The Love Island: The laugh out loud romantic comedy you have to read this summer. Kerry Fisher
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was holding forth about the merits of Sardinian cheese on the other side of the table and I couldn’t face Simon on my own. I slipped into the hallway and out into the orangery. I loved that room. Cher was brilliant with plants. She was the only woman I knew who’d managed to grow an avocado tree from a stone. I bent down to admire her amaryllis. Shouts, laughter and the sound of Cher doing her Dolly Parton Jolene, Jolene, Jolene party piece drifted through from the dining room. I peered through the windows into the garden. Moonlit sky. Perfect night for romance.
I couldn’t imagine kissing anyone other than Scott.
‘Waiting for me, were you?’
I swung round. Simon.
‘What’s a gorgeous girl like you doing all on her own?’
‘I was just going back to the party.’ I started to move towards the door. He was heavy on his feet, staggering.
‘Come here, give me a New Year’s Eve kiss.’
He lunged towards me, managing to land his big fat lips on my bare shoulder. I could smell the wine on him. I pushed him away.
‘No, stop it, Simon. Don’t be silly. Get off.’
‘Playing hard to get now? You girls knocking forty can’t afford to be too choosy.’
He made a grab for my breasts. I shoved him off and he blundered into a shelf of spider plants. They went smashing to their death, earth and terracotta slithering across the floor. I snatched up the Yucca plant next to me and held it in front of me like a sword. I cursed my long dress, which kept catching on the heels of my stilettos.
‘You don’t know what you’re missing. You frigid bitch. Bet Scott was playing away if this is the sort of welcome he got at home.’
‘Simon. Here’s some free advice. Get lost. And never speak to me again.’ Brave words that might have been more effective if my voice hadn’t come out all tight and strangled.
He stepped towards me again, sweat shining on his forehead. ‘You’ll be begging me for it in a few months.’
I was debating between pushing the spiky Yucca in his face or hurling it at him and making a dash for the door when the whole orangery lit up, leaving us blinking like a pair of moles. I didn’t have time to say anything before Patri marched in, grabbed Simon by his jacket and dragged him across the hall.
‘Porca miseria. You prick. Get out. Get out now. And take that miserable bitch of a wife with you.’
Patri flung the front door open and hurled him out. Simon was concentrating too much on shouting ‘Prick tease!’ and not enough on the frosty steps outside. His behind caught the edge of them with a dull thump. Well-cushioned as it was, it would still have hurt. Patri was bellowing in the hall, not caring who heard, instructing one of the Fillies to find Michelle and get rid of her now. Or rather ‘NOW!’ Within moments, Patri was thrusting Michelle’s cashmere wrap into her arms and propelling her outside. For a chap in his late sixties who’d be snapping his fingers for another glass of brandy on his deathbed, he didn’t mess about.
He slammed the door. ‘Bastardo. Roberta, what can I say?’ He spread his arms open wide. ‘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