take Sundays off to spend more time with the children. So if you want to go back to bed be my guest. I can handle it from here.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Actually, though, I was thinking I might go and hire a bike from somewhere and explore the island.’ I don’t want to spend my day off sleeping when I could be getting a suntan. I intend to go back to England looking tanned and hot. And that has nothing whatsoever to do with wanting to flaunt said tanned, hot body in front of Will to make him realise what he’s missing.
‘Great,’ Mike says. ‘I think there’s a place called Miller’s that rents bikes. We can drop you in town on our way to the beach.’
‘OK,’ I say and run upstairs to shower and get dressed.
6
An hour later I find myself standing outside Miller’s Bike and Boat Store. There’s a row of bikes standing in a drunken line out the front and a pair of oars propped up next to them.
The sign on the door says, ‘Welcome. We are OPEN!’ so I take a breath and turn the handle. The bottom half of the glass door has a massive crack in it which someone has carefully taped over in a temporary effort to hold it in place.
Inside the shop it takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. I hesitate, wondering if Miller’s Bike and Boat Store is in fact as the sign declares, OPEN! but I can hear music blaring from a back room so I figure it must be.
I glance around. I could pretty much help myself to any of the thrillingly exciting fishing and cycling equipment lining the shop walls and walk out without anyone noticing. Fortunately for the Millers I can’t differentiate the boating equipment from the cycling equipment. And, added to this fact, I’m not a thief.
‘Hello?’ I call out.
No one answers.
Behind the counter there’s a door standing ajar. That’s where the music is coming from.
I drum my fingers on the counter for a moment and then walk around its scratched wooden edge and behind it. I notice amidst the chaos of paperwork that there’s a big pile of books lining the counter and for a second I’m distracted and want to read through the titles but then I remember what I’m here for and I push the door gently with my foot.
Bent over with his back to me in the centre of the room is a boy. He’s shirtless and I can see the muscles of his back and shoulders working angrily beneath his skin as he pumps up a tyre as though he and the tyre have personal issues to work through. A bike is overturned in front of him, resting on its saddle and handlebars in an autopsy position.
I clear my throat. The music is so loud though it’d probably take the sound of a chainsaw to cut through it, so it’s no surprise when he doesn’t hear me.
I step gingerly over a toolbox that’s disgorging its contents across the cement floor and head towards him. A part of me does consider turning around and leaving but it’s a long walk back to town. Also I kind of want to see what he looks like, because, frankly, his back is begging the question – what the hell does his front look like?
The boy is now resting on his haunches, running the tyre through his palms, his head bent as he studies it – for a puncture? I notice his hands are covered in oil and grease, his forearms tanned and well-worked. Sweat is running in rivers down his back and for a second I hesitate. I try clearing my throat again but he doesn’t hear. The music is so loud it’s vibrating through the soles of my feet and out the top of my head. I feel like I’m a bass speaker. Eventually I lean forward and tap him lightly on the shoulder.
He jumps to his feet, spinning around. I leap backwards startled, upending the toolbox behind me which goes flying, scattering wrenches and screws and things I don’t know the names of all across the floor.
‘Sorry,’ I say, looking at the mess, ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘You didn’t startle me,’ he answers through gritted teeth.
I raise an eyebrow, my eyes dropping to the spanner he’s clenching in his hand.
‘People don’t usually wander into rooms marked private,’ he says, jerking his head at the door.
I turn. And notice the sign on the door. PRIVATE. EMPLOYEES ONLY. Huh.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again, struggling to be heard over the music. ‘I didn’t notice. I called out and nobody answered.’
He reaches down only then and with his foot yanks the lead from out of the iPod speaker he has set up on the counter. The music cuts out and suddenly my breathing sounds really loud. It also seems to amplify his whole nakedness.
I stare at him. Actually I try not to stare at him but it’s kind of hard not to. I mean, he’s standing there topless in front of me and his stomach looks like it just walked out of an Abercrombie catalogue. Sweat has darkened the waistband of his jeans. He’s holding a spanner in one hand, the tyre in the other.
I glance upwards. He’s still glaring at me, but not with irritation. He looks instead like he wants to kill me. His fingers twitch around the spanner. Unconsciously I have edged back towards the door.
‘I’ll just go then . . .’ I say, my eyes fixed on the spanner now. Weird doesn’t even begin to describe this encounter. But at the same time, in my head, I’m sorting through the words I’ll use to describe it to Megan in an email later. I’m already framing this scene in my memory so I can recreate it – spanner, muscle, sweat and all. I bump the wall behind me and then dart backwards through the door.
‘Wait,’ I hear him say.
I turn.
A muscle pulses in his jaw. ‘What do you want? A bike?’
I stare at him. ‘Um, yeah. You’re a bike shop, right? You do hire bikes?’
He wipes his hands on a cloth he pulls from the back pock
et of his jeans and comes towards me. I step backwards out of his way, banging into the counter behind me, splaying myself like a really attractive starfish. He ignores me, reaching for a T-shirt on the counter and pulling it on as I watch, trying to force myself not to stare at. Those. Muscles. I forbid myself to quiver. Or to reach out and touch them to check that they are real.
I follow him as nonchalantly as possible as he walks to the line of bikes in the centre of the shop. He stops in front of them and turns to me. His expression is blank now, totally indifferent. His gaze falls the length of my body, but not in an appraising way, more in a yawn look at this chemistry textbook I have to study way. He then turns to the row of bikes, puts his hands on the handlebars of one and pulls it free of the line.
‘This should fit you,’ he says.
‘O-kay,’ I say, walking towards the bike as though it’s a frothing Rottweiler. I’m not sure which I’m more scared of. The bike or the boy.
‘You want to try it?’ he asks, when I’m standing next to the bike, staring at it hesitantly. ‘Then I can adjust it if it needs it.’
I pause. He’s holding the bike steady for me but there’s a trace of impatience in his voice.
I drop my bag to my feet and bravely take hold of the handlebars and swing my leg over the seat. I try to act like the last time I rode a bike wasn’t at least a decade ago. He lets go and I wobble and wonder if I can abase myself by asking for stabilisers.
I wish I had worn jeans and not these shorts because I’m aware that my bare thigh is brushing against his jeans. He notices too and edges away from me and I feel my cheeks start to burn. I test the brakes. At least, I think they’re the brakes. I so do not want to have to ride this bike with him watching so I just admire the handles, mutter something about it feeling fine and swing my leg back over. I feel better on flat ground with no saddle between my legs.
He kicks the stand down and then drops to one knee and starts fiddling with the seat. He raises it slightly, screws it tight and then turns to me without a smile.
‘That should do it,’ he says.