One Perfect Summer

rest of the time trying to convince them that I needed to stay in Cambridge for the summer if I wanted to keep my job.
    There’s no denying that I don’t feel as close to them as I once did. I can’t help but feel regretful that my heart was not the only thing that was broken that summer in Dorset: my relationship with my parents suffered too. I know that it must have been difficult for them to witness what happened with Joe – and his family. All they wanted was to protect me, but I just can’t get past the fact that my dad let Joe leave that night, without him even saying goodbye.
    Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I wake up fully alert. I stare out at the darkness and I wonder if Joe still loves me. I know that it was real – nobody will convince me otherwise – but maybe time has made him forget. Maybe he has moved on. Maybe Jessie is right.
    The more strongly this idea takes hold, the less sad I feel. And then a strange thing happens one day when I’m taking a tour boat full of people down the river.
    I’m punting along as usual, regaling them with the history of Queens’ College and the two queens who founded it, when suddenly I feel angry.
    Why hasn’t he come? He knows where I am. He knows how to find me. He promised me that he would. I was fucking distraught! I was fucking heartbroken! I need to fucking concentrate.
    ‘The college was re -founded in 1465 by Elizabeth Woodville, who was the wife of King Henry IV and the mother of the two princes who were later murdered in the Tower of London.’
    But, seriously! What a bastard! He took my virginity and buggered off to London! He didn’t even think to check that I was alright.
    I drop my pole into the water and furiously press it against the rocky bottom.
    I have been crying my effing heart out for a year! A YEAR!
    ‘Sorry, what ?’ I snap at a middle-aged, balding American man who has asked me a question. I try to force my features to relax, because I clearly have quite a glare on me as he’s looking alarmed.
    He clears his throat and speaks humbly. ‘You said King Henry IV?’
    ‘Yes? And?’
    ‘I’m confused. I thought you said King Henry VI was married to the first queen who founded it.’
    ‘Margaret of Anjou, yes, that’s right,’ I say impatiently. ‘She founded it in 1448 and was married to King Henry VI.’
    I know my history, you idiot. I’ve done this tour enough times.
    ‘So . . .’ His brow furrows. ‘How can the fourth King Henry come after the sixth King Henry?’
    Oh, I see what he’s getting at. Whoops!
    ‘Sorry, I meant King Edward IV. He was the one who was married to Elizabeth Woodville.’
    ‘Aah, yes. I thought so.’ He looks smug.
    Bloody Joe. On top of everything else, now he’s making me look like a moron.
    Fucking wanker.
    I’m still in a foul mood an hour later when I return to the house for lunch. Jessie is doing a tour, so the place is empty. I slam the front door behind me.
    ‘ARGH!’ I want to tear my hair out I’m so angry. ‘FUCKING BASTARD!’ I scream, storming into the living room and slamming that door too.
    A very shocked, very pale-faced Emily looks up at me from the sofa.
    ‘Oh,’ I say, coming down to earth with a bump. ‘I didn’t know you were in.’
    ‘Are you okay?’ she practically whispers.
    ‘Yes. I’m FINE.’
    Clearly she doesn’t believe me.
    ‘FUCKING MEN!’ I scream dramatically, unable to help myself. Her eyebrows go up and she presses her lips together as though trying to stop herself from smiling. I collapse on the sofa next to her and cover my face with my hands. There’s movement on the cushions beside me and I almost expect her to be gone by the time I peek out from between my fingers, but she’s still there, regarding me intently. She quickly looks away, and then curiously back at me.
    ‘They’re all bastards,’ she agrees in a tiny, conspiratorial voice.
    I stare at her in surprise and then we both start to giggle.
    ‘It is weird,’ my new best friend Emily concedes with a frown.
    We’ve been to hell and back, Em and I. Now we’re sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea and making our way through a packet of malted milks. It’s amazing how much bonding can be done in an hour.
    ‘I know!’ I exclaim. ‘He knew I was studying English Lit at Anglia Ruskin. All he had to do was ask someone when the lectures were taking place and wait outside the door! You don’t have to be a brainiac to work that out.’
    Brainiac. That was the term