A Summer Scandal: The perfect summer read by the author of One Day in December. Kat French

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СКАЧАТЬ shoulder, clearly unabashed at being caught out. ‘But I also grew them, so I’m not all that sorry.’

      ‘You grew them?’

      He scrunched his nose, as if debating how honest to be. ‘Well, I water them sometimes. Strictly speaking, Barty is the green-fingered one of the block.’

      Violet liked the idea that the tenants of the Lido worked as a community.

      He glanced over her shoulder into the apartment. ‘How’s everything going?’

      She accepted the wine, unsure how to answer the question. ‘Okay. Sort of.’

      ‘Need a hand with anything?’

      ‘No, I’m good I think,’ she said. ‘Except … I don’t suppose there’s a lift in the building, is there? A trade one, or something?’ The Traveller was fully loaded, and her sewing machine in particular was going to be a bit of a monster to lug up all of those stairs.

      His mouth kicked up at the edges. ‘’Fraid not. You do, however, have a handsome neighbour with guns of steel who’d carry your stuff in exchange for a glass of wine?’

      ‘A neighbour who hasn’t even told me his name,’ Vi countered, amused despite herself. He was cocksure, but the mischievous glint in his brown eyes told her that he didn’t take himself seriously. Back home in Violet’s world everyone took themselves seriously, so he was something of a breath of fresh air.

      ‘I didn’t?’ he said.

      She shook her head.

      ‘Cal.’

      Different. ‘Short for … California?’ she said, knowing full well it wouldn’t be.

      He laughed loud. ‘Trust me, my mother is nowhere near that adventurous. Calvin,’ he said. ‘Calvin Dearheart.’

      Jesus, he’s straight out of a Jilly Cooper novel, Violet thought, nodding wordlessly. At least he’d buttoned his overalls up before knocking on her door.

      ‘Right, so now you know who I am, and I know who you are, that makes us friends. Now take the flowers, let me help you with your stuff, and then let’s get gloriously drunk and tell each other our darkest secrets.’

      Well, that was unexpected. Violet swallowed hard, unsure how to reply, because Calvin Dearheart was fast becoming one of the most startling men she had ever met.

      ‘Jesus, Violet, what’s in here, a dead body?’

      Cal appeared on the upper landing with the last and heaviest of her belongings cradled in his arms, her precious sewing machine.

      ‘Careful,’ she cautioned, wondering where in the apartment to set up her workroom. She’d upgraded to the eye-wateringly expensive machine last summer off the back of a couple of big theatre costume contracts, and right now Cal was staring at her questioningly, slightly out of breath.

      ‘Where to?’

      Up to that point, he’d deposited her bags and boxes on the top landing and she’d ferried them inside as he fetched the next load, but it made no sense for him to put the machine down because she’d have to pick it up again.

      ‘This way,’ she said, hesitant. Inviting him inside the apartment felt almost disrespectful to her grandmother, as if Monica’s artistic secrets were going to be spilled. And then reality bit; Vi reminded herself that this was her home now, not Monica’s, and she needed to work out how to live in it, new neighbour included.

      Turning her back, she led Cal into the lounge and asked him to put the machine down on the pale wooden dining table. It was an interesting piece: a thin slice of polished walnut on a white plastic pedestal with matching slender-legged walnut chairs. He carefully did as she’d asked, then straightened and looked slowly around the room, wide-eyed.

      ‘Christ,’ he murmured, rotating almost three hundred and sixty degrees on the spot. ‘I never realised this place hadn’t been touched. It’s amazing.’

      Pride slid down Violet’s spine, making her stand straighter. She’d expected him to have a reaction to the place, because who wouldn’t, but she wasn’t sure which way it would go. She found it mattered that he appreciated her grandmother’s taste, because it was so in line with her own.

      ‘It’s really something, isn’t it,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t even know it existed until a couple of weeks back.’

      He nodded slowly, taking it all in. ‘I think we need that drink now.’

      Violet looked at her watch. It was well after three, and she was starving.

      ‘I better go food shopping first,’ she said. ‘Can you point me in the right direction?’

      ‘I could,’ he said. ‘Or I could take you to the local instead? They do a mean lasagne, Roberto makes it himself.’

      Lasagne was one of Vi’s all-time top ten dinners. It was too good an offer to pass up, especially when it was cooked by someone who sounded like they might actually be Italian.

      ‘Go on then. You’re on.’

      Cal wasn’t kidding. Perhaps it helped that Violet was hungry, but Roberto’s lasagne was to die for, as was his ice-cold sauvignon and his infectious belly laugh. The Swallow, as the pub was appropriately called, sat a little further along the seafront than the Lido, a hop and a skip away for an evening pint.

      ‘Have you always lived in Swallow Beach?’ Vi asked, poking a patchwork of holes in her lasagne with the tip of her knife to cool it down.

      Cal nodded. ‘Give or take a few years. My family have been here for more generations than anyone can count back.’

      ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘You must like it then.’

      ‘It’s as good as anywhere,’ he said, non-committal. ‘Pretty special when the sun comes out.’

      ‘Does it attract much of a holiday crowd?’

      Again, he looked as if he was hedging his bets. ‘Some. Not as much as the more well-known tourist spots further along the coast, but we do okay. We’re a bit more shabby than chic, if you know what I mean.’

      Swallow Beach sat on the south coast, a forgotten little sister to Brighton’s famous pebble beach and the often-photographed Camber Sands. Violet rather liked the fact that it was off the tourist track; she’d been there less than twenty-four hours and already she was starting to feel territorial.

      ‘So what’s the grand plan then, Violet?’ he said, refilling both their wine glasses. ‘Are you here for a week, a month or forever?’

      There he went again, coming out with something direct and unexpected.

      ‘The summer. To begin with, at least.’

      He nodded. ‘And then back to the bright city lights?’

      Thoughts of her distinctly orderly suburban life back home at her parents’ filtered in.

      ‘It’s СКАЧАТЬ