One Perfect Summer

‘we’. Does he have a girlfriend? ‘Who did you go with?’
    ‘My family.’
    I feel a strange sense of relief. But I’d better double-check: ‘As in, your mother . . .’
    ‘. . . my father, my sister, my brother and his wife.’
    ‘The ones who’ve just had a baby?’
    ‘Correct.’
    I smile at him. ‘What’s his name? The baby.’
    ‘Maximilian. I’m hoping we’ll be able to shorten it to Max.’
    ‘Maximilian!’ I call in a light-hearted tone, pretending to be his mother; then, in a deep, cross voice, wagging my finger at an imaginary child as I say it: ‘Maximilian! Don’t be so naughty.’ Then, clutching my face with horror: ‘Maximilian! Come away from the edge!’
    Lukas laughs. ‘It has to be Max.’
    ‘I don’t know. Maximilian has a nice ring to it.’
    ‘My grandfather was called Maximilian. No one ever referred to him as Max.’
    ‘Not even “dear old Max”?’
    ‘No, never. It was always Maximilian or, more commonly, Herr Heuber.’
    ‘Is that your surname?’ I ask.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Lukas Heuber.’ I don’t know why, but I put on a gruff German accent as I say it.
    He grins. ‘What’s your surname?’
    ‘Simmons.’
    ‘Alice Simmons.’
    Déjà vu. I’ve had this conversation before with . . . Joe. Argh! Out! Out! All men are bastards, remember? I turn my attention back to the one currently seated across from me.

 
    I find myself agreeing to let Lukas take me out for an early dinner the following Friday night. Jessie and my other punter pals were a bit put out when I told them I couldn’t punt with them that evening. We’re all working overtime on the Halloween Ghost tours that start now and continue until the end of October, and there’s even more camaraderie than usual on the river.
    I didn’t tell them I was going on a date until the very last minute. I didn’t want to have to endure the teasing that I knew would come. Not that I’m thinking of it like that. A date, I mean. Lukas is just a friend. Sort of.
    He arrives at six o’clock on the dot. I knew he’d be on time, so I made sure I was. My hair comes halfway down my back and I’m wearing a black dress with white horizontal stripes and a black cardie. Initially I wondered whether this outfit was too dressed-up, but I suspected he would make an effort. Again, I was right.
    He’s about six foot two and he’s wearing a white shirt and a navy-blue wool jacket with black leather piping. He’s pushed his dark blond hair back off his forehead. He looks cool – like he’s stepped off the pages of a Hugo Boss campaign.
    ‘Ready?’ he asks with a raised eyebrow.
    As I’ll ever be . . . ‘Yes.’ I grab my bag from the hallstand and follow him out.
    He hasn’t commented on Jessie’s house, but I guess he’s seen more than enough impressive architecture in his time at Cambridge for it to not fully register. He turns left out of the gate.
    ‘It’s quicker this way,’ I point right, trying to put on my coat and walk at the same time.
    ‘We’re not going into town,’ he says over his shoulder.
    ‘Oh, really?’ I hurry to keep up. ‘Where are we going?’
    ‘You’ll see.’
    With curiosity I follow him down some steps to the road. We cross over it, his hand making my lower back tingle as he lightly guides me. He leads me to a slick black Porsche, which beeps and flashes as he unlocks it. I stare at him, confused, as he opens the passenger door for me and indicates for me to climb in.
    ‘Is this yours?’ I ask with incredulity.
    ‘One would hope so.’
    He owns a Porsche ? ‘I thought students weren’t allowed to keep cars within the city perimeters?’
    ‘They’re not,’ he replies with amusement. ‘But I don’t keep it within the city perimeters.’ He again motions for me to get into the car, so I do, the smell of new leather instantly filling my nostrils. A moment later he’s in the driver’s seat and starting the ignition.
    ‘Where are we going?’ I repeat, a little flustered.
    He shakes his head.
    ‘I don’t like surprises,’ I add.
    ‘You’ll like this one.’
    He seems incredibly confident about that fact.
    He drives us west, away from the city. We hop onto an A road for a short while and then wind our way along country roads and through a couple of tiny villages with thatched cottages. Barely fifteen minutes go by before he’s pulling into a long gravel driveway. An enormous, modern-looking house looms up ahead. It’s three storeys high, square, with a flat roof,