Probably the Best Kiss in the World. Pernille Hughes

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      Jen paused briefly then carried on, knowing it was better to let Lydia vent at her own pace. Lydia spun the bottle cap on the counter like a spinning top, before successfully lobbing and landing it in the corner bin.

      “Are all bankers wankers, do you think? This one was so far up his own arse I’m surprised he could walk.”

      “How’d you find him?” Jen hoped Lydia was laying off Tinder. Lydia’s dating calendar was busy enough as it was, but if not being used simply for casual hook-ups, Tinder seemed to Jen like people were fighting a “marriage material” tick-list from the off. Not that she’d say so to Lydia, but she worried that a missing limb might not count favourably in such a judgemental framework.

      “Bloody Callie from work set me up with him. Said they went to sixth form together and he was a hoot. Uni obviously nixed that. He kept talking about his ex and even sent her a text at one point. And Callie had clearly told him about the leg as he was trying not to study it. Epic fail.”

      “Drink choice?” Jen asked. Both sisters believed you could tell a lot from what men chose to drink. They’d worked out a fairly efficient shorthand over the span of Lydia’s many many dates.

      “Lager. Kronegaard. Unimaginative wanker.” Jen hmm’ed in agreement. Danish brewing giant Kronegaard wasn’t the worst of the global beers out there, in Jen’s book, but his failure to recognise there was more to beer than mass-produced lager would forever be a black-mark against the guy. Their dad and his love of craft beer had seen to that.

      “Ah well, better to know now,” Jen soothed. The thought of Lydia being hurt pained her.

      “Definitely,” Lydia agreed. “He was rubbish in bed too. Hence the earlier train.”

      So, that label wouldn’t be going on a bottle, the jog in the writing being enormous.

      “You slept with him?” Jen asked, trying for calm, but getting more of a squeak.

      “Well, I hoped to salvage something from the evening, but no. Crap all round. Not that we slept, but considering it was a speed shag, it was fairly catatonic.”

      Jen took a long breath through her nose, reminding herself Lydia was an adult and entitled to place her body where she pleased, with whom she pleased. But it was hard. She felt somewhere along the parenting process she might have slipped.

      “Speaking of dullards,” Lydia went on, “where’s the Bobster? Didn’t feel like helping you out here?”

      “Robert’s on a golf weekend. I’m seeing him Sunday night. As always,” she said pointedly. This too was a broken record conversation. Lydia was having a dig. Jen and Robert had a long-standing but simple arrangement of dating on Sundays and Wednesdays. It suited them both, it fitted with his sporting commitments and she could work late or brew undisturbed. The fixed nature of the date-nights gave clear structure to their week. Perfect.

      There was a long pause before Lydia gave flight to her thoughts. “Jen? Have you ever thought you might not be living life to the full? That you might be missing out?”

      Jen paused, looking around her, at her bottles, the tanks, the sacks of hops and malt. She saw her tightly-run micro-empire, tucked secretly away in the back streets of the bustling town, safely away from randomness, and she initially couldn’t think what Lydia might mean. Then her Parenting mode kicked in and it dawned on her Lydia must be referring to herself.

      “Lyds, lovely,” she said, putting her fountain pen down and giving her sister her full attention as she always tried to do when it came to “growing up” conversations, “is this a FOMO thing?” Lydia looked confused for a second, then opened her mouth to speak, but Jen beat her to it. “Honestly Lyds, as you get older you’ll see most events are overrated and actually happiness is easily reached if you keep your expectations simple and realistic. Just look at me.” Jen gave her a big smile and a pat on the leg for good measure, hoping her sister was reassured. Lydia exhaled abruptly, shook her head and roughly reattached the prosthetic before alighting from the worktop. Maybe not so reassured. She’d have to give Lydia’s fear of missing out issues more attention.

      Still holding her beer Lydia muttered something that might have been Sleep well, but could also have been Bloody hell and stormed back to the house. With a sigh, Jen went back to her labels, enjoying the return of serenity. She’d deal with Lydia tomorrow. For now she’d savour the peace and simplicity of the life she’d constructed for herself. FOMO indeed. Sure, she’d made some sacrifices – a career in incontinence pads instead of brewing, for example- but needs must and there was no point crying over that. All things considered, Jen had everything Just So now and exactly where she needed them to be for a straightforward, no-surprises, quite-happy-thank-you-very-much life. Lydia couldn’t possibly be thinking of her – Jen’s life was solid. Where should she be missing out?

       Chapter 2

      Being a lawyer, Robert was fairly straight-laced (or “uptight” as Lydia would say), but now and again he did something quirky. Jen had first noticed this years ago in his office, as he sombrely went over the details of her parents’ wills, formally assigning Lydia’s guardianship to her. Still shell-shocked and grieving, her eyes had wandered to his pink and orange striped socks. They were a marked contrast to the sobriety of his tailored dark suit and the uber-traditional (Lydia would say “cliché”) polished leather and wood of his office decor. Jen regularly wheeled the socks out as a positive example when Lydia was on one of her “Robert is boring” attacks.

      That Sunday evening, as Jen walked towards the beach, she suspected there might be a spot of quirk in the air. They normally met around seven at a local bar or at the golf club if he’d just played, but tonight he’d texted her to meet him at the family beach hut. Westhampton’s beach wasn’t one of those wild windswept moody backdrops with sand and marram grass, nor a bouncing surfers’ paradise a la Cornwall. This was a proper town beach with large uncomfortable shingle, candy-coloured beach huts and ice cream stands, but thankfully no pier chocked full with arcade machines. There were no features of particular natural beauty, and nothing really to write home about, which was why Westhampton had never quite made it onto the list of popular Victorian bathing resorts. But it was home – so Jen loved it, and as the flashier neighbouring towns were getting expensive, more and more tourists seemed to be coming. She smiled to see them this evening, as she walked briskly along the promenade, hands in the pockets of her khaki shirt dress. The lure of quirk had pushed her to make a change from her usual blouse and tailored trousers, but the pockets were non-negotiable.

      “Anyone home?” Jen asked, stepping onto the small deck area. The small port-holed door was open, but she couldn’t see Robert. The Thwaites beach hut was bang in the middle of the single row, the paintwork pristine in its pale blue nautical palette. Robert’s mother insisted on it being repainted every spring. Jen suspected this was more to keep up appearances and one-upmanship over the neighbours than down to any weathering necessity.

      “Hello Gorgeous.” Robert appeared holding a blanket which he unfurled with a flourish onto the wooden boards at her feet, before giving her a brisk kiss on the cheek. “Exactly on time, as always.” That was one of the many reasons they got on: mutual appreciation of punctuality. He disappeared back into the hut, and reappeared with an ice bucket complete with champagne bottle and flutes, along with a picnic basket. A picnic was definitely not what she’d been expecting. СКАЧАТЬ