One Perfect Summer

jumper, and I keep my hair down. I set off at seven a.m. so I have plenty of time, even though it should take only half an hour or so on the underground. He’s staying at the W Hotel in Leicester Square – the penthouse suite, no less. I leave a note for my parents to say that I’ve gone over to Lizzy’s for breakfast. They’ll think it’s strange, but she’ll cover for me if they ever ask. Again, I feel as though I’m acting like a teenager.
    I arrive ten minutes early, but I can’t bear to wait any longer. The huge W outside the hotel glows in the early morning light and I walk straight into the dark lobby and go to the lift, hoping the doormen will think I look like I know what I’m doing. Inside the lift I press the button Joe told me to press for the penthouse, but nothing happens. Shit. I bet I need a key card to make it move. I press the button for reception instead and the lift takes me up one floor into a sumptuous area sparkling with mirror balls. I daren’t ask anyone to call Joe for me, so I get out my mobile and call him myself.
    ‘Hello?’ He sounds out of breath.
    ‘It’s Alice. I’m in reception. I can’t get up to your room.’
    ‘I’ll send someone down for you,’ he promises.
    He’ll send someone down for me? Now I feel like a right tit. I hate the idea of anyone knowing about us. It cheapens it, somehow. But then, I don’t suppose he could come himself. His is one of the most recognisable faces in the world today.
    Who is this man I’m about to meet? What’s become of that boy from one summer, long ago in Dorset?
    The lift doors whoosh open and a woman steps out. She’s medium height, super-slim, and immaculately turned-out with blow-dried hair and perfect make-up. She looks around and then her eyes fall on me. I feel apprehensive until she smiles at me.
    ‘Alice?’ she asks.
    I nod uneasily.
    ‘I’m Melanie, Joseph’s PA. Please come with me.’
    We step back into the lift.
    ‘He’s been waiting for you,’ she tells me with a raised eyebrow as the lift climbs upwards.
    This morning or for the last nine years?
    We come to a stop and the doors open. I swallow and follow her onto the landing. There’s a big, burly man in a black suit standing outside a door further down the corridor. Joe’s security guard, I presume. She leads me to him and turns around to smile at me. ‘He’s inside,’ she says, indicating the door. ‘Lewis!’ Her tone is expectant as she cocks her head at the doorman.
    The man nods curtly and follows her back down the corridor.
    ‘Thank you!’ I call after them. I’m relieved they’re not going to be witnesses to our reunion. I hope there’s nobody else inside. I wait until the lift doors have closed behind them before I knock.
    The door opens and there in front of me is Joe. Not Joseph Strike, the actor, but Joe. My Joe.
    We look at each other for a long, long moment, and my eyes well up with tears.
    ‘Come in,’ he says quickly.
    I step inside and he shuts the door behind me, turning to face me. He’s wearing casual black cargo pants and a black T-shirt.
    ‘I can’t believe it’s you.’ He lifts his hand as though he wants to touch me, but lets it drop again to his side. ‘You’re exactly the same as I remember you.’
    ‘You’re . . . different.’ He’s quite a bit broader – not the slim eighteen-year-old that I knew – and it’s impossible not to notice his famous biceps protruding under his T-shirt. He no longer has a ring through his eyebrow – I realised that a year ago when Sky Rocket came out – but I can just make out the holes there from when it was pierced.
    He smiles. ‘I’m still the same inside.’
    Are you?
    ‘Come and take a seat.’ I follow him into a living room, where there’s a circular sofa underneath a huge mirror-ball sculpture.
    ‘Cool room,’ I say.
    ‘It’s . . .’ He shrugs and his voice trails off.
    What you ’ re used to , I finish his sentence for him inside my head.
    ‘So you saw . . . the interview?’ I realise he’s nervous.
    ‘My friend did,’ I explain, sitting down on the sofa. Then I remember that he knew her: ‘Lizzy!’
    ‘Lizzy? Wow.’ He sits down next to me, his left knee resting on the sofa so that he’s facing me. I turn to do the same to him.
    ‘She called the studio.’
    He shakes his head in amazement. He hasn’t taken his dark eyes from mine.
    ‘How . . . are . . . you?’ he asks slowly.
    ‘I’m okay.’ I shrug. ‘I’m good. You?’
    He half