Summer Loving Read Online Free PDF Page B

point, but it’s gone now) was older, married and lived quite far away, in Sennen. Kirstan lived in the back of the shop. His room smelt of salt, surf wax and neoprene. There was no furniture apart from a ragged futon on the floor. On the evening of that third day he took me for a Thai meal at a local pub. Afterwards, when we got back to the surf shop, neither of us hesitated for a second. I was nineteen, he was twenty-three.
    *
    I feel two hands grasp my shoulders and almost choke on a cloud of expensive perfume.
    ‘Good morning, babe. Missed you.’
    ‘Hi, Estelle.’

 
     
    Three
     
    I had actually been hoping that Estelle and Tybalt had severely overslept, maybe rising at three or four in the afternoon. Maybe later. Ideally in a few days. Possibly never.
    It’s not that I don’t like them; it’s just that I don’t like them. I’d been eating my breakfast a little faster than usual, so we could leave before they appeared, though not so conspicuously that Franklin would notice.
    The fuss about the coffee slowed everything down, of course, which sabotaged my subtle plan. There was nothing wrong with the coffee, either. That was just Franklin doing that because he could. In some weird way he likes having any sort of staff fawn over him and if there aren’t any problems he’ll make one up.
    I’m still reeling from having to talk to Estelle last night. Among other things, she couldn’t stop talking about all the holidays that she and Tybalt had been on. I’m surprised Tybalt has any time for work, if he still actually does anything himself. They usually go on ‘major holidays’ about four times a year. One of those holiday s is always spent here, in the Algarve, because of the golf. She also mentioned Spain, Greece, Italy and France, too. Like Franklin, I suspect Tybalt wants to stay within quick flying distance from the UK, presumably in case any exciting business developments arise and he has to get back to the office in a hurry.
    Tybalt, by the way, is another OBE. Maybe everyone’s an OBE now. I think he mentioned this about a dozen times last night, and that’s a conservative estimate. Estelle kept mentioning it, too, but in a way that suggested to me that she’d been told by Tybalt to bring it up in conversation as often as possible, or she’d get her clothing allowance cut. I wonder what their ‘minor holidays’ are like. Long weekends in Paris or Milan, I expect.
    Estelle sits next to me, takes a look at my dress and starts being gushingly complimentary and over familiar. It’s as if we’ve mysteriously become best friends and old buddies overnight while we were both asleep. This familiarity, whilst I’m sure it’s meant to be nice and friendly, is rather needy, slightly creepy and somewhat aggressive. I’ll bet you anything she doesn’t have any real women friends, though if it comes to that, neither do I. Not anymore.
    I’m still in touch with Lucille, of course. Her photographic career has gone from strength to strength and we went to see her exhibition in Barcelona early last year, when Franklin was there on business of some sort. She’s still funny and down-to-earth, and has been living with this chap called Paul, who (typical of her) is a florist. They’ve been together for almost five years. When Franklin learned what Paul did for a living, he could barely disguise his contempt. I was fuming.
    ‘It’s that pale blue, babe. It simply goes so well with your hair. I was going to ask you where you went when you were in London.’
    ‘Sorry? Where I went…what?’
    For a moment, I thought she was going to suggest we meet up back in the UK. I somehow can’t imagine that ever happening, unless I was drugged, lobotomised and hypnotised.
    ‘Where you have your hair coloured.’ she says in a voice so loud that everyone in the room can hear. The two French women at the next table turn to look at me. I smile sweetly at them. They look away, whisper something in French and laugh. I may be