A Summer to Remember. Victoria Cooke

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       Chapter 9

      After a morning reading by the pool, I’ve actually made it down to the beach. There was a bustling little sandwich shop in the centre of town where I picked up lunch – a chicken and pastrami sandwich the size of my arm – and now I’m sitting on the sand eating it whilst watching some kayakers and trying not to ooze sauce all over myself. This is the life. It’s such a cliché even to say in my own head, but there isn’t a phrase more fitting. The sky is blue, punctuated with the odd fluffy white cloud – sky pillows, I used to call clouds like this when I was little. It’s such a far cry from my real life, my London life, where I thought lunch in the park or by the docks warranted the phrase ‘This is the life’. I think I posted an Instagram picture to that effect once, but here, I can’t even be bothered taking out my phone. I just want to enjoy the moment.

      And so I realise that being here, despite the woes of work, certainly beats being in the mad rush of London. I can blow my nose and black stuff doesn’t come out, for a start. Obviously, there’s a lot I miss about London – my friends, the parks, the continuous stream of new places to eat and, of course, the shops, but Boston has plenty of those anyway. I pull the menu from last night out of my bag and look over the address that Harry wrote out. I should be able to find the place easy enough, and a friend of Harry and Barney will likely be as kind and helpful as they are. There were some fliers in the hotel showing a local bike trail which looks great.

      I’m pretty sure I can still ride a bike. You never forget how, apparently.

      ***

      The little clapboard shop is only a five-minute walk away from where I sat on the beach. It’s painted blue and white, and bikes in their abundance are racked up outside. I feel a little nervous as I walk in and see even more. What if I can’t ride? It’s been a while. I wonder if they offer incompetence discounts or stabilisers for adults. The place is shockingly quiet, and not a CCTV camera in sight. If this was central London, teenagers would have ransacked the place by now, and these bikes would be accessories to crime as yobs swarmed the city on them, snatching the Rolexes off unsuspecting rich folk. Or at least that’s what the press would have you believe. I run my hand along the smooth frame of a red and silver mountain bike.

      ‘Can I help you?’ A smooth, deep voice startles me, making me feel like some weird bike voyeur.

      ‘Er … I …’ I turn in the direction of the speaker and the familiarity of his face has the Medusa effect on me. ‘You!’ is all I manage to say.

      ‘I beg your pardon?’ He narrows those sapphire eyes and tilts his head ever so slightly in a cocky, arrogant way. He doesn’t recognise me, but then again, why would he?

      ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ But I certainly remember him, because other than Barney and Harry, a bubbly young lady in Abercrombie and, to some extent, my work colleagues, he’s the only person I’ve spoken to since arriving in the States.

      ‘I’m sorry, should I?’ His tone isn’t completely awful, but considering I’m a potential customer, it isn’t great. His eyes make small movements from left to right, searching mine for an answer but still, his face is blank.

      ‘I asked you to take a photo of me in Boston Harbor a fortnight or so ago.’ I cross my arms in front of my body defensively.

      ‘Oh, you’re that person.’ He allows his features to drop and begins polishing some bike part.

      ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’ My arms are still folded. I’m not quite sure why I’m pressing the issue, but I am, and I’m hoping the arm-folding strengthens my stance.

      ‘Well, are you here for a bike?’ His cocky nonchalance is infuriating.

      ‘Actually, СКАЧАТЬ