One Perfect Summer

nowhere to be seen. Which means he’s downstairs in the kitchen whipping up breakfast for us both.
    I’m in Jessie’s room at the front of the house. He’s been staying in the master since his parents left, and their super-king-sized bed is more than big enough to comfortably house both of us.
    I climb out of bed and drag on one of his T-shirts, which comes almost to my knees as he’s about a foot taller than me, and make my way downstairs.
    ‘Good morning,’ he says chirpily.
    I collapse on a chair at the kitchen table. ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ I say.
    ‘Do what?’
    ‘How can you drink the amount you drink and still wake up feeling cheery the next morning?’
    ‘What can I say? It’s a talent.’ He pours me a cup of coffee.
    ‘One of many.’
    ‘You’re too kind.’ He smiles at me and dishes up two plates of bacon and eggs. ‘What are your plans for today?’
    ‘I have a lecture this afternoon,’ I reply.
    ‘Ooh, exciting,’ he says, although he’s being completely sarcastic. He cannot for the life of him understand the attraction of my degree. ‘I can punt you back up to Silver Street, if you like?’
    ‘No, I’d better hightail it on foot. But thanks. I really need to get back to do some reading,’ I tell him.
    ‘I don’t know why you don’t bring your books with you when you stay over.’
    ‘Are you kidding me? You’ve seen The Norton Anthology , right? It’s like a small child.’
    The Norton Anthology comes in two enormous volumes and surveys English Literature from the Middle Ages to the twenty-first century. It’s been doing my back in for months; one girl I know pulls it around in a wheelie bag.
    ‘Anyway, I didn’t know I was staying over, remember?’
    ‘Yeah, yeah. You should know by now.’
    I smile at him sadly. ‘I’m going to miss you this summer.’
    His lips turn down. ‘Me too. I hate it when you lot bugger off for the holidays.’
    Some of our friends – Sammy, Mike and Chris – are also students at Anglia Ruskin. They’ll also be going home for the summer.
    ‘I’m not looking forward to leaving, either,’ I reply. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself for three months . . .’ Being away from Jessie, away from my studies, which I do enjoy, away from the river . . . Having to live at home with my parents after almost a year of independence . . .
    The truth is that I know exactly what I’ll end up doing. I’ll end up looking for Joe again. London is where he is. Where he said he would be. I know I’ll spend long, heartbreaking days going on a wild-goose chase, and I honestly don’t know if I’m strong enough to endure the pain when I don’t find him.
    ‘You know, you don’t have to go home . . .’ Jessie says thoughtfully.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘You could stay here.’
    ‘Are you still banging on about me living with you?’ I tease. ‘Just because you can’t be arsed to advertise . . .’
    ‘You wouldn’t even have to pay rent,’ he continues.
    ‘Of course I would pay rent!’ I exclaim.
    ‘Not for the summer. I wouldn’t be getting rent from anyone else until September.’
    ‘My parents wouldn’t be too impressed if I didn’t go home . . .’ It’s a tempting thought, though, considering how upset I still am with Dad for letting Joe leave.
    ‘Think about it,’ Jessie says simply.
    ‘Okay. I will.’

 
    I leave Jessie’s and walk quickly towards the city centre, dodging to avoid zillions of cyclists shooting past on the roads and tourists consulting maps in the middle of the pavement. My white sundress from yesterday is grubby after a day’s work, and I seriously need to have a shower and wash my hair. But it’s another warm and sunny day, plus it’s Friday and I’m looking forward to the weekend. Even the backstreets near the colleges are busier than usual and I consider heading over the river and walking along the Backs where it’s quieter. It’s a little out of my way, but King’s Parade will be heaving. Yes, I think I’ll do that.
    I cut right, straight into the path of an oncoming cyclist.
    ‘WATCH OUT!’ he shouts.
    Too late.
    ‘OW!’ I cry as he crashes into me and comes off his bike.
    ‘WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?’ he screams, stumbling to his feet. ‘Watch where you’re going, you fucking tourist!’
    I’m about to scream back that I’m not a fucking tourist, but suddenly there’s a man right in front of me, blocking my view.
    ‘HEY!’ he shouts over his