One Perfect Summer

shiny black shoes inside.
    ‘I saw her at Christmas,’ he reveals offhandedly.
    ‘Christmas just gone? When I was there?’ I don’t understand. I still haven’t met her, but sometimes I think that I should. She didn’t come to our wedding, although she was invited.
    ‘Yes. I bumped into her in Munich, that day we went to the Christmas market. She had Ferdinand with her.’ That’s her little boy.
    ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ We’d split up for an hour so I could go shopping.
    He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘ Do you still love her?’ I ask anxiously.
    ‘Of course not, Alice,’ he says crossly.
    ‘Does she still love you?’
    ‘If she did she would never tell me.’
    That doesn’t sound like the most reassuring answer.
    ‘Did she seem happy?’
    ‘I think so. She’s pregnant again.’ Why doesn’t this feel like good news? ‘How did we get on to talking about Rosalinde?’ he asks suddenly. ‘I thought we were talking about Joseph Strike .’ He says his name with mockery.
    ‘There’s nothing more to say,’ I reply simply.
    I know this isn’t the end of our discussion. If Joe is as big a star as Roxy says, we haven’t heard the last of him.

 
    That couldn’t have been more of an understatement. In the summer, the second blockbuster in which Joe has a starring role hits the big screen and the furore around him reaches fever pitch. It’s impossible to go anywhere without hearing or seeing something related to Tinseltown’s latest flame. Much as Lukas and I try to conduct a normal life, we’re constantly living in Joe’s shadow.
    My parents never did put two and two together – they’re not really big cinema fans and, following Lukas’s request, I kept quiet. But the fact that Lizzy, Jessie and Emily know about my history with Joe is another nail in their coffins. As far as Lukas is concerned, he feels more uncomfortable in their company than ever. To him it feels like they’re judging us, comparing him to Joe, wondering if I regret our marriage. And they probably are.
    Towards the end of August, Lizzy’s little girl turns two and I go to London on my own for her birthday party. It’s not worth forcing Lukas to come – it’s easier to keep these two sides of my life apart. I decide to stay for the whole weekend – to help Lizzy out with the party on Saturday, and to catch up properly afterwards.
    She moved into a flat in East Finchley a month ago so she could still be near her father and sister without everyone living in each other’s pockets. She’s hired out a space in a church hall and I barely have time to drop off my bags before we have to head over there to blow up balloons. My parents are on holiday in France at the moment so this weekend Lizzy and Ellie have me all to themselves.
    Later, at the end of a long day, when Ellie is asleep and Lizzy and I have collapsed on the sofa in front of the telly with two very large glasses of wine, she tells me that I should have been a children’s entertainer. I’ve been rounding up pre-schoolers all day to play games.
    ‘I think there’s more money in teaching,’ I say wryly.
    ‘And more respect.’
    ‘Some teachers would disagree,’ I say with a raised eyebrow. ‘Although that shouldn’t be the way it is.’
    ‘It’s definitely not in your case,’ she says warmly. ‘You’re a great teacher.’
    ‘You’ve never seen me in the classroom,’ I comment with a smile, taking a sip of my wine.
    ‘I can imagine. I know you’re brilliant. I only wish Ellie could go to your school.’
    ‘Move up to Cambridge!’ I cry.
    She grins and shakes her head. ‘It’s tempting. I have never seen a city with so many fit boys in it. Or girls, for that matter,’ she muses. ‘It’s a shame the colleges aren’t still single sex, that would sort out part of that problem.’
    I laugh. She picks up the remote control and starts channel surfing.
    ‘Wait!’ I shout, sloshing some of my wine out of my glass onto my knees. She freezes, the remote paused.
    Joe’s face fills the screen.
    ‘Turn it up,’ I command.
    He’s being interviewed on a late-night American chat show, and he’s so cool, so composed. He laughs and my heart flips because he’s instantly recognisable and familiar, and then a woman’s voice-over says: ‘ But the young Joseph Strike had to fight his way to the top . . . ’ The programme cuts to an advert break. This appears to be a documentary about his road to fame. Lizzy looks over at me.