Strawberries at Wimbledon. Nikki Moore

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      ‘I wasn’t wondering,’ she said airily, swinging on the chair again deliberately. ‘I’m nineteen.’ She tacked on as an afterthought. Unable to face university straight after her parents’ tragic motorway crash, she’d deferred for a year. It’d felt like the right thing at the time but now she wondered if it had been wrong. She’d squandered the last twelve months of her life, immersed in drinking, loud music and late night hook-ups. None of which had made her feel any better. If anything they’d made her feel worse.

      ‘Nineteen?’ Adam smirked, as he pulled a carton of milk from the fridge. ‘That’s an unusual name. Do you come from some weird sci-fi island lab where they only assign you numbers?’

      ‘Ha ha, very funny,’ she drawled as he went back over to the unit and rested up against it, facing her. She narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re very-’

      ‘Confident?’ he inserted, giving her a proper, wide smile this time.

      It made his blue eyes light up, and she was shocked at the tiny tingle in her lower belly, one she hadn’t felt in ages. Her encounters over the last year had felt detached and meaningless. Perhaps a way to distract herself? A counsellor would have a field day with her, she was sure. Not that she planned to speak to one any time soon.

      Her physical reaction to him annoyed her. ‘Bossy. Sensible.’ She snapped, slamming the front chair legs back onto the floor. ‘A bit arrogant too.’

      ‘Wow, thanks. I’m glad I offered to make you a tea now.’ He turned away. ‘Sugar?’

      ‘Three.’

      ‘What? You’ll rot your teeth.’ But he spooned the sugar in, added milk to both teas then returned the carton to the fridge. Lining the sugar and teabag pots up exactly as they had been, he grabbed a blue cloth off the side and wiped down the counter precisely as if any speck of dirt or spillage would be an insult.

      ‘Whatever.’ She felt bad for her comments but it was better not to apologise. Maybe he’d think she was a massive bitch and steer clear in future. The last thing she wanted was to like someone; that might lead to caring and caring could lead to pain. She was trying to deal with an indecent amount of that already, not go looking for more.

      ‘Tell me about it.’ He turned and placed the two mugs with steam curling off them onto the beige laminate table.

      ‘Tell you about what?’ She pulled her sleeves down over her hands and curled her fingers inside.

      He sank down into the chair opposite, staring at her, pale eyes unblinking. ‘About whoever or whatever it is you’ve lost.’

      ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

      ‘I recognise the look,’ he said. ‘Just talk to me.’

      ‘No.’ She answered belligerently, but slid the tea towards her. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to go back to her room yet. It would mean too much time alone. Too much time to think.

      ‘You can. And maybe you need to.’

      ‘Is this where you give me a talk about how it’s good to share?’ she retorted. ‘Throw psycho-babble at me, tell me I’ll feel better for talking about it and time healing all wounds and-’

      ‘No,’ he interrupted, his voice mild. ‘This is where I offer you an out, a way of getting through this moment.’

      He talked like he was old, like he’d seen too much of life already. She wondered what his story was. You don’t care, remember? Opening her mouth, she closed it again, wondering if she looked like a goldfish tipped out of its bowl, gasping for water, suffocating. But she barely knew him, and if she started bawling again she was afraid she wouldn’t stop.

      ‘I’m fine.’ She set her jaw, teeth clenched.

      He looked at her for a long, silent moment and she didn’t think he’d drop it, but then he shrugged and took a sip of tea. ‘Okay. Whatever you want.’ His expression was full of understanding. ‘Right, we’ve established you’re not called nineteen. So, what is your name?’

      She hesitated, noticing a poster of the Arctic Monkeys taped up on the far wall, the right-hand corner loose and drooping over. She’d gone to one of their début world tour concerts a few years before. It’d been amazing, her blood thrumming with the bass of the music, heart pumping madly, grinning so widely that after half an hour her cheeks ached. Her parents had been amused by how she’d raved on about it for days, smiling at her indulgently as she babbled on, her mum leaving their latest album on her fold out bed as a random gift. That was…before.

      And now here she was, in the after. Without them. Completely alone, apart from her grandparents, who were on a world cruise, distancing themselves from her behaviour.

      ‘So?’ Adam’s voice jolted her.

      ‘Huh?’

      ‘Do you have a name?’

      ‘I, I-’ she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t gulp the grief away. It wasn’t fair. She wanted her dad here, to heave the boxes around and help her unpack. She wanted her mum here, to hug her and murmur words of reassurance, to soothe her nerves about starting uni. There were so many things that would happen in her life that her parents should be here for, but never would be. What had she ever done to deserve losing them? She had to leave. The emotions were too close, the urge to cry on this stranger’s shoulder too strong. ‘Ask me another time,’ she choked, ‘I’ve gotta go.’ She shot up from the chair. ‘Catch you later.’ Spinning around, she sprinted down the hallway.

      Adam didn’t say anything. He just let her go.

      Rayne relaxed in the green chair on Centre Court, the plastic warm beneath her bare thighs in the denim cut-offs, revelling in the early afternoon sun burning high in the cloudless sky. The ball kids were shading themselves under striped Wimbledon Championship umbrellas on the side of the court and the stands were rammed, no seats unoccupied, anticipation of the forthcoming match creating a noisy buzz and ripples of energy. The crowd wore an assortment of outfits, some in casual shorts and t-shirts, others in posh dresses and beribboned sun hats. The smart ones had brought water with them and purchased red cushions to sit on. Wimbledon veterans obviously. Not like her, a Wimbledon virgin. The word made her smile. Virgin. Like Adam, when they’d met. Until one very memorable night.

      ‘What are you smiling about?’ Lily asked, raising an eyebrow.

      ‘Nothing!’ Rayne wrinkled her nose. ‘Was I?’

      ‘Yes. Were you thinking about Adam?’

      Guilty. ‘No! Why would you say that?’ She tucked her black shoulder-length bob behind her ears.

      ‘You’ve got that dreamy faraway look you always wore when you were together. I’ve never seen you like it with anyone else, or since.’

      ‘Pfftt! Whatever.’

      ‘Just saying. Plus, I know you’re busy and I go on about this a lot, but you really should think about getting a love life.’

      ‘Please. Don’t go there.’ Rayne turned her attention to two teenage ball girls walking onto the white-lined grass. ‘Did you know around two hundred and fifty ball girls and СКАЧАТЬ