One Perfect Summer

better that no one else knows about you.’
    ‘How long do you want to stay? If I can get the cottage . . .’ I add.
    ‘A few days?’
    That would mean rescheduling my trip to Germany. I’d have to come up with some excuse . . . But this is something I need to do. ‘I’ll let you know when it’s booked,’ I say.
    He grins and my stomach fills with butterflies.

 
    It’s all very cloak and dagger. I have to ask my parents if they still have the rental details for the cottage in Dorset, and then I have to lie and tell them that I’m going to Germany early, while I tell Lukas that I want to stay with my parents a bit longer because he has to work until the weekend, anyway. No one is thrilled with this change of plan, but I don’t feel like I have any other choice if I’m going to get closure.
    Closure. I keep telling myself that this is what I’m after, but the very idea makes my blood run cold. The thought of never seeing Joe again after this week, the thought of only ever seeing him on the big screen and in the press . . . It’s too awful to contemplate.
    The cottage, thankfully, is empty, and the owners are happy to have a last-minute rental. They give me the code for the key safe and I text it to Joe in case he arrives first.
    Lizzy is the only one who knows what I’m doing, and she’s gobsmacked that it’s come to this. I feel even more disloyal to Lukas for telling her but, in the grand scheme of things, Lizzy knowing is the least of his problems.
    I’m determined not to cheat on him, though. This is all about moving on. I have to keep reminding myself.
    I have never been less interested in Christmas Day, and I haven’t lived off as little sleep since I was with Joe nearly ten years ago. Finally I step off the train at Wareham Station and climb into the taxi I called in advance. Gale-force winds are predicted for tomorrow, but today it’s just cold and grey, a far cry from that summer long ago.
    We drive past the red telephone box on the corner of the track that leads to the cottage and I remember standing in there when the vet’s wife told us that Dyson hadn’t lived through the night. I remember Joe’s face – his heartbreak – and all of a sudden I feel like crying. A short while later the driver pulls up outside the cottage.
    It’s exactly the same as it looked years ago: the stone wall, the bench underneath the kitchen window. I pay the driver and climb out of the car. The lights are off: I’ve arrived first.
    Out of the blue it hits me that he might not come, and I have to catch my breath before finding the key and letting myself in. I breathe in deeply. It smells the same. I go upstairs to my onetime bedroom and stare at the bed that we made love in. I remember those early days of lovemaking, how raw they were when it was the first time for both of us. I hear a car outside the window and walk over to see a blue hatchback pull up. That won’t be him. He’ll have a fancy car, for sure. I’m startled to see him climb out of the car and open the gate, before returning to the vehicle and parking it in the driveway. I guess he chose something inconspicuous. Smart.
    I delve into my bag and rummage around until I find my mobile phone. I switch it off, then, my heart hammering inside my chest, I go downstairs to meet him. He comes inside before I reach the door.
    ‘You’re here.’ He grins, and once more my heart somersaults. He’s wearing a dark-grey hoodie and he seems so normal, so . . . like himself all those years ago, without the longer hair and the Emo eyebrow.
    ‘I beat you,’ I reply, smiling at him.
    ‘Hardly surprising with that pile of junk.’ He glances over his shoulder.
    ‘All you wanted was a car,’ I tease. ‘And that ’ s what you ended up with?’ He gives me a wry look. Obviously I know he rented it. ‘Trying to keep your cover?’ I ask.
    ‘Doing my bit.’
    I know from my internet research that he’s got a Ferrari back in LA.
    ‘It seems to be working.’ I go to the kitchen window and peer out. ‘Nope, no hordes of screaming girls following you here.’
    He chuckles. I turn to face him. He’s looking around the kitchen. ‘Still the same,’ he says, going to the counter. ‘This is where you made me a sandwich.’
    ‘Ham and cheese.’ It comes back to me:
    ‘ Ham and cheese? Peanut butter? What do you fancy? ’
    ‘ You, ’ he said.
    He smiles a small, regretful smile, as though he’s remembering too.
    ‘Do you want to go for a walk?’