One Perfect Summer

mobile, feeling awful as I switch it on. I don’t want to have to face reality yet. Maybe no one will have called. I look up the number of the cottage owners and ring them.
    ‘Is everything okay?’ the landlady asks with concern.
    ‘Everything’s fine,’ I reassure her. I can hear my phone beeping to let me know that other messages are coming in, but I try to ignore them so I can concentrate on the business in hand.
    A few minutes later I end the call, just as Joe comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.
    ‘They don’t want to sell,’ I call after him with disappointment.
    ‘Oh.’ He stops and comes back into my bedroom. ‘Offer them more money, then.’
    ‘They don’t want to sell,’ I say again, more firmly.
    ‘Everyone has a price. Find theirs.’
    ‘Yes, sir!’ I say jauntily, saluting him.
    He looks shamefaced. ‘Sorry. Do you want me to speak to them?’
    ‘No, it’s alright. But if you’re really serious you should pass this on to your solicitor. How much are you willing to pay, exactly?’
    ‘As much as they want,’ he replies offhandedly, tightening the towel. I try not to get distracted.
    ‘But it’s got to make financial sense. You can’t just buy it if they ask way more than it’s worth.’
    ‘It’s worth everything to me,’ he says simply.
    ‘Why do you want it so much?’
    My phone starts to vibrate on the mattress beside me and I look down at it with alarm. Shit!
    ‘It’s Lukas,’ I say, snatching it up. I glance at Joe.
    He looks shaken as he backs out of the room and closes the door behind him.
    Should I answer it? Suddenly the phone stops ringing.
    I scarcely dare listen to my voicemail messages. In fact, I don’t dare. I switch my phone back off and go downstairs. Joe joins me a short while later. He’s wearing the black cargo pants and an indie-rock T-shirt.
    ‘Did you speak to him?’ He’s trying to sound casual.
    ‘No. He hung up,’ I add.
    He flicks the kettle back on and gets out a couple of mugs. ‘Tea?’ he asks.
    ‘Sure.’ I get on with breakfast.
    ‘So what does a physicist do, then?’ he asks sardonically.
    ‘I wouldn’t have a fucking clue,’ I reply as I lift the lid off the bread box. He looks at me in surprise and then laughs.
    ‘You never swear!’ he exclaims.
    ‘Ooh, you say that, but you should have heard me the year after you left. I was ANGRY . . .’ I grab a bread knife and start to slice through the loaf.
    ‘Were you?’
    ‘Absolutely fucking furious.’
    ‘Alice!’ He’s slightly outraged.
    ‘I was taking a group of tourists on a punt—’
    ‘You were what?’ he interrupts.
    ‘I worked as a punter.’
    ‘You can punt? No way!’ He looks amazed. ‘I would love to go punting!’
    ‘I’ll take you.’ I grin.
    ‘Will you?’
    ‘Yep.’
    Reality check. When will I take him? In that other lifetime that I keep talking about?
    I put my head down and slice another piece of bread, before popping four pieces into the toaster.
    ‘I thought we’d go for a walk to the pub after breakfast,’ he says, stirring sugar into his mug.
    ‘The pub?’ I’m taken aback. ‘ Your pub?’
    ‘Well, it’s not my pub anymore.’ He stares out of the window and takes a sip of his tea. ‘But I’d like to see it again.’
    I understand. This is about closure for him too. That word again. I can’t bear it.
    The wind has picked up properly today and my hair whips around my face as we traipse across the field to the pub. I wish I’d brought a hairband. I try to tuck my locks into my coat, but the wind keeps dragging them out again. Suddenly Joe grabs my hand.
    ‘You’re not wearing your rings,’ he says with shock.
    ‘Don’t read anything into it,’ I reply, shaking his hand free. I feel his eyes on me as I keep walking. The truth is that my fingers feel naked without them, yet it feels wrong to keep them on.
    Finally we walk over the crest of the hill and the pub is there before us. Joe comes to a standstill.
    ‘Are you okay?’ I ask him.
    ‘I’ve wanted to come back here for years,’ he breathes, taking it all in. I reach over and squeeze his hand. ‘You know I couldn’t have come back with anyone other than you.’ He looks across at me.
    ‘Do you want to go in for a drink?’ I ask him.
    ‘I’d better not,’ he replies, backing away. ‘I’d like to go back to Brownsea Island too.’
    At exactly the same time we glance at each other and say one word:
    ‘Peafowl.’
    Our mouths fall