One Perfect Summer

that’s no fun at all.’
    ‘You say it like you know?’
    ‘You don’t have to have had depression to understand that it’s not a barrel of laughs,’ she says. I’m not sure I buy it, but she clearly doesn’t want to elaborate.
    ‘Fuck it,’ I decide. ‘I’m sticking with anger.’
    ‘Good job.’ Jessie pushes out his chair and stands up, stretching his arms over his head so his T-shirt rides up over his navel. Emily quickly averts her gaze. I don’t blame you, chick. Hang on, has her face turned red? No way!
    ‘I like this one.’ Emily recovers and reads from the computer screen. ‘The seventh stage on this website is the return to the willingness to love.’
    ‘You old softie,’ Jessie says, ruffling her hair.
    ‘Get off!’ She bats him away.
    I watch closely and, yes, there it is: the blush.
    It’s Jessie’s fault that we got onto this. He keeps mentioning the seven stages of grief when we’re out and about, but we never remember to look it up by the time we get home. Tonight, though, Emily is insistent that we clear things up once and for all. Unfortunately, though, we’re now more confused than ever.
    ‘Is confusion a stage?’ I ask.
    ‘I’m going to bed,’ Jessie interrupts. ‘Night, night, China. Night, Emily.’
    ‘I’m too drunk to sleep,’ Emily admits once he’s gone.
    ‘Me too. Let’s crack open the malted milks.’
    ‘Lukas!’
    A few days later I’m walking past Trinity on my way into town to do some shopping in the mid-season sales. I peer into the vast courtyard and see him walking through Great Gate with his head down.
    He glances over his shoulder. ‘Oh, hi.’ He waves back at me as he heads towards an old wooden door in the building opposite.
    ‘How are you?’ I ask with an enormous smile as he turns to face me.
    ‘Good.’ He nods curtly, glancing left and right. ‘Are you well?’
    ‘Yes, thank you.’ I look down with confusion at his feet. They seem to be backing away from me. ‘How was your summer?’ I ask.
    ‘Fine.’ He points over his shoulder. ‘I’m in a bit of a rush, sorry.’
    And then his feet take him inside the door and out of sight.
    That was a bit rude . . . I think with a frown, then: Fucking bastard!
    I can’t believe I acted so happy to see him! I can’t believe it wasn’t an act! I was happy to see him. I’m as angry at myself as I am at him. More angry, even.
    I’m still fuming early that evening when I’m taking my third and final tour of the day. Lo and behold, there he is on the grassy bank of Trinity’s south paddock.
    ‘Alice!’ he calls with a smile, standing up. He has a book in his hand.
    I nod unhappily in his direction and return my attention to my passengers. Like I’m going to give him any of my time when he was so impolite this morning. And I didn’t even manage to buy anything decent at the shops – what a waste of a half-day off. ‘Trinity is the wealthiest Cambridge college . . .’ Through gritted teeth I tell my boat full of tourists the usual spiel. ‘It has been said by some that it is possible to walk all the way to Oxford on land owned by Trinity.’
    I glance over at Lukas and notice a smile playing around his lips.
    What’s so funny? I remain stony-faced and continue with my tour, not looking back once.
    ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’
    God only knows why my passengers are tipping me after the terrible mood I’ve been in on their tour, but I accept their money with a genuine smile in the hope that I’m making up for some of my bad behaviour. When the last of them has disembarked I fold up the notes and stuff them, together with a few pound coins, into the pocket of my skinny jeans. I’ve had to retire my white sundress – it’s too cool to wear it now. I step back into the punt and pile up the cushions and blankets so they can be locked up for the night, then I wrap my arms around the whole lot and turn to see two black shoes standing on the jetty in front of me. My eyes dart upwards to find Lukas smiling down at me.
    ‘Can I take these?’ He extracts the cushions and blankets from my arms. I recover quickly and, with a roll of my eyes, I climb out of the boat.
    ‘This way,’ I say bluntly.
    All men are bastards.
    He follows me to the shed, where Sammy is folding up the blankets from other boats. She glances at Lukas and then grins at me before looking back at him.
    ‘Hel- lo ,’ she says in an unusually camp manner, taking the bundle from him and placing it on a