That particular Christmas party had been one month before the night out with me in Chichester when Cherry had first met Krishna, her now fiancé. That Christmas she’d had one ill-fated sexual encounter with a man who had subsequently spent a year sending her very poorly written poems, a story that had always made me feel deeply uncomfortable （embarrassingly bad poets always hit a nerve）; if I remember the tale correctly, she also bought shots for everybody in the business and kissed seven colleagues at that party. This was an entirely standard Cherry anecdote; I remember her telling it at the pub in a fit of giggles, and when Grace had said to her, Darling, have you no shame? Cherry had said, What’s shame good for, except keeping people down?
‘She’s fun, isn’t she, Cherry?’ I ask Rodney.
He beams. ‘She’s brilliant. Helped me through all sorts.’
Ah – so he’s a Cherry charity case. Cherry collects waifs and strays like a benevolent nineteenth-century widow: she once put up fifteen homeless teenagers in a large marquee in her parents’ garden; she owns eight rescue animals, who have about six limbs remaining between them. Even Addie and Deb’s stint as caretakers was a by-product of Cherry’s boundless goodwill: Deb was between jobs, and Addie was planning on spending the summer working in her local old-man pub before Cherry swooped in and got them four months in Provence.
I swallow. Thinking of that summer brings an ache to the back of my throat. I can’t cast my mind back to the heat and dust and sexual tension without feeling sure that I rolled the dice, then, and came up with the wrong numbers. We were both so unformed. So sure of ourselves and so utterly lost.
If we’d met now, as adults, would we have been able to make it work?
The music shifts. Taylor Swift, ‘We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together’。
A timely reminder from the universe. Or Marcus, rather, who I now realise is manning the Spotify playlist.
Addie
Bloody hell, it’s hot in this car. The air con can’t contend with five adults and – I check my phone – thirty-degree heat. The forecast says it’s going to be thirty-six by mid-afternoon. Wish I’d not bothered putting make-up on now. It’ll probably be puddling on my chin by the time we get to Scotland.
Dylan shifts beside me. He’s being a gentleman and not complaining about being in the middle seat, but his knees are jutting up towards his chest and he’s pulling both elbows in. Kind of a T-rex pose. We’d save a lot of space if I sat in his lap.
I blink. That thought was . . . inappropriate. Dylan’s body is pressed against the side of mine. He’s radiating heat, and as Taylor Swift sings out from the speaker – Marcus is on a Taylor thing, probably trying to make some sort of point – I think about how easy it would be to put my hand on Dylan’s knee. Instead I press both palms together between my legs and try to get a bloody grip on myself.
This is Dylan. He left me. I don’t love him any more.
But God, that orange-wood scent of him. My body’s forgotten the misery and the heartbreak and it only remembers my face pressed to the hot skin of his neck as he moves inside me. The gasps, the euphoria. The joy of falling asleep naked and hot in his arms.
‘Flapjack, anyone?’ says Rodney.
I swallow and press my legs closer together. My heart is beating a bit too fast. I feel as if Dylan can tell somehow. He’s holding himself still, like he doesn’t trust himself to move. The radio, playing something hot and pulsing – ‘Lover’， maybe – is not helping.
I’ve forgotten what it’s like to want someone like this. Has anyone else ever made me feel this way? Will anyone else ever make me feel this way again? God, what an awful thought.
I lean forward so I can see Rodney past Dylan. He’s holding a large Tupperware of homemade flapjack. No idea where he conjured that up from. As I examine the contents of the plastic container in Rodney’s lap, I can feel Dylan’s eyes moving over the bare skin of my shoulders. The hairs rise on the back of my neck. Sweat prickles between my shoulder blades. I want him to touch me. Run his finger down my spine.
I lean back quickly, looking straight ahead.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
‘Just me, then,’ Rodney says cheerfully, tucking in.
Next time we stop I’m going to make sure I’m sat between Marcus and Rodney. That’ll sort me out.
THEN
Dylan
I’m giddy with her. Intoxicated.
We’ve had a week of bare skin and syrupy heat, the sun setting behind the vines like an egg yolk dropping into a bowl. The nights are languid, long, ours. Terry has come to tolerate Addie being around for some of the day, but really I only have her once he’s gone to bed – she’s not herself when Terry’s there, but once she’s closed the door to the flat and kicked off her flip-flops, she’s pure, undiluted Addie.