One Perfect Summer

great!’
    ‘Mmm.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘The doctor signed him off,’ she reveals.
    ‘Oh.’ That’s pretty serious.
    ‘It’ll help having you home,’ she tells me with a smile.
    My guilt intensifies. I’ve been so unforgiving – and why? He was only trying to protect me. I silently vow to make it up to him.
    Mum has cooked a roast chicken for dinner and it’s blissful sitting there around the table, just the three of us. It feels like old times, before . . . Dorset – I don’t want to say his name.
    Later Dad builds a fire and we sit in the living room: them with a sherry each and me with a Baileys on ice.
    I hear my phone bleeping from my bag hanging on the coat stand. I go out into the hall to retrieve it and discover a message from Lukas, telling me he’s arrived home safely. I text him back as I walk into the living room.
    ‘Any news?’ Mum asks.
    ‘Um . . .’ I glance up at them and smile weakly. ‘A boy.’
    ‘A boy!’ Dad sits up straighter in his seat. ‘Anyone we know?’
    ‘No.’ I shake my head and self-consciously study my phone. ‘He’s at Trinity College.’
    ‘Ooh,’ Mum says. They probably remember the college from the punting tour I took them on.
    ‘Where’s he from?’ Dad asks.
    ‘Southern Germany,’ I reply.
    ‘Germany!’ Mum exclaims. I’m sure they were both expecting me to tell them where in England he was from.
    ‘He’s German ?’ Dad clarifies.
    ‘Yes.’ I nod, shifting in my seat. ‘He’s nice.’
    ‘How old is he?’ Dad pries.
    ‘Twenty-one.’
    ‘Where’s he spending Christmas?’ Mum asks, eager for details – or at least the ones I’m willing to share.
    ‘He’s gone home.’
    ‘What’s his name?’
    ‘Twenty questions!’ I erupt, only half joking.
    ‘Sorry,’ she says with a smile.
    ‘His name is Lukas,’ I reply.
    ‘When can we—’
    ‘You can meet him next time you come to visit,’ I interrupt my Dad’s question and feel slightly nervous at the thought. Who would ever enjoy introducing their parents to their boyfriend?
    ‘Good.’ He seems satisfied. I try to recover from the inquisition, but it’s not over yet. ‘You look well,’ Dad continues. ‘He must be doing something right.’
    I know he’s comparing my appearance to last Christmas. I was a walking ghost, an empty shell, utterly distraught.
    ‘You do look well,’ Mum says warmly, patting my hand.
    I smile a shaky smile, but don’t meet her eyes.
    ‘Susan looked very well when I saw her the other day,’ she tells Dad.
    ‘That’s great,’ he replies.
    ‘She’s made a fantastic recovery,’ she adds. ‘We should have them over for Christmas drinks, perhaps?’
    ‘That would be nice,’ he agrees.
    She pats my hand again and I know that she realises I’m grateful for the change of subject.
    Lizzy and I catch up the next day. We go to our local – the Bald-Faced Stag – for a pub lunch.
    ‘I’m so glad you’re back!’ she squeals excitedly. ‘Summer was such a bore without you.’
    I laugh. ‘It’s good to be home.’
    ‘What have you been up to? How’s Jessie?’
    ‘Jessie’s great. He’s gone off to the Alps to teach snowboarding for a couple of months.’
    ‘Wow. That’s wicked.’
    ‘He’s a talented chap,’ I say casually.
    ‘Still don’t fancy him, though?’
    I laughingly shake my head and then tell her about Emily.
    ‘ Really? ’ she asks, keen for the gossip. She hasn’t met Emily yet. ‘How long do you think that has been going on?’
    ‘I have no idea,’ I reply offhandedly.
    ‘Does it bother you?’ she pries.
    ‘Um . . .’
    ‘It does!’
    ‘ Not because I fancy him,’ I’m keen to point out. ‘But because I’m not sure how it’s all going to pan out. I really love living there with those two. What if it all becomes horribly messy?’
    ‘Yeah,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘And if it doesn’t, it could be a bit “three’s a crowd”.’
    I stare straight ahead. That’s occurred to me too.
    ‘You’ll have to find yourself a man,’ she says, taking a sip of her drink.
    ‘Erm . . .’
    ‘What?’ She leans across the table. ‘Have you met someone?’
    ‘Might have done.’
    ‘When were you going to tell me?’ she demands to know.
    I laugh. ‘Now.’
    ‘Who? What? When? How long?’
    ‘Actually . . .’ I grin at her. ‘Do you remember that night in the club when you came to visit?’
    She nods expectantly. ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Do you remember the “hottie”?’
    ‘No!’ she exclaims, but of