One Perfect Summer

something,’ he says. ‘About a girl I know in Germany.’
    My nausea steps up a notch.
    ‘Her name is Rosalinde,’ he explains grimly. ‘I’ve known her all my life. She’s from a very good family.’
    Why is he telling me this?
    ‘It has always been assumed that I’ll marry her.’
    I put my hand to my mouth. He regards me with compassion.
    ‘I don’t want to marry her,’ he adds, ‘but it’s complicated.’
    ‘I don’t understand. You have an arranged marriage?’
    ‘Not exactly.’
    So he doesn’t live in the Dark Ages.
    He continues. ‘But my parents expect certain things of me. It’s how I was raised. To break off my engagement to Rosalinde—’
    ‘You’re engaged?’ I ask sharply.
    ‘It’s not like that. I have never proposed to her, but we have always had an understanding.’
    ‘Have you slept with her?’
    Please say no, please say no, please say no . . .
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Oh. So she’s your girlfriend?’ What does that make me?
    ‘No, she’s not. As I said, it’s complicated.’
    ‘Why didn’t you tell me about her before?’ I whisper.
    ‘I was going to. That day I invited you to lunch after our first date. But Harry came along and we seemed able to move on without me going into . . . details . I didn’t know how things would pan out between us.’ He motions to the two of us.
    I stare at him. ‘And how have things panned out, exactly?’
    ‘Alice . . .’ He gets up and comes to me, kneeling on the floor and gazing up at me earnestly. ‘I love you. You know I love you. I want to be with you. I don’t want to be with Rosalinde.’
    ‘Could you stop saying her name?’ I wince. I know it’s just a name, but I already have a picture of her in my mind and she’s perfect and beautiful.
    He takes my hand. Mine is shaking, but he seems very calm. Freakishly calm, considering.
    ‘We have never talked about our previous relationships,’ he says seriously.
    It’s true. I’ve been curious about his past – it’s clear from our lovemaking that he has vastly more experience than me – but I don’t want to open up this particular can of worms, because talking about his past would inevitably mean talking about mine.
    ‘But perhaps that was a mistake.’
    I take a deep breath. I don’t want to speak to him about Joe, but this is serious. If any time calls for complete honesty, it’s now.
    ‘Rosalinde—’
    ‘Stop!’ I hold up my hand.
    ‘How do you want me to refer to her?’ he asks gently.
    Good point. ‘Okay.’
    ‘She was my first,’ he continues.
    God, this hurts. I’m slightly taken aback by how much, actually.
    ‘We grew up together, we played together as children; she was my friend. Our parents used to tease us about being boyfriend and girlfriend, but it wasn’t until we turned sixteen that things grew serious . . .’
    He gives me a meaningful look and the pain is intense. I didn’t think I cared about him to this extent.
    ‘We both went back to boarding school after the summer, and the next time I saw her something had changed. I don’t know if she’d met someone else, but it was another year before we became friends again. Perhaps it was the pressure from our parents, but we made a pact that, if we got married, it would be our choice. And first we agreed we needed to live a little.’
    Wait. ‘Is that what you’re doing with me? Living a little?’ A lump forms in my throat.
    ‘No.’ He shakes his head resolutely. ‘You’re different to anyone else I’ve ever known.’
    Tears trek down my cheeks. The fireworks have ended and now we can hear the music from the main stage. I think Mark Owen is playing.
    ‘Have you told your parents about me?’
    ‘I’m going to tell them when I go home. I’m going to tell everyone .’
    I hadn’t felt too bad about not seeing him this summer. Now I feel nauseous at the thought of him going back to Germany. No wonder he never asked me to go with him.
    ‘Come here,’ he says, pulling me out of my chair.
    We don’t make love that night. We don’t even get undressed. We lie on the bed, him holding me from behind as I listen to the sound of the college balls still going strong by the river. He didn’t even ask me about my past. I didn’t have to talk about Joe. But that doesn’t mean he’s not on my mind. Early the next morning when I walk home, I look like any other female student who has stayed up all night – one of the six o’clock survivors still wearing her ball gown. But inside I feel