Be Careful What You Wish For (28 page)

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.

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.’

 

T
he 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 mini-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.

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—

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.

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.’

‘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.

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.’

 

‘
T
his is my old school.’