As we talk about Marcus’s week down on the terrace, our feet trailing in the water, I think of Addie and Deb. From what Addie’s told me, she and her sister are just the same as me and Marcus: joined at the hip, always a pair. I wonder if sometimes Addie resents it, always being Deb’s little sister, her partner in crime.
‘You sure I can’t have that pretty one with the blue eyes?’ Marcus says abruptly, kicking up a splash with one foot.
It takes me a moment to realise he’s talking about Addie. ‘You’re such a caveman.’
‘What! I’m asking. I’m being polite.’ He stretches his hands out, like, Look at me, aren’t I evolved?
‘You can’t have her.’ I’m surprised to hear how steady my voice sounds. It’s not often I say no to Marcus – not often anyone does.
‘Oh, she’s yours, is she? My, aren’t we getting territorial! Now who’s the caveman?’
‘She’s . . .’
Addie is bigger than that sort of talk. She is wild and clever, sharp and bright, always twisting out of my reach. She isn’t mine. I’m hers.
‘She’s different,’ I settle for. ‘Addie’s different.’
Addie
It takes me ages to calm down. What a wanker. Who does that? Who arrives at someone else’s house and climbs up on to the balcony and tries to break in instead of just knocking on the bloody door?
I throw laundry into the washing machine. Is this Dylan’s life away from here? People like his uncle Terry and that prick who called me a little doll? It’s midnight – not my usual laundry hour, but I can’t sleep and I want to do something.
I wish Deb was here to make me laugh about it all. It wouldn’t seem like a big deal to her – Marcus is clearly a bit of a dick, but yeah, that’s all there is to it. Whereas to me, it seems like . . . the bubble bursting. I should have known things with Dylan were too good to be true.
The next morning I stick to the routine and head down to the village to fetch us all croissants. When I get back Terry and Marcus are lying on either side of Dylan on the terrace. They’re quiet, sunglasses on. The stone is already hot under my bare feet.
‘Ooh, for me?’ Marcus says, raising his sunglasses as I approach.
Dylan gets up quickly, meeting me halfway.
‘Hey,’ he breathes. For a moment as our fingers touch it feels like it’s just the two of us in the heat.
‘Come on, Dylan. Have you forgotten how to share?’ Marcus calls.
I let go of the bag. ‘There’s plenty of croissants in there,’ I say, already backing away. ‘I bought enough.’
I stay away for the rest of the day. Marcus puts me on edge. He’s built like a Topshop model, skinny and pale and cool with this half-styled shock of curly hair. So yeah, he’s attractive, in an I-sing-in-a-band kind of way. But he’s kind of cold behind the eyes, somehow.
Dylan knocks on my door at midnight. I smile up at the ceiling. I’m in bed, but I’d hoped he’d come. I like that he gave me space today, but I like it even more that he’s come to see me once everyone’s gone to bed.
I answer the door in my pyjamas – cropped T-shirt, cotton shorts. It’s not Dylan. It’s Marcus.
‘Evening,’ he says. ‘I think we got off on the wrong foot.’ He half smiles at me, head tilted. ‘Want to come have a drink on the terrace? Make peace? For Dylan’s sake?’
He’s all chilled and casual, but he holds my gaze just a little bit too steadily. It makes everything feel off. Like there’s another conversation going on under this one, but I can’t quite translate it.
‘Where is Dylan?’ I ask.
‘Oh, don’t blame him for not being here,’ Marcus says. ‘I insisted on seeing you alone. I wanted to apologise.’
Well, he hasn’t, has he? He’s not actually said sorry.
‘Come on,’ he says, leaning on the door frame. His T-shirt rides up, showing a white triangle of toned, bare midriff. ‘Let’s get wasted and see if you like me by the morning. It usually works, I find.’
Dylan is sat waiting for us on the terrace, feet dangling in the pool. He beams when he sees me, pushing his hair out of his eyes and patting the stone beside him. I’m almost by Dylan’s side when Marcus dive-bombs into the water. I stumble back, surprised and – bloody hell – half drenched.
Dylan laughs. ‘Christ, Marcus, you’re such a child.’ His tone is fond.
Marcus surfaces, his curls flattened to his head. ‘Let’s get pissed, shall we?’ he says, lunging for the bottle of red beside Dylan.