One Perfect Summer

track. It’s built out of cream stone, and a dry stone wall encloses a small, grassy garden at the back. There’s a bench seat out at the front in full sunshine and I can already picture myself sitting there and tackling some of my English Lit books.
    The place has been recently renovated, and it feels cosy and clean. Mum puts the kettle on and unpacks milk from the cool-box while I sit at the kitchen table and look over the manual left by the owners.
    My mum is tall and slim with shoulder-length blonde hair and green eyes. I take after my dad’s side of the family. I’m shorter at five foot five inches tall and I have long, very-dark-brown-almost-black hair. My eyes, although green like my mother’s, have a slightly Oriental look about them. My paternal grandmother was Chinese, but she died before I was born.
    ‘What does it say about things to do around here?’ Mum asks as she puts a cup of tea down in front of me.
    ‘Pretty much everything you’ve already told me,’ I reply. ‘Apparently there are some nice walks along the cliff if you go up there.’ I point in the opposite direction to the way we came in. ‘There’s also a pub within walking distance if you head that way.’ More pointing.
    ‘That sounds promising. Maybe we could go there for an early dinner and then relax in front of the telly for the night?’
    We drive to the pub because, despite having sat in a car for almost three hours, neither of us has the energy to walk.
    Our nearest village is lovely. Limestone cottages with painted window frames in shades of blue and green line the streets, and the sea is visible across the rolling hills. We walk up the steps to the pub. There are grey stone tables and bench seats outside with views towards the sea and we decide to come out here to sit down, but first we head inside to have a nose around, and to order.
    I see him almost immediately, the guy working behind the bar. He’s tall – about six foot one or two – has chin-length, dead-straight black hair and his right eyebrow is pierced with a silver ring. He’s pulling a pint and looking down, but as he glances up his dark eyes momentarily meet mine. POW! I know how crazy this sounds, but it feels like my heart has just leapt out of my chest and slammed into him.
    Then he’s looking down again, filling the pint glass to the brim and carrying it, somehow without spilling a drop, to a middle-aged man at the other end of the bar. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. Mum snaps me out of it.
    ‘He looks to be about your age,’ she says, gleefully nudging me as she nods in the direction of the unsettlingly attractive bartender.
    ‘Shh!’ I warn, inwardly cringing and trying, but failing, to tear my eyes away from him as he takes money from the man and goes to the till. He comes our way and my pulse quickens.
    ‘What can I get you?’
    A big, burly man with short, gelled black hair and enormous tattoos on his arms has materialised in front of us. The disappointment is intense.
    ‘A glass of white wine, please,’ Mum asks pleasantly. ‘Alice?’
    ‘Um . . .’ My eyes dart towards the guy, but he’s already taking another order. ‘Half a cider, please.’ The man gets on with the job without another word. He’s wearing a white vest and his dark chest hairs are visible beneath the fabric. I wonder if he’s the gorgeous boy’s father. He plonks a half-pint glass full of honey-coloured liquid in front of me. Some of it sloshes over the brim, but he makes no apologies, nor does he smile as he requests money or when he returns Mum’s change. I feel oddly uneasy about him.
    ‘Do you have any menus?’ Mum asks him.
    ‘We don’t do food,’ comes his gruff reply.
    I glance over my shoulder as I follow Mum through the door, and then I’m outside in the late-afternoon sunshine.
    ‘This is nice,’ Mum says when we sit down. ‘He was a bit tasty.’ She nudges me again, once more snapping me out of my reverie.
    ‘Mum, no one says “tasty” anymore.’ I sound unbothered, even though I’m not.
    I try to concentrate while she engages in conversation, but soon the gentle sound of clinking glass from behind us makes me turn around. I realise with a flurry of nerves that he’s there, collecting empties from recently vacated tables.
    ‘Hello!’ my mum calls cheerfully.
    Oh, Christ, Mum, shut up !
    ‘Alright?’ He gives her a vague smile and his eyes flicker towards mine. POW! That feeling again. It’s like I’m made