The Summer Without You (13 page)

Grudgingly, Ro put the cap on her camera lens and turned her back to the ocean, walking up the dry sand in a wobbly gait. It was hard to get anywhere fast, and it was beyond her how all these
fit New Yorkers – looking so vital as they jogged in the last of the sun’s rays – could get up any pace. Ahead, a woman in a straw hat was walking slowly with her dog,
sporadically throwing things into the dunes, which were cordoned off by double-rowed wooden fences. Ro squinted as she began to catch her up. Was she littering?

The woman was carrying a basket on one arm and Ro couldn’t help but stare in as she passed. Inside were hundreds of tiny chocolate truffles. What on earth . . . ?

Ro stopped in astonishment at the sight, and the woman turned, as if sensing her.

‘Well, hello,’ she smiled, her grey eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Did Nathan send you? Have you come to help?’

‘I-I . . .’ Ro stammered. ‘No, I was just passing, actually. I couldn’t help but notice that you were . . . throwing things.’

‘Indeed I am. Would you like to try one?’ She held the basket out and Ro hesitantly took one. They were heavier in her hand than she expected, and she put it to her mouth.

‘I wouldn’t!’ The woman smiled, and Ro’s hand paused – poised mid-air, her mouth open. ‘They’re not for eating. They’re seed bombs.’

Ro’s hand dropped. ‘Excuse me?’

‘They’re a combination of sand, clay, soil and dune-plant seeds: so, beach rose, golden rod, Atlantic panic grass, things like that . . . I make them myself.’

‘But why?’ Ro rolled the seed bomb in her hand.

‘Sandy.’ The woman paused, seeing Ro’s bewilderment. ‘You’re not from here, are you?’

Ro shook her head.

‘Hurricane Sandy all but wiped out the beaches here last year. I’m trying to get an initiative going to revegetate the coastline.’

‘Oh. The hurricane, yes,’ Ro nodded. She’d seen the coverage of last winter’s super-storm on the news back home, although it had mainly focused on the damage to downtown
Manhattan and the fact that Wall Street had had to be closed. Long Island’s destruction hadn’t made the headlines in the UK. ‘But . . . you’re not doing all that on your
own, surely?’ Ro’s eyes tracked the unending miles of beach-fronted coastline.

‘Well, sometimes it feels a little like that,’ the woman sighed with a smile. ‘But no. I distribute the seed bombs at food fairs, and I’ve done some workshops in the
city. Volunteers take them to distribute along coastline they’re passing either on foot or by bike. There’s quite a few of us now. We call it guerrilla gardening.’ She raised an
eyebrow at Ro. ‘Go on, just throw it, anywhere you like in the dune. It’s quite therapeutic, although I think I may have overdone it today. It’s bringing on my tennis
elbow.’

Ro threw the small ball into the protected area, watching as it disappeared among the grasses.

‘And it’ll take root, just like that? They don’t need to be dug in?’ Ro asked. ‘Don’t the birds go for them?’

‘Uh-uh. The clay creates a pod for the seeds till they’re strong enough to sprout; then they penetrate the sand.’

‘Cool,’ Ro murmured.

‘It is, isn’t it?’ The woman smiled, holding out the basket again for Ro to help herself.

Ro threw a few more and they fell naturally into step, walking side by side.

‘I’m Florence, by the way. And that’s Maisie, my daughter’s dog, there. I’m dog-sitting this week while she’s on vacation.’

‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Rowena. Everyone calls me Ro.’

‘Ro and Flo, how funny,’ Florence laughed. Ro guessed she must be in her early sixties, but she was a tall, handsome woman, with grey – almost white – hair and deeply
tanned skin that retained a rosy blush. She wasn’t dissimilarly dressed to Ro, wearing rolled-up cornflower-blue utility trousers and a white striped cotton blouse.

‘Would you care to throw a few more?’ Florence asked, holding out the basket.

‘I’d love to,’ Ro replied, carefully throwing the bombs into the bald patches of dune. Florence was right – it felt surprisingly good.

‘So, where are you from if not from here?’ Florence asked, her eyes on Maisie.

‘London. I’m just here for the summer.’ She threw some more bombs, watching as they skidded down the sandy slopes before juddering to a stop.

‘You have friends here?’

‘Kind of . . .’ Ro gave a shy laugh. ‘Actually, not really. Or . . . not yet, anyway.’

Florence gave her an interested look. ‘So what brings you here?’

Ro paused. ‘Showing my boyfriend he’s not the only one who can be unpredictable?’ She looked out to sea and took a deep breath – telling this story always required one,
she’d found. ‘We’ve been together eleven years. Then, just over two months ago, he threw it on me that he’d decided to take a six-month sabbatical to go backpacking around
Cambodia. I think he thinks he’s Jason Bourne or someone.’ She swallowed, trying to smile. ‘Anyway, he went two days later.’

‘Oh!’

‘Mm.’ She shrugged her eyebrows, recognizing the pity that characterized everyone’s reaction when they heard this tale. ‘He wants to travel, feed orphans, commune with
orang-utans, that kind of thing.’

Florence chuckled.

‘So when I got an offer to spend the summer here, I just thought, well . . . Why not?’ She threw a few more bombs, harder this time.

Florence held out the basket again and Ro took the entire thing, smiling gratefully and scattering the balls with abandon.

‘That’s rather brave – relocating yourself across the Atlantic when none of it was even your idea.’

‘I know. And now I’m slightly wondering if I haven’t . . . made a mistake.’ Her shoulders slumped. ‘My housemates are . . . They’re lovely, but a little
terrifying. We don’t know each other well yet, and work isn’t taking off the way I’d hoped. I’m a photographer,’ she added. ‘At least back home, I had a full
diary and complete control of the Sky remote.’

They had reached the car park now and Ro looked down at the empty basket, suddenly embarrassed at having talked so openly to a stranger. Throwing the seed bombs had distracted her from the
weight in her words. ‘Tch, listen to me prattling on. I’m sorry. I don’t usually burden complete strangers with my problems.’ She gave another embarrassed laugh before
handing back the basket. ‘It was nice meeting you.’

Florence regarded Ro carefully. ‘You know, I may just have a proposition for you.’

Ro blinked, surprised.

‘I’m the town officer for the East Hampton Town Board. We need some photography for a regeneration programme we’re trying to initiate. How would you feel about doing it for
us?’

‘Oh! Uh . . .’ Ro hesitated. ‘To be honest, I’m not really that sort of photographer. I mean, thank you for thinking of me, but I wouldn’t want to let you
down.’

‘You wouldn’t.’ Florence watched her through keen, bright grey eyes and Ro was surprised – and flattered – by her certainty. ‘Let’s at least discuss it
further. Why don’t you drop by my house tomorrow morning and we can talk about what it is we need? Mine’s the second house in on Middle Lane. Grey Mists.’ She gestured to the road
leading off to the right.

‘OK,’ Ro nodded.

‘Shall we say eleven o’clock?’

‘OK. I’ll look forward to it.’

‘Good. Me too. Come along, Maisie,’ Florence said, flicking her lead and setting a brisk pace across the car park, the dog trotting at her heels.

Guerrilla gardening . . . Ro mused as she unlocked her bike and began pedalling up the lane to home. She liked the sound of that.

Bobbi and Hump were swinging on the love seat on the porch as she wheeled into sight of Sea Spray Cottage, a vast jug of Long Island iced tea on the table in front of them.

‘Well, there’s one housemate at least,’ Bobbi grumbled, as Ro glided towards them slowly till her front wheel nudged the bottom step. Bobbi was dressed in a slinky black dress
that was split up the side, and looked ready for cocktails.

‘I was beginning to think you’d been abducted,’ Hump said, the word ‘again’ hovering, teasingly unspoken, at the end of the sentence.

Ro narrowed her eyes at him in her signature ‘ha, ha’, unable to meet Bobbi’s gaze at all. Her morning humiliation felt as fresh as milk, and it didn’t help to be
standing in front of her in baggy off-the-hip chinos while Bobbi looked ready to walk a runway. ‘I’m sorry. I lost track of time.’

Hump’s eyes fell knowingly to the camera about her neck. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. Greg’s not here yet.’

‘What,
still
?’

‘I don’t get why we’re all hanging around waiting for him. If he can’t be bothered to get here on time . . .’ Bobbi said sulkily.

‘Trust me, you’re gonna love Greg. He looks like that guy from
Grey’s
, with manners like Gatsby. He’s a ladykiller, but he don’t even know it.’

Bobbi made a ‘whatever’ sign with her fingers before looking back at Ro again. ‘Are you going to get changed?’ she asked, her eyes clearly making out the wide straps of
Ro’s masonry bra through the linen shirt.

‘Why? I thought we were going to Navy Beach?’

‘So did I.’ Hump shrugged. ‘But Bobbi says there’s an LBD party at Cappelletti.’

Ro wrinkled her nose. ‘It sounds like a cricketing convention.’

Hump guffawed. ‘Little black dress party? Wear a little black dress and you get in for free.’

‘Oh.’ It sounded hellish. ‘Looks like I’m paying, then,’ Ro shrugged.

‘What? You don’t have one?’ Bobbi looked stunned. Ro may as well have said she had no lungs. Or broadband.

‘Well, I mean, I do have one. Just not
here
.’

‘You came all the way to the Hamptons without a party dress? Where did you think you were coming to, a kibbutz?’

Ro opened her mouth to defend herself, but just then an engine rumbled round the corner and she turned to see a cab pulling over to the kerb.

‘Ah! The maestro,’ Hump grinned, draining his glass, getting up and leaning against the frame of the porch.

They all watched as the taxi door opened and a man in a dark grey suit and red tie stepped out, carrying a briefcase and brown leather holdall. He was tall – at least six foot three
– with the bearing of a soldier, his shoulders pressed back as he strode up the path to the house.

‘Yo, dude,’ Hump called, sounding more like a Harlem rapper than a one-time doctor with a pile in the Hamptons. Why was it that when men hung out together, they had to sound
‘street’? Matt did the same thing on the phone with his mates. ‘Thought you were gonna leave us hangin’.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Greg replied, having the grace to look sheepish, his bright brown eyes scanning their group quickly, the first traces of five-o’clock shadow on his cheeks.
Ladykiller was right. He was gorgeous. ‘I just couldn’t get away from the office.’

‘Yeah? That’s why you need to meet your new housemate. Bobbi here is about the only person I ever met as focused on her career as you.’

‘Is that so?’ Greg looked across at Bobbi – even standing on the top step, she was only barely higher than him. ‘Well then, I’m pleased to meet you, Bobbi,’
Greg said, dropping his bags by his feet and holding out a hand.

‘Hey,’ Bobbi smiled, leaning against the pillar and somehow managing to make it look as provocative as a dancing pole.

‘And this Brit chick here is Ro – as in “yo”,’ Hump grinned.

‘Short for Yowena?’ Greg asked, fixing his eyes upon her, amused already.

‘Yes, exactly!’ she laughed, determined not to move. Moving usually meant falling over for her.

Picking up his bags again in one hand, Greg climbed the steps and fell into some sort of mason’s handshake – all thumb grips and shoulder bumps – with Hump.

‘It’s been too long, my man,’ Hump said, gripping Greg’s shoulder hard, and they exchanged stares that seemed weightier than their words.

‘You’ve been much missed.’

Hump laughed. ‘Well, you’ll be glad to hear yours is the only room in the house that’s
not
covered in girls’ clothes,’ Hump said, sliding his eyes over to
Bobbi, who already had hand-washed cashmere jumpers draped over every radiator in the house and tiny workout kit strewn on chair-backs and stair banisters.

‘Hey!’ Ro protested. She could hardly be accused of having shoes and dresses lying all about the place.

‘No, actually you’re right,’ Hump acknowledged. ‘Ro’s room is covered in her boyfriend’s clothes. Some sort of he-she thang going on there.’ He wrinkled
his nose. Bobbi laughed, but Ro felt cloddish suddenly in her oversized gear. ‘Now go change out of that monkey suit and we can get this party started once and for all.’

‘Why wait?’ Greg asked, pulling off his tie and indicating to the cab that was sitting in idle still by the kerb. ‘I’m ready if you are. Summer’s begun,
right?’

‘Hell, yeah! Ladies,’ Hump beamed, motioning for them to lead the way, ‘we are game on.’

Ro sat in the booth, her finger idly skimming the rim of the glass, occasionally falling off. She was staring at it when Hump came back with the drinks, his fingers splayed
wide as he held as many as was possible.

‘Hump! I think even my fingers are drunk,’ she half shouted, half slurred as he slunk in beside her.

‘Not drunk enough!’ Hump hollered back over the music, pushing a hi-ball towards her. ‘Try that.’

‘Uh-uh. That would break my drinking rules.’

‘Drinking rules? What are they?’ Hump asked, picking up the glass and angling the straw towards her lips. She sipped it greedily.

‘Well,’ she said, smacking her lips, ‘Matt did them for me because I’m, like, really rubbish: I should never mix wine and beer because it makes me sick; I should never
drink tequila because it makes me sad; I should never drink beer because it makes me fat; and I should never drink anything with an umbrella in it because it’s
déclassé.’

Hump slapped his hand over his tummy and laughed, because he was really drunk too. ‘Well, what
does
he let you drink? OJ?’

‘Cava, because we can’t afford champagne, and gin and tonics – although they give me headaches, but don’t tell him that.’

‘I won’t,’ Hump agreed, shaking his head sombrely. He took the umbrella out of the glass. ‘There? How’s that, now? Classy enough?’