Ibiza Summer (23 page)

And inside the envelope were the beads that Juan Pablo had given him and a shell that I presumed could only be from our beach, one that he had used to write the giant ‘I
love you Isabelle’ in the sand, and I clutched them to my chest tightly.

I noticed that he’d written something in small handwriting at the bottom of the letter.

I frantically located the little black photo wallet in my bag and stared at it for ages in the vain hope that some kind of clue would leap out at me, but I couldn’t see
anything other than photos: one of me and Wils taken at her sixteenth birthday party, a couple of Montague and me at home, one of Ellie with Mum – Ellie looking her usual glamorous self . . .
I went through the wallet twice, but there was nothing. I was about to give up, then something caught my eye. On the back of the wallet, among the many stickers and pictures of Wils and me, was
this faded photograph of me and my dad – you know, one of those sticker-type ones you have taken in a booth where you can choose a funny frame – and underneath I had written,
Isabelle (aged ten) and her daddy xxx.
It was one of the last photographs ever taken of my dad and me, and I had completely forgotten it was there. Rex must’ve seen it that time my
vintage bag had exploded in front of him at Alfredo’s party, and guessed it must be me in the picture.

I smiled as I stared at that tiny picture; I looked so young, with a chubby face and wide eyes, and my dad looked so wonderful and strong and loving, and we both looked so happy, neither of us
knowing what the future held for us, just living in that moment in time. And I thought how much Rex and my dad had in common in a strange way, because I knew he’d been right all along: just
because someone isn’t there any more, doesn’t mean that we will ever stop loving them.