The Love Island: The laugh out loud romantic comedy you have to read this summer. Kerry Fisher

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СКАЧАТЬ ‘You’re my guest, you come to my house and a guy, a friend, thinks he can have a go with you?’

      My heart was slowing down. I wanted a hot flannel to scrub at my arms and chest where Simon’s fat fingers had manhandled me. I used to be a person who could see the funny side of everything, always laughing when I shouldn’t have been. ‘I’m so sorry about the mess. Look at Cher’s poor plants.’

      ‘The plants? No one cares about the plants. Bloody bloke. He won’t come here again. Tell me how I can make it up to you for having such stupid friends.’

      ‘You don’t have to make amends. He’s not your responsibility. I can look after myself.’ I pressed my fingers into my eyes. I didn’t know whether that was true.

      ‘No, I want to do something for you. What do you need?’

      More than anything, I needed a house, but I didn’t want to involve him in my life to that degree. I knew Patri, he wouldn’t just keep an eye out for properties, he’d make it his life’s mission. Scott was always telling me how we ‘owed people dinner’ or he ‘owed them a favour’. I didn’t want to owe anyone anything any more. But Patri wouldn’t take no for an answer.

      I glanced through the doorway to Octavia, hoping she might come to my rescue. But she was in full flow, recounting a story that required much flapping about of hands. No one would ever know she was worried sick about money.

      I turned back to Patri, suddenly inspired. ‘There is one thing you could do for me.’ I explained about Jonathan’s redundancy. ‘He works really hard. He could fix or set up any computer systems you need.’

      Patri nodded. His dark eyes narrowed. ‘OK.’

      I wanted to ask, ‘OK what? OK you have something for him? OK you’ve heard me?’ I was desperate to run over to tell Octavia some good news, but no hopes were better than false hopes.

      Patri took my hand and led me back into the dining room. ‘Come on. Nearly midnight. I’m going to get the kids down for the Chinese lanterns.’

      Marvellous. That meant it would soon be time to go home. Octavia hurried over to me. ‘What was all that kerfuffle about? I didn’t realise you were out there.’

      ‘Tell you later. Let’s watch these lanterns, then I’m definitely going to call it a night.’

      We thronged out into the garden. Patri, Jonathan and the teenagers crowded round, all vying to take charge. Alicia was joking and laughing. One boy with a messy shock of blonde hair seemed to be paying her special attention. I listened hard. No swearing. Well-spoken. He took off his scarf and tied it round her neck. Her face lit up. Loneliness sucked me down somewhere dark.

      The buzz of interest faded as the lanterns refused to light. Patri threw down his matchbox and dispatched various Fillies to find torches and lighters, the ratio of Italian to English increasing with his frustration. Octavia and I went to sit down by the fence. She turned her face to the sky, her words slurring.

      ‘Whenever I see stars, I think of Xavi. There were so many of them in Corsica. I wonder if he can see what we can see. Prob’ly better cos they don’t have all the light pollution. If he’s there. Could be anywhere.’ Her head lolled onto my shoulder. I couldn’t believe that after nearly two decades, Octavia was still going on about Xavi. She hadn’t mentioned him in ages. She should have whitewashed him from her memory after what he did.

      ‘Sshhh. Jonathan’s coming over.’

      Octavia wasn’t to be derailed. ‘I still don’t know what I did wrong. I loved him. Why do people leave if they love you?’ She stabbed a drunken finger in my direction.

      I had no answer for Octavia’s romantic catastrophes from years ago. My own disaster was so fresh, oozing agony into the darkness. I was the last person to claim insights on relationships. I shivered, huddling up to her under her faux fur wrap, the cold of the wooden bench creeping into my thighs. Octavia didn’t seem to need a response.

      I caught a familiar sound on the other side of the fence. Throaty, lusty laughter. Not broken-hearted, brave-faced laughter.

      Scott’s laughter.

      Octavia was swaying, slumped on the bench, her eyelids drooping. I was bolt upright, ears straining for voices.

      One high-pitched one. One deep teasing one. The clunk of the cover from our outdoor hot tub. The gurgle of bubbles. Playful screams. Loud splashes. Giggles. Silence. More silence.

      My stomach lurched. He knew I was here, next door. I realised I’d imagined that Scott would be devastated, plotting how to get me back. But that wasn’t his style. Far easier to find someone else to impress with his big-man talk, and punish me into the bargain. After all these rollercoaster years, all the times I’d longed to walk away, I was still hoping there was a little ember of love left, waiting to be fanned. I reminded myself of Octavia’s words: ‘What man puts a woman he loves in a police cell?’ She was right. He didn’t deserve for me to miss him. But I did.

      I wanted to pole-vault the fence and see what was happening. I wanted everyone to stop talking so that I could listen. My mind was searching, craving innocent explanations but coming up blank. A cheer went up as the first Chinese lantern struggled into the air, hovered over the summer house, skimmed the branches of the sycamore tree, then disappeared high into the sky, a tiny glow against the universe.

      I hugged my arms around myself and offered up a wish for a time when my whole life didn’t seem rotten from the inside out.

       Octavia

      January passed in a flash. After Jonathan had exhausted the job opportunities within a 10-mile radius of where we lived, I’d encouraged him to apply for jobs abroad. The more I thought about it, the more excited I became. The idea of exploring somewhere new made me want to rush to a map of the world and draw up a wish list of destinations. Italy. Barcelona. Paris. I’d love to introduce the children to a different culture and watch their minds expand: it frightened me that Immi thought Scotland was the capital of England but knew Jack Wills and Superdry were far more must-have than anything from Asda. When I was with Xavi, I’d dreamt of having bilingual children. Maybe I still could. And yet, despite my best efforts highlighting jobs in Tokyo, Bangkok and Kuala Lumpur, by the time Jonathan’s birthday rolled around at the beginning of February, he was still fixated on jobs within half an hour’s commuting distance.

      Birthday cheer, then, was in short supply. Obviously, I’d known he was going to be thirty-nine for the last three hundred and sixty-four days – but that hadn’t stopped me racing from the nursery to the supermarket for fillet steaks on the very eve I needed to cook them. We’d been living on an economy diet of lentils, chickpeas and turkey mince, so I was glad of an excuse to splash out. I’d just arrived home and was bunging the meat in a sherry and mustard marinade when Roberta turned up.

      Post-marriage, we didn’t do many unannounced visits. Though since she’d rented a ridiculously tiny flat in a fancy new development shortly after New Year – ‘I’d rather have pristine and small than grotty and spacious’ – she’d been round much more often. For a brief moment, I thought she’d popped round with a present for Jonathan. I glanced down, but there was no sign of the shiny gift bags Roberta couldn’t live without. She was huddled into her mac and looked so pinched and miserable that I bundled her straight into СКАЧАТЬ