Lucy in the Sky

promised a mate I’d help him on his house this morning. Do you fancy coming back to mine for some breakfast first?’
    We pick up our boards and walk back towards his car. Nathan straps his surfboard to the roof rack while I change fully out of thewetsuit and pull on my skirt and T-shirt. My bikini isn’t quite dry but it’ll do.
    He joins me in the front seat, looks down at me and smiles. ‘It’s good to see you again, Luce.’ Then he starts up the engine and pulls away.

Chapter 4
    Nathan lives in an apartment block just around the corner from the beach. Wetsuits hang out on a few of the balconies. So this is where the surfers live.
    I follow him as we carry our boards and wetsuits over the prickly seaside grass to the main entrance. He lives on the top floor and bounds up the concrete stairs in front of me. I’ve no chance of keeping up but he waits at the top of the stairs in front of Number 7.
    His key is in the lock and then we’re inside. It’s dark, the curtains still drawn. It’s only about 8 a.m.–it appears Amy’s not up yet. As Nathan opens the curtains, morning light spills across the small living room, presenting seventies-style carpets and matching brown and orange swirly curtains. Anyone else would probably make excuses for the decor, but Nathan says nothing and his confidence makes him seem so much older than his twenty-three years. I look around the flat and see a corridor leading away to what I’m guessing are the bedrooms.
    ‘Can I see your room?’ I hear myself asking.
    ‘Sure.’ He leads the way past another door which is shut. I wonder if Amy is sleeping behind it. His door is ajar. ‘It’s a bit of a mess,’ he says and he’s not lying. Jeans, cords, T-shirts and hooded jumpers spill out of open wooden drawers; a guitar is propped up against the unmade double bed. Books and magazines pile up precariously on one side of a wooden dressing table and an old TV set stands on the other. A portable CD/cassette player is on the floor next to his bed. A pile of CDs and cassettes lies messily next to it. Apart from those few things, he doesn’t seem to have many other belongings.
    As if reading my mind, he explains, ‘I gave a lot of stuff away when I went travelling and it hasn’t seemed worth buying much else.’
    ‘When did you go travelling?’
    ‘I’ve been a few times. I came back from my last trip early last year.’
    ‘Where did you go?’
    ‘Well, I’ve been to Indonesia and Thailand in the past, and have also spent some time backpacking around Australia, but most recently I just spent some months working up the coast on a few building sites, surfing and doing a bit of fruit picking, that sort of thing.’
    I sit down on his unmade bed and pick up his guitar. ‘Do you play?’ he asks.
    ‘No, not me.’ But I give it a couple of strums anyway.
    ‘Stop, you’re shit.’ He laughs.
    ‘Go on, then; play me something.’
    He sits down next to me, taking the guitar and tucking one long, lean leg underneath him. His dark hair is still damp from the surf.
    ‘I’ll get my own place, one of these days,’ he says, resting his arm lazily across the guitar. He doesn’t play it.
    I pull my leg up underneath myself, mimicking his body language, and turn to face him.
    ‘But I still haven’t decided if or when I’ll go travelling again.’
    ‘Have you ever thought about coming to England?’ I ask hopefully.
    ‘Not really, but you never know.’
    ‘You should!’
    ‘Bit cold, though, isn’t it?’
    ‘It’s not that bad,’ I protest. ‘The summers can be beautiful. And in winter there’s nothing nicer than cosying up in front of a log fire with a pint. Well, actually I don’t drink beer,’ I correct myself. ‘But you know, red wine—’
    ‘Vodka…’ he interrupts, smiling.
    ‘Not anytime again soon, thank you. That hangover was a killer.’
    He grins.
    I can see now that many of the books next to the television are related to design and property.
    ‘Dad’s,’ he says, clocking my stare. ‘They’re the only things of his that I really wanted to keep.’
    ‘What happened to the boat?’ I ask and instantly regret it.
    ‘We sold it,’ he answers curtly.
    ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean…I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut.’
    ‘It’s okay.’ He smiles.
    ‘So what do you want to do? With your life, I mean.’ I hope I’m not pushing my luck with all these personal questions, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
    ‘I don’t really know yet. Sam was