Fifteen

The first thing I see when I wake up is the colour of wheat.

The first thing I think is Vian.

I sleep in his bed now and still call it his bed, even though it was mine for the years before he came and has been mine for the years since he left. I sleep here to feel closer to him but, geographically, we could hardly be further apart.

My eyes drift to the postcards Blu-Tacked to the wall around the painting: surfers riding waves, rugged Australian coastlines, backwater towns with tin roofs, and fishing boats, big and small…

My friends have posters – everything from Bros and Milli Vanilli to Guns N’ Roses and George Michael – but I have only postcards and they are all from Vian.

He doesn’t write as much as he used to. He’s been busy with school and surfing and work. I can’t imagine being at sea for days on end, but he often goes out on the prawn boats with his father. It all seems very alien to me.

My alarm jolts me from my daze. I roll over and turn it off before getting out of bed, shivering on my way to the window. The tide is in and the water is as still as glass, reflecting the trees staggering down the banks. Only a few weeks ago they were topped with red, orange and yellow, but now the branches are brown and leafless and will stay that way for months. I lean in closer to the glass to check the lawn. It’s still shaded by the cottage and looks as if it’s been frosted with white icing. The glass fogs up with my breath and I retreat.

Definitely a tights day. I rummage around in my drawers and pull out what I need before heading downstairs to get ready.

Dad is cutting a lonely figure at the kitchen table, sitting there in his baggy brown cardigan with a mug of tea nursed between his hands. I remember when that old cardy was the same colour as his hair, but he’s almost entirely grey now. Losing Ruth so suddenly aged him.

‘Hi,’ I say in a sleep-groggy voice.

‘Morning,’ he replies, his smile catching me before I head into the bathroom.

He has a cup of tea ready for me by the time I re-emerge, dressed in my school uniform.

‘Scrambled eggs?’ I ask, planting a kiss on his cheek.

‘That would be lovely,’ he says gratefully, squeezing my shoulder.

I always make my own breakfast and if he hasn’t already left for work when I come downstairs, his too.

He lost a lot of weight after Ruth died, and hasn’t put anywhere near enough back on. I try to help where I can.

After the accident, Mum wanted me to move to France. She didn’t think Dad would be able to cope with me, not when we were both so thick in the midst of grief. But I fought tooth and nail to stay. I couldn’t think of anything worse than leaving him on his own.

It has been hard, though. And that is one hell of an understatement.

Losing Ruth broke us all, but losing Vian, too… Well, that was just…

Words cannot describe how I felt – how I still feel.

Vian’s father wanted him to go and live with him in Australia, and my dad told me that we had to let him go. Dad and Ruth weren’t married, and Vian wasn’t Dad’s adopted son, so he said we had no choice.

But deep down, I believe Dad could have tried harder to keep Vian. He was like a brother to me, my metaphorical twin, my fellow pea in a pod. Ruth’s death shelled us and spat us in opposite directions, far, far away from each other.

Sometimes, at night, I lie in bed, unable to sleep, and I am filled with bitterness and rage and even hatred towards my own father for letting Vian go.

So I try not to think about it.

And we rarely speak about Vian at all.

Dad and my friend Ellie’s mum do a car share – Ellie’s mum takes us to school on her way to work and Dad brings us home. Dad still works at Glendurgan Garden and starts early at seven thirty, but he finishes in time to collect us. However, today Ellie’s mum had a meeting so Dad is going in later.

Ellie – Eloïse Culshaw – is my best friend and lives up the hill in Mawgan, but we don’t hang out as much as you’d think, considering our close proximity to each other. Dad still won’t let me walk to or from her house – not after what happened to Ruth. The country roads are winding and narrow and there are too many dangerous drivers around. They never did find the driver of the car that killed her.

Dad pulls into the cul-de-sac where Ellie lives. I need to drop off my stuff for later – I’m sleeping over tonight – so I get out of the car and run up to her front door.

‘Oh my God!’ I squeal when it swings open.

Yesterday afternoon, Ellie’s chestnut hair came to her shoulders, but after an evening trip to the hairdresser, it is now several inches shorter, thanks to the curls. She’s been wanting a perm for ages.

‘What do you think?’ she asks with a grin, turning this way and that.

‘You look like a brunette Baby from Dirty Dancing!’

It is the biggest compliment I could bestow. It’s our favourite film – we’ve watched it on video a thousand times.

‘Here, let me take that.’ Ellie grabs my bag and dumps it in the hall before pulling the door shut behind her.

We climb side by side into the back of the car. I gave up riding shotgun after I did my neck in swivelling round to talk to her.

‘Your hair looks cool,’ she notes. ‘Did you scrunch it?’

‘Yep.’ My hair has a slight kink to it anyway, but with mousse and a diffuser, I can get it to go curly.

‘For the party?’ She gives me a conspiratorial nudge.

Dad’s ears prick up. ‘What party?’ he asks from the front.

‘Brad Milton’s sixteenth,’ I reply, giving Ellie a look that says, Here we go…

Brad is our classmate Brooke’s older brother – they’re only a year apart in age and it’s largely down to the two of them that our year groups socialise so much.

‘When did you tell me about it?’ Dad asks.

‘Last week,’ I state firmly. ‘It’s why I’m staying at Ellie’s tonight, remember? Her parents are giving us a lift.’

‘Where’s the party?’

‘At Brooke and Brad’s house in Helford.’

‘And what time will Ellie’s parents be collecting you?’

‘I don’t know, eleven-ish?’ I roll my eyes for Ellie’s benefit.

In actual fact, Ellie’s older brother Graham has offered to bring us home – he has his driving licence and is going to an eighteenth birthday bash at the nearby sailing club tonight.

But Dad’ll only stress out if I tell him that.

‘What if he speaks to my mum?’ Ellie asks that evening when we’re tottering down the steep, narrow road into Helford in our high heels. Her mum dropped us off in the car park at the top because it’s hard to turn around at the bottom, and if the tide is in, it’s practically impossible because the road is cut off by water.

‘He won’t,’ I brush her off, trailing my fingertips over the cobbled stones jutting out of the wall to my right. Ferns sprout from between the cracks and the air is filled with the smell of damp, peaty earth and salt water.

‘He’s so protective of you,’ Ellie says.

‘Over-protective,’ I correct. ‘But he can’t wrap me up in cotton wool forever.’ I trip over a bump in the road and stumble, grabbing Ellie’s arm to steady myself and almost pulling her down in the process. We both crack up laughing.

‘You been drinking, Forrester?’ comes a cheeky voice from behind us.

A glance over my shoulder reveals Drew Castor walking a few metres behind us, grinning. He’s wearing jeans with a black blazer and looks even hotter than usual.

‘It’s these stupid heels,’ I reply, facing forward again before he sees me blushing.

I have a bit of a crush on Drew. He’s a friend of Brad’s and has gorgeous toffee-brown hair that is too long to be called short, but too short to be considered long. I don’t know what product he uses, but when he rakes it one way, it stays there, slightly sticking up, and if he shoves it in the other direction, it does the same. Sometimes it falls forward into his green eyes and I’ve lost minutes of my life daydreaming about being the one to push it back again. His last girlfriend had the honour, but they broke up a couple of months ago.

Can’t say I cried about it.

We hear footsteps as Drew treads the asphalt to catch us up. ‘Are you on your way to Brad’s?’ he asks, falling into step beside me and taking my arm. ‘Keeping you upright,’ he jokes.

I laugh and elbow him away. ‘Yep. You?’

‘Yep.’

‘Shouldn’t you be coming from the other direction?’ Ellie asks.

Drew’s parents own the village pub a few minutes’ walk further on from here – his family lives in the cottage opposite.

‘Dad wanted me to run an errand,’ he explains.

Drew and his older brother Nicholas work for their parents part-time. Nick serves behind the bar and Drew helps out in the kitchens – I’ve spotted him when Dad and I have been in there to eat, which sadly isn’t often.

Madonna’s ‘Like a Prayer’ is blaring out of the speakers as we approach the Miltons’ – a chocolate-box cottage that is hemmed in between the road on one side and the Helford River on the other. We enter the garden via the outdoor gate to see trees rigged up with fairy lights and loads of our school friends milling around. It’s far too cold to take off our coats, but we do so anyway, our arms instantly breaking out in goosebumps. I’m wearing a black, off-the-shoulder dress that comes to just above knee-length, and my thick grey school tights have been replaced by sheer black ones. It’s freezing, but we stand there, teeth chattering, until everyone moves indoors.

Later, we have the opposite problem when the living room turns into a furnace. We’re all crammed into the small space like sardines, with sweat coating our skin and condensation running down the windows as we dance. I glance over at Drew and, not for the first time that evening, catch him already looking at me. A moment later, he heads into the kitchen.

I wait for B-52’s ‘Love Shack’ to come to an end before turning to Ellie and Brooke. ‘Drink?’

They nod and follow me.

Drew is at the fridge, getting out a two-litre bottle of Coke, while Brad and a couple of mates tuck into a bowl of crisps.

Brad and Brooke look so alike. They’re both tall with identical long, straight, blond hair. Some of the girls at school think Brad looks like Scott from Neighbours, but I’d say that’s a little optimistic.

‘Can you pour us some of those?’ Brooke asks Drew.

‘Sure.’

I feel Drew watching me as I separate disposable cups from a tall stack and line them up on the counter.

‘You look hot,’ he says.

Our friends fall about, sniggering.

‘I meant warm,’ Drew mutters with a smirk, pouring fizzing liquid into the cups. ‘Not that she doesn’t look hot in the other sense, too,’ he murmurs flippantly, his dimple making an appearance as he gives me a cheeky grin.

My heart skips at the compliment and I can’t help blushing. Again.

Brooke picks up a paper plate to fan my face.

I laugh and shove her arm. ‘Right, that’s it. I’m going outside to cool down.’

We all go and the December air is blissful on our hot, clammy skin as we wander down to the bank. Drew’s parents’ pub is directly across the creek from here, and the reflection of the outdoor lights strung up around the deck sparkles in the dark water.

‘Do you still have that Saturday job at the café?’ Drew asks me.

‘No, annoyingly.’ I used to work up near the sailing club. ‘They don’t get enough customers over the winter, but said to come back in the summer. What about you – you didn’t have to work tonight?’ I have to look up at him – I’m only five foot four and he’s getting on for six.

‘No. I’m doing tomorrow night and all day Sunday instead.’

‘Do you like it in the kitchen?’

He shrugs. ‘It’s all right. I’d prefer to be behind the bar.’

‘You’ll have to wait a couple of years, though, I guess?’ That’s when he’ll turn eighteen.

He gives me a wry smile and shakes his head, his eyes glinting in the fairy lights hanging from the trees. ‘I doubt Nick will ever let me muscle in on his turf – he likes pulling the girls too much.’

I smirk and sip my drink. I’m aware of his brother’s reputation.

‘What are you up to this weekend, then?’ Drew asks, raking his hair to the right.

‘I’m hanging out with Ellie. I’m staying at hers tonight. You?’

‘Surfing with my brother and some mates.’

‘I can’t believe you go out in winter.’

‘It’s the best time!’ His perfect white teeth gleam as he smiles. ‘The waves are bigger and better and there are way less tourists.’

‘I can’t surf,’ I say. ‘I started a course once when I was ten, but…’ My voice trails off.

‘You didn’t like it?’

‘No, I did.’ I hesitate before explaining, but I’ve started now so I decide to continue. ‘We’d only done one lesson when my dad’s girlfriend died – I don’t know if you remember that.’

‘Yeah, of course I do. I’m sorry. Didn’t your… Well, he wasn’t your real brother, but what was his name?’

‘Vian.’

‘Didn’t he have to go and live in Australia?’

‘Yeah. Now he can surf,’ I say proudly. ‘He’s actually won a couple of competitions.’

Drew looks impressed. ‘Well, if you’re not working tomorrow, you’re welcome to come with us. There’s room in Nick’s car.’

‘Oh! Thanks.’ I’m thrown by his easy invite.

‘Oi, Nell, is that your dad?’ Brad interrupts.

I shoot my head around to see an all-too-familiar figure hovering by the garden gate.

‘Hang on,’ I mutter, hurrying away. ‘Dad! What is it? What’s wrong?’

He shakes his head at me and I’m filled with dread. Vian?

‘You said Ellie’s parents would be taking you home.’ My father’s voice is laden with accusation. ‘Why didn’t you tell me it was her brother? He’s only just got his licence.’

I stare at him, gobsmacked. Is that why he’s here? To pick me up and drive me home rather than let Graham take us?

‘But I’m staying at Ellie’s!’

‘I’m here to give you both a lift. I’ve spoken to her parents. Come on, get your coat,’ he urges. ‘What are you doing outside without one?’

‘But… But… it’s only ten thirty,’ I stutter. How could he do this to me?

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ellie approaching.

‘Is everything okay?’

‘Dad’s here to give us a lift home.’ My eyes convey my absolute mortification at the situation.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘But—’

‘We’ll go via the sailing club to let Graham know,’ Dad says. ‘I’m parked up the hill.’

‘We’ll meet you there,’ I tell him through gritted teeth. ‘We need to say goodbye to our friends.’

Thankfully, he concedes.

I make my way back to Drew and the others.

‘We’ve got to go,’ I tell Drew miserably. ‘I’ll have to ask my dad about tomorrow. He’s a bit funny about other people giving me a lift.’

‘Oh, right.’ He looks bemused. ‘Call the pub and let me know. Ellie, too, if she likes.’

‘What’s this?’ Ellie asks.

‘I’ll tell you on the walk to the car,’ I interrupt, mumbling my goodbyes to everyone and giving Brooke a hug.

On the way home, my disappointment and embarrassment gives way to anger. I sit there, seething, while Ellie makes awkward small talk with Dad.

I know he only came to get me because he’s worried about me, but he can’t keep treating me like a child – I’m fifteen!

‘Ellie and I want to go to the beach tomorrow with Andrew and Nicholas Castor,’ I state as he pulls up outside Ellie’s house.

It’s the first thing I’ve said since we set off.

‘Nicholas is giving us a lift,’ I add.

Dad shakes his head. ‘I don’t trust Nicholas Castor.’

‘Dad, this is ridiculous!’ I shout, making poor Ellie flinch.

‘I’ll just…’ she starts to say quietly, opening the door and getting out.

I wait for her to shut the door before continuing. ‘Tonight was so humiliating! What was wrong with Graham bringing us home? He was right there in Helford!’

‘You should have told me,’ he says crossly.

‘I didn’t because I knew you’d freak out about it! I want to go to the beach tomorrow and I want you to let Drew’s older brother take me.’

‘Absolutely not.’

I shake my head, tears of frustration filling my eyes. ‘Dad, I can’t bear this. What happened was… awful…’ I shudder. ‘But I’m not Ruth! I need space and independence! I bet Vian gets lifts from friends all the time. In fact,’ I say, as the rage that I sometimes feel at night begins to swallow me up, ‘I bet, if he was still here, you’d let him get into a car with just about anyone. You didn’t give enough of a shit about him to keep him, so why would you care who he hangs out with?’

‘How could you say that?’ Dad looks stunned. ‘I didn’t have a choice—’

‘Ruth would be so disappointed if she knew what had happened to him – what you’d let happen.’

Even in the darkness of the car, I can see that his face has drained of colour.

‘Oh, Nell,’ he murmurs, and a wave of guilt swiftly snuffs out my anger. ‘I miss Vian just as much as you do.’

‘How can you say that?’ I’m agog at his claim. ‘That is such a lie! I think Scampi missed him more than you did when he left! You never talk about him—’

‘I don’t talk about him because I know it hurts you to be reminded of him!’ he cuts me off. ‘And the reason I know that is because it hurts me, too! But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss him, and despite what you say, Ruth would have wanted him to be with his biological father. She felt guilty that John and Vian didn’t have a proper relationship.’

His eyes are glistening as he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, pulling out a folded scrap of paper. ‘I think about him all the time,’ he says as he hands the paper to me. I open it up and stare down in a daze. ‘I’ve carried this with me ever since he left.’

It’s one of the edges from Vian’s green painting that Dad trimmed off almost five years ago.

The lump in my throat trebles in size.

‘I still miss him so much!’ I burst into tears. ‘I don’t feel like I know him any more, who he is now. He sounds so different on the phone. I’d give anything to see him again.’

‘Maybe he could come and visit,’ Dad suggests gently. ‘Perhaps I could offer to buy his ticket. I’ve been putting some money aside,’ he divulges as my insides fill with hope. ‘It was supposed to be for a car for you, but…’ His voice trails off.

‘I can’t imagine you ever letting me get behind the wheel myself,’ I mumble.

‘No, maybe not.’ He purses his lips.

‘Could he come for Christmas?’ I ask.

‘We could call and see?’

‘Now?’

‘What about Ellie?’

‘I’m not in the mood for a sleepover,’ I reply. ‘She’ll understand. I’ll grab my stuff and let her know.’

It’s after eleven by the time we get home, which means it’s Saturday morning in Australia. As I stand in the hall with the phone pressed to my ear, feeling flatter with every second that passes without Vian answering, I think back to one of the last times I saw him. He was stoically fighting back tears as his dad knelt in front of him, saying that he couldn’t wait to take him home.

John scared me, the first time I saw him. He was so tall, much taller than my dad, and he had to bend right down to pass through the rooms of our cottage. I remember that his clothes seemed dark and foreboding, and he had a bushy, black beard. I couldn’t believe we were letting this giant of a man take our beloved Vian away.

But when he knelt down, I was glad to see that his face was kind.

I shake my head quickly – I can’t bear to think about those hellish days. I’ve tried to block most of them out. But sometimes, I can’t escape the nightmares, where I’ll be running, running, running, up the road, trying to prevent Vian from reaching his mother’s broken, lifeless body and my father screaming with agony at her side.

I fail to stop him in my dreams, just as I did in reality.

There’s a click at the other end of the line.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me, Nell!’

A beat passes. ‘Hi.’

He has an Australian accent now – and a deep voice. I still remember when it broke: in the months between us speaking, Vian turned into a stranger.

‘I thought you must be out surfing,’ I say.

‘No, the phone ringing woke me up.’

‘Oh, sorry.’ He does sound sleepy, I realise.

‘ ’S’okay.’

We don’t speak often and not simply because it’s expensive. It’s actually kind of awkward. Vian isn’t much of a talker – he never was.

‘Are you all right?’ he asks.

‘Yes.’ I glance at Dad. ‘I have something to ask you. Dad and I have been talking and we wanted to know if we could persuade you to come here for Christmas. Dad wants to pay for your ticket.’

There’s no answer from the other end of the line.

‘This Christmas?’ he asks after what feels like forever.

‘Yes, as in, a few weeks away.’

There’s another long pause. ‘I’m not sure,’ he replies eventually. ‘I’d have to ask my dad.’

‘Why, because you’re working? Can’t you get out of it? Your dad wouldn’t mind, would he? We miss you!’ I ramble. ‘Hang on, Dad wants to talk to you.’

I place the phone in Dad’s waiting hands and pace the floor, crossing my fingers while I listen to my father offer to speak to John on Vian’s behalf. Eventually they say their goodbyes and Dad hangs up.

‘He says he’ll ask,’ Dad repeats what Vian told me. ‘He’ll call us back.’

‘When?’

‘I don’t know, but it won’t be in the next few hours, so we may as well get some sleep.’

It belatedly occurs to me how tired he looks – the bags under his eyes are protruding almost as far out from his face as his bushy eyebrows do.

I feel a rush of affection and step forward to give him a hug. ‘I love you. Thank you.’

He kisses the top of my head. ‘I love you, too,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry if I embarrassed you tonight. It’s only because I care.’

‘I know,’ I mumble. ‘But please, Dad, you’re going to have to lay off a bit.’

‘I’ll try,’ he promises gruffly.

The next morning, Vian calls with news – his dad has said yes! He breaks up from school at around the same time as me, but has the whole of January off, so we get straight on to booking his tickets.

‘Where will he sleep?’ I ask Dad, wondering if he’d still fit in my bunk.

‘I was thinking we could clear out the annexe and turn it into a guest room.’

I’m hit with a memory of Vian and me standing on the stairs, shouting at our parents.

They wanted us to have separate rooms.

At the time, of course, we didn’t understand why boys and girls shouldn’t sleep together, but now…

Dad is still waiting for my response.

‘That sounds great.’ I try to sound bright and breezy. ‘Shall we get started on it today?’

On Monday, I bump into Drew coming out of the dining hall.

‘How was the surfing?’ I ask.

‘Good,’ he replies coolly.

Uh-oh. I’ve messed up. I’ve been so sidetracked by Vian that it didn’t even occur to me to call the pub and let him know I couldn’t go to the beach.

‘Sorry I couldn’t come,’ I say quickly, going on to elaborate more than I would’ve under different circumstances. ‘I had a huge fall-out with my dad. It was awful, but it ended up with him asking Vian to come and stay for Christmas!’

‘That’s great!’

‘Maybe we could take him surfing when he comes?’ I ask, hopefully.

‘Absolutely.’ He flashes me his dimple. ‘Keep me posted.’

I definitely, definitely will…

Two weeks later, Dad and I go to collect Vian from the airport. I’m buzzing with nervous excitement as we stand in the arrivals hall, waiting for him to come through. Will we even recognise him? I haven’t seen a photo of him in years. His dad sent us a picture of him in his school uniform when he was about twelve, but that’s the last one I remember.

‘There he is!’ Dad cries, waving madly.

I follow the line of his sight and my jaw hits the floor.

If I thought Vian sounded like a stranger, it’s nothing compared to how he looks.

My eyes travel up…

…and up…

…and up…

…until he’s standing in front of us and I’m cricking my neck, staring up at the human version of the Eiffel Tower.

Dad throws his arms around this… this… alien… while I stand there, completely lost for words.

He must be six foot three or four – taller than Dad by at least half a foot – and very slim, as if his body has been stretched and he hasn’t had a chance to fill it out yet. His sleek head of dark, slightly wavy hair comes to well past his chin, and he’s wearing black jeans and a denim jacket over a grey hoodie.

The two of them break apart and then Vian’s arms are around me and he’s hugging me hard. My heart is going haywire – can he hear it? Can he feel it pounding against his ribcage?

Who are you?

He withdraws and looks down at me, his smile reaching his dark-blue eyes.

I blush and avert my gaze, but as Dad starts to natter on, asking about the flight and whether he managed to get any sleep, my attention is drawn back to Vian’s face, taking in his long, dark lashes, his striking, angular brows, his sharp, high cheekbones and his dead-straight nose.

I try to focus on what’s being said and realise that he even sounds different than he did on the phone.

Man, this is freaking me out.

‘Come on, let’s get to the car,’ Dad says in a no-nonsense tone, taking Vian’s suitcase.

Vian slings a battered army-green canvas rucksack over his shoulder. I give him a shy sideways glance as we walk and he catches my eye.

‘You look so different,’ he says.

I can’t help it. I burst out laughing.

‘What?’ he asks with a frown.

‘You’re unrecognisable!’ I exclaim.

His face breaks into a wide grin, making the angles of his face look even more pronounced.

‘It’s been a while,’ he says, but the humour I heard in his voice vanishes from his expression.

The closer we get to home, the more on edge Vian becomes. I’ve been sitting in the back, watching him, and I’ve noticed the tension creeping into the set of his shoulders and the butterflying of his jaw as he grinds his teeth.

The conversation dried up a while ago – he always was quiet in the car, preferring to sit and stare out of the window than chat incessantly like Ellie and I do. He and Dad have that in common, at least, so the silence has been relatively comfortable.

‘I recognise this village,’ Vian murmurs.

‘Yes, we’re not far from home,’ Dad replies.

When we pull up outside our cottage, nobody gets out of the car. It’s a bright, crisp winter’s day and the silvery slate tiles are glinting in the sunlight. Between the crack in the buildings, green grass rolls down to the river, and beyond that, the tide is out, and small rivers from the creek carve through the thick mud on their way out to sea.

Dad turns to look at Vian, and from his side profile, I can see my father’s unkempt eyebrows pulling together with concern. ‘How about a cup of tea and a biscuit?’ he asks.

In his mind, those two things could solve quite a lot.

The air is punctuated by the sound of car doors clunking shut, Dad’s keys jangling and the scuffling of Vian’s suitcase on the narrow garden path, but Vian’s pain resonates through all of that and hits me square in the gut. As Dad passes through the gate and opens the front door, Vian hangs back, staring at the annexe – once his mother’s studio.

Scampi squeezes out past Dad, instantly diverting Vian’s attention.

‘Scampi!’ He laughs and sinks to his knees as Scampi’s tail waggles excitedly from side to side. Vian cups the dog’s head, chuckling as Scampi licks his cheeks. Scampi breaks away to greet me in the same manner, but Vian stays kneeling on the freezing paving stones, his eyes glistening with tears as he watches his old friend scamper back inside.

‘How do you like your tea, Vian?’ Dad sounds jovial, but Vian jolts visibly.

‘Milk, one sugar, please,’ he replies in a strained voice, getting to his feet. His narrow shoulders hunch upwards and inwards as he follows Dad into the kitchen.

‘Are you okay?’ I whisper when we’re sitting at the table and Dad is at the sink, filling the kettle.

Vian nods, but his attention is fixed on the dog rather than me.

‘Do you want to have a look around first?’ I ask.

He hesitates, then nods again.

‘I’m going to show Vian the cottage,’ I tell Dad, getting to my feet.

Vian’s chair legs screech on the tiles as he pushes out from the table, making Dad and me cringe.

He only ever used to do that when he was angry or upset…

‘Everything seems so small,’ he comments, when I lead him through to the living room. He takes in the cosy space with its low ceiling and tiny windows. This is the original part of the four-hundred-year-old cottage, and it still has traditional cob walls, made from mud, straw and stone. The bathroom, hall and kitchen were a later extension.

‘Careful on the stairs,’ I warn, nodding at his head as we walk up. He has to duck under the beams and under the door frame when we go into my room.

His eyes rove from the window to the chest of drawers to the bunk bed.

‘You wouldn’t fit in it now.’ I state the obvious.

‘No,’ he agrees, bending down to look at the wall and freezing.

‘I still have your picture,’ I say. ‘And all of your postcards.’

His dark hair has swung forward to obstruct his face, but I have a clear view of his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, once, twice, three times.

‘And if you look under…’ I point at the wooden slats holding the top mattress, ‘you’ll see I still have all of your stars, too.’

He says nothing, so I fill the silence.

‘We’ve turned the studio – I mean, the annexe – into a guest room.’

My correction was fast but not effective, judging by the mask of agony he’s wearing when he straightens back up.

Before I can say anything, Dad calls up the stairs.

‘Kids! Tea’s ready!’

‘We’re not kids any more,’ Vian mumbles, more to himself than me, I think.

He’s agitated as we sit at the table. He keeps glancing towards the door and I know that he’s impatient to get the rest of his walk down memory lane over.

Dad is eager to show off what we’ve done to the annexe, but the invisible thread that tied me to Vian – though pulled thin and tight – still connects us and I can feel his grief as his eyes rake over the pale-blue, freshly painted walls, the double bed with its red-and-navy-striped bedspread, and the new rugs on the polished floorboards. The old built-in wardrobes still line one wall, but Dad points out a chest of drawers for him to put his things in instead. Vian wears a polite smile throughout all of this, but his eyes are flat and dead.

‘It’s great,’ he says blandly.

‘You could have my room if you prefer,’ I offer hastily. ‘He might prefer to be in the house,’ I say to Dad, who is clearly wondering what on earth has got into me. After all our work! ‘I’d be more than happy out here,’ I persist.

‘But—’ Dad starts to say, flummoxed.

‘No, this is amazing,’ Vian cuts him off. ‘Really.’ He almost sounds sincere, and then he smiles at me – properly. ‘Still the same,’ he mouths, prompting a bubble of happiness to burst inside me.

‘Right then,’ Dad interrupts awkwardly. ‘Vian, would you like to freshen up? I could run you a bath?’

Vian nods, but when he speaks again, the strain is back in his voice. ‘That’d be great.’

‘Want to have a quick look down on the deck first?’ I ask.

‘Okay.’

‘Don’t slip,’ I caution as we make our way down the hill.

‘I can’t believe how steep it is!’

‘We used to roll down. Do you remember?’

‘Yeah.’ His expression is tainted by sadness and I realise then that every memory of ours is contaminated. I try not to dwell on that thought, concentrating on navigating the slick, slimy deck instead.

‘Wow,’ he says drily, staring at our small, grubby rowing boat, resting, lopsided, on the muddy riverbed.

‘Want to go out in it?’ I joke.

He wrinkles his nose. ‘Maybe another day. You know, when the tide is actually in. Hey, what happened to Webster?’

‘She grew up and we let her go.’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘She?’

I smile and nod. ‘She came back a few times after we set her free, but after that, she disappeared, until…’ I pause for dramatic effect, ‘the following spring she appeared with ten ducklings!’

‘No way!’ He’s delighted, and I don’t know why I was so hesitant to talk about this before.

‘Yep, she wandered straight into the house with them – I couldn’t believe it! I’m sure it was her.’

‘It must’ve been! Did she keep coming?’

‘Only for a few weeks. I’m afraid she was a terrible mother. Her ducklings kept dwindling until she only had about three left.’

‘Vian!’ Dad calls from up at the house, and I’m not sure if it’s his voice or the news about the ducklings that makes Vian grimace. ‘Bath’s ready!’

Vian closes his eyes and hooks his hands behind his neck, not making any move to leave.

‘What is it?’ I ask him.

He sighs heavily, and when he speaks, he sounds resigned. ‘It’s the way you guys say my name.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Dad, my friends, everyone – they call me Van.’

I pull a face. ‘Van? But your name’s Vian.’

Again, he winces. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Now, it’s Van.’

‘But… why?’ I don’t understand. ‘Since when?’

‘Years,’ he replies, and my mind presents me with a mental image of the ‘V’ that he signs his postcards with. When did that start? ‘Dad called me Van when I first went over there. It stuck.’

‘But… But…’ I splutter again. ‘That’s… No! Your name is Vian, not Van!’ I screw up my nose.

‘I like Van.’ He’s not only defensive, he’s angry.

I take a step backwards, part of me afraid of the hostility radiating from him, and another part feeling a thrill at the force of his glare. Now he’s familiar to me.

I shake my head, unwilling to give up on this. ‘Can’t you be Vian to us?’

‘No,’ he replies firmly. ‘My name is Van. Are you going to break it to your dad, or am I? Because it will really piss me off if you don’t call me that.’

My insides blaze with unexpected fury. I stalk past him and up to the cottage.

Why didn’t he correct his dad? How could he let it slide? Isn’t it bad enough that so much changed after he left? Why would he want to lose his name, too? He’s already like a stranger to me – this makes it even worse.

‘Vian is a beautiful old English name,’ Dad laments with a frown. ‘It’s very unusual.’

Vian rhymes with Ian. Van rhymes with, well, van. I know there’s only one letter in it, one syllable, but they feel completely different to me.

Dad and I are sitting in the living room, quietly talking, while Vian – Van – is in the bathroom.

‘Vian, Van,’ I say out loud, trying on the accent that I’ve picked up from religiously watching Aussie soaps. ‘Don’t chuck a mental, Van. I suppose they do sound more similar with the Australian accent.’

Dad pats my knee benevolently. ‘It is his name.’

The bathroom door clicks open and Vian emerges in a cloud of steam. His dark hair is dripping water onto his orange T-shirt, making it look as red as blood.

‘Do you want a hairdryer?’ I ask.

‘No, it’s all right.’

‘Don’t catch a cold,’ Dad adds.

‘I’ll be fine, thanks.’

‘How about I make a fire, then?’ Dad suggests. ‘We could have a mince pie, Nell?’

‘Okay.’ I take my cue to leave, not meeting Vian’s eyes on my way out. I’m surprised when he joins me in the kitchen a moment later.

He leans back against the counter, his knuckles white as he grips the countertop on either side of his hips. I don’t know what to say so I choose silence as I switch on the oven to heat the mince pies and set about making more tea. He’s so quiet as I wait for the kettle to boil that I wonder if he’s still there. Curiosity gets the better of me and I shoot a look at him. He’s staring at the floor and he seems so exhausted and full of misery that I’m hit with remorse.

He glances up and meets my eyes.

I open my mouth to say I’m sorry, but he speaks first.

‘It reminds me of her,’ he explains. ‘Mum. Every time you or your dad say my name, I think of her. You three were the last people to call me Vian.’ He hangs his head.

I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but I can’t. Instinctively, I walk over and stand, flush to his side with my back against the counter.

‘Vian died with her,’ he whispers as my eyes fill with tears.

‘I’ll try to remember to call you Van,’ I mumble, resting my cheek against his shoulder and adding more splashes of blood-red to his shirt.

I feel as though I’ve lost my childhood friend all over again. I’m grieving him.

The next day is Tuesday, four days before Christmas. I come downstairs at seven o’clock – the crack of dawn for me when it’s not a school day – to find Vian lounging on the sofa, his long legs dangling over the end and his bare feet tangled up in Scampi’s black and white fur. He has a book in his hands and a CD Walkman resting on his stomach, the tinny strains of INXS’s ‘Kick’ playing out of his headphones.

Scampi’s bushy tail thuds on the carpet at the sight of me.

‘You’re awake!’

‘I’ve been awake for hours,’ he replies with a wry smile, putting his stuff on the floor and propping himself up on his elbows.

I feel slightly self-conscious in my pink-and-white polka-dot PJs and fluffy slippers, especially when I see that he’s already dressed. I’m sure my hair looks like a yellow bird’s nest.

‘Have you had any breakfast?’

‘Your dad got me some cereal.’

‘Are you still hungry? I’m a whizz at omelettes.’

‘Sounds great.’ He sits up properly and swings his legs around to the floor, reaching for his discarded socks and pulling them on.

The shower is running. I knock as we walk past the bathroom, calling to ask if Dad wants to join us.

‘Yes, please, I’ll be out in a minute,’ he calls back.

We only have the one bathroom – the bane of my life – so we’ve both learnt to be quick.

Scampi follows us through to the kitchen, his nails clip-clipping on the floor tiles.

‘Do you think he remembers me?’ Vian asks, kneeling and rigorously scratching behind the dog’s ears. Scampi pants with happy contentment and then flops on the floor, upturning his belly.

‘Looks like it,’ I say to be kind, although in truth I’m doubtful. If I think that Vian looks and sounds like a stranger, I can’t imagine how Scampi might know who he is after almost five years. He’d be friendly like this with anyone.

‘We thought we’d go and get a Christmas tree today,’ I tell Vian, cracking an egg into a bowl and reaching for another. Usually we’d have the house Christmassified at least a week before now, but we held off for Vian because we thought it might be a nice thing to do together, to get us in the festive spirit.

‘Dad and I never bother with trees and tinsel,’ he confides, sitting on the floor and drawing one very blissed-out dog onto his lap. ‘It’s too much of a hassle to take it all down again. Plus we’ve been hectic at work.’

‘What’s prawn fishing like?’ I ask, because I really have no idea.

‘Full on,’ he replies.

‘I mean, how does it work? What do you actually do?’

‘We shoot the nets out at sundown, and the second it’s sun-up, we’ve got to get them up straight away. Then we separate the prawns from all the other rubbish, box them up and snap-freeze them. I’ve sometimes gone eighteen hours without sitting down, and I might only get three hours’ sleep before I’m back at it again the next day.’

‘Oh my God!’ I exclaim. ‘How long does that routine go on for?’

‘We were away for seventeen nights on our last trip.’

‘Seventeen nights?’ I’m astonished. I had no idea he was out at sea for that long.

‘It takes a day to get out and a day to get back. But we get a lot of time off, too. You can’t trawl for prawns when there’s a full moon, as they all disappear.’

I’ve stopped making breakfast because I’m too absorbed in what he’s saying.

‘Is it ever scary?’ I ask, settling myself on the floor opposite him.

He shrugs. ‘Can be, if one of your nets hooks up on a rock or whatever. The whole boat leans right over and you can capsize in bad weather. We’ve hooked up a car before.’ He grins. ‘A Volkswagen Beetle off the coast of Whyalla. Some fishermen had dumped it to create an artificial reef. They marked it on their GPS so they could find it again, but obviously we didn’t have it on ours.’

‘That’s nuts!’

‘Yeah. The worst thing is the seasickness. We trawl in the Spencer Gulf, and when there’s a strong wind against the tide, you get really short, sharp waves. You’re thrashed around more than you would be in the middle of the ocean. Then there’s the crabs that pinch and the fish that sting – your whole arm will be throbbing, all the way up to your armpit. It’s excruciating, but it doesn’t matter if you’re vomiting or have the shakes – you’ve got to keep on working throughout all of it.’

‘It sounds absolutely horrible!’ I can’t believe he’s doing all this and he’s only fifteen!

He chuckles. ‘Yeah, it’s hard work.’

Dad walks into the kitchen and starts with surprise at the sight of us both sitting on the floor.

‘Everything okay?’

‘Yep!’ I jump to my feet. ‘Vian’s been telling me–’

Vian’s smile dies on his face.

‘Sorry,’ I say contritely. ‘I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to calling you Van.’

‘Try,’ he pleads.

‘Don’t you have a warmer coat?’ Dad asks as we’re leaving the house.

‘Just this one,’ Vian replies. He’s wearing the same outer-wear as yesterday.

Dad frowns. ‘You’ll be freezing. Let me see if I have something that’ll fit.’

Vian rocks on his heels as we wait outside the cottage. He’s wearing scuffed black boots.

‘How was the annexe?’ I ask, making conversation as his attention drifts towards the door. ‘Was it warm enough?’

‘Yeah, fine.’ He swallows. ‘When did you clear it out?’

‘A couple of weeks ago.’

He shoots me a sharp look. ‘Only a couple of weeks ago?’

I nod. ‘It’s been locked up since…’ My voice trails off. ‘We only did it up for you.’

He’s taken aback.

Dad returns with a long, grass-green scarf and his old Barbour jacket, saying out loud that he hopes the extra layers will be enough. ‘Oh, gloves!’ he exclaims, hurrying back into the house.

Vian wraps the scarf around his neck. ‘Is this yours?’ he asks me.

‘Because it’s green?’ I smile, feeling a little funny inside. I shake my head. ‘No, it’s Dad’s.’

He nods and pulls the jacket on over his denim one. ‘I remember this,’ he says. ‘It looks too big for your dad now.’

‘He’s shrinking in his old age,’ I whisper jokily, trying to ignore the pang of worry that follows. He’s only fifty, but sometimes I think he looks closer in age to Ellie’s grandfather than to her father.

That afternoon, we play festive music and decorate the house. The smell of fresh pine mingles with the scent of mince pies heating in the oven as we hang ornaments on the tree and drape garlands from the curtain rails. But all attempts by Dad and me at camaraderie are falling flat, and eventually Vian asks if we’d mind him going to his room for a rest.

‘Do you think it is just jet lag?’ I ask Dad with concern as we sit at the kitchen table, our mince pies untouched.

‘I don’t know, Nell,’ he replies heavily. ‘I wonder if we should get it out of the way.’

When we cleared out the studio, we kept all of Ruth’s things that Vian might want – her paintings, her art materials, even her old smocks. It’s all right there, under his nose in the annexe, locked in the built-in wardrobes. We’ve been waiting for the right time to show him.

I drag myself into the hall and pull on my shoes. It’s only a few metres to the annexe, but I feel chilled to my bones as Dad knocks on the wooden door, neither of us saying a word.

‘Come in,’ Vian calls.

He’s lying on his bed, but sits up when we enter.

Dad takes the lead in explaining, and as he gets out a small key, Vian’s eyes dart to the wardrobes. He’s racked with tension and half covers his face with his hands as he hunches forward and stares, waiting for the contents to be revealed. And then I see his nostrils flare and his eyes widen as the astringent smell hits him full force. Previously muffled by the scent of freshly painted walls and new carpet rugs, now the aroma that was once so familiar to us as children is completely overwhelming. Vian’s bottom lip begins to tremble and his eyes fill with tears as he stares at the stack of canvases propped against the wall. The one at the front is of us – him and me – building a sandcastle at the beach. It’s more realistic than most of the pictures Ruth used to paint, but still has elements of her trademark abstract style in the bold streaks of rock, rich in greys and browns, and the graduated colour of the water, beginning with brilliant aquamarine by the shore and ending in emerald-green further out.

We were about seven when Ruth painted it, and I still remember the yellow swimming costume that I wore, right down to its frills around my chest and legs. Vian is wearing pale-blue shorts and is bare-chested, his skin golden and his dark hair coming almost to his chin. It was the way he wore it then, before he had it all cut off the following year. It’s not dissimilar to how it is now.

‘Do you want us to leave you to it?’ Dad asks.

This goes completely against my natural instincts, but before I can intervene, Vian nods, tearfully. I watch with a swollen throat as teardrops slip from his eyes and run down his nose. He doesn’t look at us as we walk out the door, even when I hesitate. I want to go to him so badly, but Dad draws me away.

‘He wouldn’t want us to see him cry,’ he murmurs as he closes the door behind us.

How would he know?

As I lie in my own fog of misery on my bed, it occurs to me that maybe Dad’s the one who can’t handle seeing our grief. He has also retired to his bedroom and for once our tiny cottage feels like a mansion.

Vian doesn’t emerge for dinner and when Dad finally agrees to let me check on him, I find him curled up and fast asleep under the covers of his bed.

At some point in the night, I bolt awake to hear a door opening downstairs. Without another thought, I leap from my bed, hoping to catch Vian before he returns to the annexe. I’m too late. The front door is closed, the bathroom empty and the cistern filling.

My eyes are stinging and my body feels weighted with exhaustion, but I don’t even stop to put shoes on before running out the front door and rapping on the door to the annexe.

Vian opens it a moment later, wearing jeans and a grey T-shirt with a neon graphic on the front.

‘Hi!’ He’s taken aback.

‘Can I come in?’ I hop from foot to foot on the freezing paving stones.

He looks down at my bare feet with alarm and opens the door wide.

‘You’re dressed.’ I shiver as I pass into his room. It’s lit only by his bedside lamp.

‘I wasn’t going back to sleep,’ he replies.

‘What time is it?’

‘Three thirty.’

‘Shit! Really?’ I hug myself to keep warm, but my teeth are chattering.

‘Get under the covers,’ he instructs with a frown, flipping them back for me.

I don’t need to be told twice. I snuggle under the warmth of his duvet, pulling it up to my chin. A glance to my right reveals that the wardrobe doors are closed again.

Vian sits on the end of the bed, bringing my attention back to him. ‘What are you doing up?’

‘I heard you in the bathroom. I was worried about you.’

‘I’m okay,’ he says simply.

My eyes drift again to the wardrobes. ‘Are you sure?’

‘No,’ he whispers and I sharply meet his gaze. ‘But people don’t tend to want to hear that.’

‘I do,’ I say quickly. ‘You can talk to me about anything.’

‘Still?’ The look in his eyes is heart-rending and suddenly I see in him the boy that I grew up with, the boy who used to be able to confide in me, and vice versa.

‘Definitely.’ My nose prickles. ‘I haven’t changed.’

‘We all change,’ he says wearily.

‘At our cores, we’re the same.’

He bites his bottom lip and looks down. ‘Maybe.’

There you are, Vian…

‘Do you still paint?’ I find myself asking.

He shakes his head. ‘Not since Mum died.’

‘But you were so good at it!’

‘I was ten,’ he states.

‘Yes, but even your mum said you were talented.’

‘She was my mother, she had to say that.’

‘No, that’s not true,’ I insist fervently. ‘Dad thought you were talented, too. I still have your Fudge and Smudge stones – do you remember?’

‘I noticed they’re not on your windowsill any more.’

I cringe. ‘I put them away a couple of years ago. All of my friends were doing up their rooms and, I don’t know, they seemed a bit… immature.’

He grins at my discomfort. ‘Don’t worry, I get it. Do you still write?’

‘Not about Fudge and Smudge.’

He frowns. ‘Why not?’

‘That was our story,’ I say. ‘It reminded me too much of you.’

He reaches over and squeezes my hand.

‘Your fingers are ice-cold!’ It detracts from the unfamiliarity of his hand in mine. ‘Get into bed, too.’

He hesitates, but does as I suggest. We lie side by side, our heads on our pillows, facing each other. We probably lay like this a thousand times as children, and I keep that fact in mind as I try to get accustomed to this new ‘Van’, hoping he’ll fill the place in my heart that Vian did.

‘What’s your dad like?’ I want to know more about his life now. Postcards and rare phone chats don’t cut it.

He takes a deep breath and pauses for thought. ‘He’s cool. He’s a lot younger than your dad, did you know that?’

I shake my head.

‘Mum was only twenty when she had me. She and Dad were the same age. I didn’t realise Mum and your dad had an age gap of fifteen years.’

‘Neither did I.’ I’m startled, to be honest.

‘She was in Australia on a gap year when she met my dad,’ Vian continues. ‘He was doing a stint up the coast, taking tourists out on a sailing boat, and she was a stewardess. They had a holiday fling. She didn’t know she was pregnant until after she’d returned to the UK. Her mum convinced her that she should raise me on her own – I don’t know why – but after my grandma died, Mum changed her mind. She and Dad hadn’t stayed in touch, but Mum hunted him down by ringing the pubs in Port Lincoln where Dad grew up, asking if anyone knew him. Apparently, she only remembered the name of the place after studying the seaside towns in South Australia on a map and trying to jog her memory.’

‘When was this?’ I ask.

‘Not long before we came to live with you.’

I’m lapping up these new facts that put things into perspective, things that I probably wouldn’t have understood when I was younger.

‘Had you always lived in Cornwall?’ I ask.

‘No, we were with my grandma in Somerset, but Mum used to visit Cornwall as a child, and after my grandma died, she rented a room in a B&B for the summer so she could paint. She met your dad at the gardens where he works.’

‘Glendurgan,’ I remind him.

‘That’s right. Mum used to paint there and I was so bored,’ he groans. ‘Your dad would chat to us and try to entertain me. He used to show me butterflies and bugs and stuff while Mum was working.’

‘They got serious so quickly. I wonder how that happened,’ I muse. ‘I mean, I love my dad, but he’s not what I’d call a catch. Mum always used to say he was a bit of a hermit. How did he pull your mum? She was so young and attractive.’

He smiles. ‘I think he used to make her laugh.’

I wrinkle my nose. ‘I wouldn’t exactly describe him as funny.’

‘I don’t know how he did it, but she was very fond of him. He was kind to her – and me – and he loved her, he really did. I don’t remember Mum having a boyfriend or anyone when we lived with Grandma. I don’t remember much of those days at all, apart from Grandma always telling me off,’ he says with a rueful smile.

‘Dad still works at those gardens,’ I say.

‘Does he? I’d like to go back. That maze! You were so annoyed the first time we did it together and I beat you to the middle.’

I crack up laughing, clapping my hand over my mouth to hold in the sound. ‘That’s right!’ I whisper loudly. ‘I was so pissed off! I was intent on beating you – I’d been in that maze more times than I could count and I thought I was such an expert, but you still managed to get to the middle before me!’

We were only five at the time.

He laughs. ‘I can’t even recall how many times I’d done it before you came to Cornwall that summer. Mum was at those gardens every freaking day for what felt like weeks. I could’ve done that maze blindfolded.’

‘Dad’ll be at work again after Christmas,’ I say. ‘We could go then.’

‘Yeah, I’d like that.’ He stares at me, thoughtfully. ‘I’m sad you don’t write about Fudge and Smudge any more.’

‘They were just silly stories.’

‘No, they weren’t. They were good.’

‘Like your artwork was good,’ I reply pointedly.

He rolls his eyes and looks up at the ceiling. ‘Where was that place that had the Fudge and Smudge tree?’

‘I’m not sure where you mean.’

‘It was on a cliff by the ocean, and you could see the river mouth. There was this old gnarled tree that had been split apart by lightning and you said it would make a perfect home for Fudge and Smudge, but then you set it by the river and made it a crab-apple tree so the Spriggens would have something to steal.’

‘You’ve got a good memory!’ I exclaim.

He turns his face towards me. ‘There was this cliff track – we’d gone to have a picnic and our parents stayed on the rug while we went off and explored.’

‘By a cliff edge?’ I ask with alarm. You wouldn’t catch Dad doing that now.

‘You couldn’t get to the edge because it was so dense with blackberry bushes,’ he tells me. ‘I scratched my arm on one and you licked off the blood.’

‘Did I?’

He laughs at the disgusted look on my face. ‘You were only trying to stop it from hurting, trying to make me feel better. You did that sort of thing a lot.’ His eyes are shining. ‘You still do,’ he adds with a sweet smile.

My heart expands inside my chest and I reach across and take both of his hands in mine, squeezing them hard. ‘I love you,’ I whisper.

‘I love you, too,’ he whispers back, and then he slides one arm behind my shoulders and I go to him, sensing that he desires as much as me to feel the kind of closeness we used to have as children.

But as I rest my hand on his chest and feel his heart beating strong and hard against my palm, a surreal feeling settles over me. Out of the blue, I feel wildly uncomfortable.

I hope he doesn’t pick up on my unease as I withdraw and sit up, pretending to yawn. ‘I should probably go back to bed. Do you think you’ll fall asleep again?’ I try to feign normality.

He shrugs. ‘I doubt it. Will you pass me my book? I’ll probably read for a bit.’

I reach for the novel on his bedside table. ‘The Power of One,’ I read aloud. It’s by Bryce Courtenay.

‘My aunt gave it to me before I left. She thought I’d like it.’

‘I forgot you have an aunt.’

‘I have two.’

I shake my head. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t know that.’

‘Lots to catch up on,’ he says.

Indeed.

I don’t know why, but the next morning I feel shy at the prospect of seeing Vian again. There was something about the dark and quietness of the night that had us opening up to each other. Now it’s broad daylight and, with Dad around, I’ve retreated back into my shell. Perhaps it’s the same for Vian, because he doesn’t make eye contact when we meet in the kitchen at breakfast time.

‘What would you like to do today, kids?’ Dad asks.

‘Do you want to go and find that track?’ I glance at Vian before turning to Dad. ‘It’s where the Helford River spills out to the sea,’ I explain. ‘I thought we could go for a walk and then maybe a pub lunch.’

‘What a wonderful idea,’ Dad says with a smile.

That night I bolt awake again. Once more, I get out of bed and creep downstairs, peering out of the hall window. I feel a rush of joy at the sight of light spilling from beneath Vian’s curtains. I hurry across and rap softly on his door and this time he opens it with a wide grin – the best smile I’ve seen on his face all day.

‘Again?’ he asks.

‘Couldn’t sleep,’ I lie, pushing past him and climbing into his bed.

I belatedly realise that he’s only wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt, so I avert my gaze until he’s lying beside me in the same position as last night.

‘What are your friends like?’ I ask, blinking back tiredness. I went to bed early, but still… Dad said the sea breeze and cliff walk must’ve knackered me out. I don’t have the excuse of jet lag.

We found the track and it was exactly as Vian had described. My memory came flooding back as soon as I saw the Fudge and Smudge tree.

‘What do you want to know?’ Vian replies.

‘How many do you have?’ I’ll start with that.

‘There are about ten of us in our group.’

‘Boys or girls?’

‘Both.’

‘Who’s your best friend?’

He thinks for a moment. ‘Probably Dave, but I go surfing a lot with Sebastian, too.’

‘Do you have any pictures of them?’

‘Yeah, I brought some with me.’

‘Can I see?’

He climbs out of bed and goes over to his suitcase, rummaging around inside and returning with an envelope of photos. He props up his pillow against the wall and edges closer to me. I do the same, jerking when his bare knee knocks against mine.

He shows me pictures of Port Lincoln, where his dad grew up and where they still live together in a two-bedroom house with a tin roof and a small front garden peppered with dry, scraggly looking weeds. His dad has a black beard and dark-blue eyes and is wearing a brown beanie hat in most of his shots. I recognise him from when he came to take Vian home, five years ago.

I like the look of one of his aunts more than the other, telling Vian that I think Aunty Pam seems a bit stern compared to smiley Aunt Nora. He agrees that she’s not the most fun. They alternated looking after him when he was younger and his dad was out on fishing trips. Since he turned thirteen, he’s been allowed to stay in the house by himself – a fact I find hard to believe, considering how protective Dad is of me.

He even has a grandad, although he’s a bit of a recluse, allegedly, and they only see him once in a blue moon.

‘That’s Herbert,’ Vian says when we come to a photo of the prawn trawler boat and crew. ‘He’s the skipper and he owns the boat. That’s Connor, my fellow deckie. Deckhand,’ he reveals when I glance at him for an explanation. ‘Dad’s the deck boss. There are four of us in total.’ The next two pictures are of him holding up huge fish. ‘That’s a snapper,’ he says. ‘And that’s a flathead.’ The first is red in colour and the second looks a bit like a crocodile. ‘Sometimes we hook up fish, and if they don’t look too happy, we’ll hang onto them and eat them for breakfast or dinner or whatever. They don’t go to waste.’

I come to a shot of a dark-haired boy riding a curling, blue wave. ‘Is this you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What are they?’ I ask with alarm, spying dark shapes in the water.

‘Dolphins.’

‘Oh, wow,’ I breathe. ‘Have you ever seen a shark?’ I’m still staring at the picture. His hair is black and wet and flying out from behind him as his board cuts down through the face of a wave.

‘A fair few bronzies.’

‘Bronzies?’

‘Bronze whalers. It’s rare to be attacked by one. I’ve only seen one Great White.’ He grins. ‘It was a few weeks ago. We’d come in from a surf and this enormous – and I mean enormous – black shadow went by. I don’t know how big it was, but it was gigantic. It probably swam past us while we were in the water.’

‘I don’t want you to go surfing any more,’ I state as cold fingers of fear clutch at my chest.

‘It’s fine,’ he replies dismissively. ‘Sharks are always on your mind, but you just have to keep an eye out and hope one never comes your way hungry.’

The next photo is of a whole group of teenagers sitting on white sand with streaks of green brush and blue sky behind them.

‘That’s at Sheringa Beach,’ he says, ‘one of my favourite places to surf. It’s almost a two-hour drive towards Elliston so sometimes we’ll go and camp out for a few days. That’s Dave,’ he points out. He’s tanned and good-looking with blow-away light-brown hair. ‘And that’s Sebastian.’ He’s broader and darker with a warm, friendly smile. The girls are all, without exception, long-limbed and gorgeous – every one looks like they could have stepped off the set of Home and Away or Neighbours.

‘Do the girls surf, too?’ I ask.

‘Some of them.’

I feel a pang of envy and try not to stare at them for too long.

‘Do you still surf?’ he asks.

‘Not since our one lesson.’

He falls quiet. Presumably he remembers that his mother died the day after we started.

‘Where did we do that lesson?’ he asks, as I realise I’ve come full circle.

‘Poldhu Beach,’ I reply, putting the photos on the bedside table. ‘We used to go boogie boarding there a bit. Do you remember? It’s not far from here – maybe we could go tomorrow.’

‘Sure. What are your friends like?’ he asks. ‘Is Ellie still your best friend?’

‘Yeah.’ I smile at him. I’ve told him about her in my letters.

He rolls on his side to face me. ‘She lives up in the village, right?’

‘Yes.’ Boy, I go into a lot of detail. ‘Do I bore the brains out of you?’

‘No, I like hearing about your life,’ he tells me with a smile.

‘It doesn’t make you sad?’

‘Sometimes.’ Pain washes across his features and he swallows. ‘Which beach did we build the sandcastle at?’

‘Dad and I think it was Kynance,’ I tell him softly, knowing he means the one in his mum’s painting. It was the only piece of him and me, aside from notebooks full of sketches. The other pictures were sold in Ruth’s last exhibition.

‘The beach is practically non-existent when the tide is in,’ I remind him, ‘but when it goes out, you can get around to another whole section of hidden beach. It’s magical. We could go there, too, one day?’

Vian nods and swallows again.

I reach over and hook my little finger through his. This is something else we used to do. Right on cue, he squeezes.

He’s becoming more and more familiar to me with every minute we spend together.

I don’t know how long we lie like that, but when the grey light of dawn creeps into the room from behind the curtains, I decide I’d better get back to my own bed.

‘Have I met your mum?’ Vian asks me on our third night together. We’re in his bed again and it’s almost five in the morning. I might have to set my alarm tomorrow as I’m waking up later and later.

‘I don’t think so, no,’ I reply. ‘She never comes to Cornwall.’

‘How did you used to get here, then, when you’d come for the school holidays?’

‘My nanny brought me – whichever one I had at the time. I went through quite a few.’

He recoils. ‘That’s so weird.’

‘Yeah, I guess my mum was tricky to work for.’

‘Does she still live in France?’

‘No, New York now, with her new husband, Robert. He’s American, but they met in France. Things weren’t working out with her last boyfriend, and they fell head over heels in love, apparently. He’s a boat salesman and was there on business.’

‘What sort of boats?’

‘Wouldn’t have a clue. Big, expensive ones, I think.’

‘Yachts?’

‘Probably. They travel together a fair bit. Mostly around Canada and the US, but sometimes to Europe.’

His expression merges into one of concern. ‘That must make it harder for you to see her, with her being that much further away.’

‘I prefer being here with Dad, anyway.’

‘How did she and your dad meet?’ he asks, seeming to sense that I don’t want to dwell on my relationship with my mother.

‘Dad was doing a stint in London as a landscape designer.’

‘Your dad worked in London?’ He seems surprised.

I understand. It’s kind of hard to imagine my dad being anywhere other than Cornwall.

‘Only for a year or so. A mutual friend introduced them and, when Dad’s mother died, they moved back here to live. I think Mum thought the idea of living in a cottage on the river sounded romantic, but she missed city life. They broke up the year after I was born.’

‘What does she look like? Your mum?’

‘She’s about my height, blonde, slim, beautiful.’

‘Like you, then.’

I laugh. ‘The beautiful part, too?’

‘Yeah, of course you’re beautiful.’

I snort, trying to cover up my self-consciousness.

‘What colour eyes does she have?’ He chooses to ignore the fact that I’m blushing like crazy.

‘They’re similar to mine. Sort of a pale brown, I guess.’

‘My mum used to describe them differently.’ He inches forward. ‘She said they were like honey. In sunshine!’ he remembers. ‘She was right,’ he adds thoughtfully. ‘They’re exactly the colour of runny honey in sunshine.’

‘Are they?’ My voice wavers. I’m not used to being under such close scrutiny. ‘Do you have your dad’s eyes?’

‘Mm. Everyone reckons I look like him.’

‘You have your mum’s smile, though, and the shape of her face.’ I reach out and trace my finger along his jaw. He inhales sharply and my eyes cut to his lips. A second later they fly up to meet his gaze and suddenly my stomach is awash with butterflies. His stare is intense and the urge to look away is overwhelming, but I can’t seem to break eye contact. My heart is pounding ten to the dozen and then his gaze drops to my lips and I completely freak, scrambling out from under the covers.

Vian sits bolt upright and looks at me with alarm, shaking his head quickly as if to bring himself to his senses. ‘You going back to bed?’ he asks, and his words sound weird, like he’s got a chest full of water.

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘It’ll be light soon.’

‘Okay! See you in the morning.’

‘Night night!’ I hurry out the door, pulling it shut behind me.

‘Everyone seems very tired today,’ Dad comments aloud the following morning when we’re in the car on our way to Bodmin Jail. The weather is atrocious so we’ve decided to save the beaches for another day.

‘Yeah, I didn’t sleep very well,’ I disclose over the sound of the pounding rain and the windscreen wipers on high speed.

Dad looks across at Vian. ‘Not over your jet lag yet, Van?’

I frown at the sound of his new name.

‘Not yet,’ he replies.

Once more, I’m finding it hard to meet his eyes, so I’ve taken to boring a hole into the back of his head instead.

The next morning, I wake at six a.m., but I don’t get out of bed. There was an odd tension between Vian and me yesterday. Luckily, as Dad was with us, we didn’t have any one-on-one time, but if we had, I’m sure it would have been awkward.

I haven’t told Dad about our nightly meetings. I suppose I wanted Vian and me to have a secret, like we used to have as children. But I do wonder what Dad would say if he caught me coming out of the annexe in the early hours of the morning.

Down the corridor, I hear Dad’s bedroom door open.

Well, that’s that, then, I think with relief. I can’t go to the annexe if he’s already awake.

Then I remember that it’s Christmas Day! I manage to catch my father before he reaches the stairs.

‘Merry Christmas!’ he says as we embrace. ‘It’s been a few years since you’ve woken up at the crack of dawn for Santa,’ he teases. ‘I thought it’d just be Van and me for a bit.’

‘Is he awake?’ I whisper with a nervous flutter inside my chest.

‘I presume so. He’s been down in the living room, using Scampi as a hot-water bottle, every morning this week.’

I’ve always returned to bed after our middle-of-the-night catch-up sessions, so I wouldn’t know.

I throw on some clothes before venturing downstairs. Vian, as Dad predicted, is already awake, and he and Dad are at the kitchen table with mugs of tea.

‘Merry Christmas!’ I say with forced cheer.

‘You too,’ Vian says, standing up to give me a hug.

I’m alarmed to feel my face heating up, so I pull away and hurry over to the cupboard to get out a mug.

‘I’ll make you a cuppa, Nelly. Sit down.’

‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I brush Dad off, wanting to have something to do.

The phone rings. ‘That might be my dad,’ Vian says.

‘Well, it won’t be my mum – it’s the middle of the night in New York.’ She’ll expect me to call her later.

It is Vian’s dad, and it’s hard not to eavesdrop on the conversation that carries through from the hall. It’s reassuring to hear that Vian sounds stilted on the phone to his dad, too, and is not just awkward with us.

‘I guess we should take these through to the living room and open our presents in front of the tree,’ Dad says when he reappears.

‘I’ll go grab mine,’ Vian says.

As soon as he’s out of the room, I turn to Dad. ‘Do you think he’ll be okay with his present?’ I ask worriedly.

‘Why wouldn’t he be?’

‘He doesn’t paint any more. He told me.’

‘Maybe this will give him the impetus to start back up again,’ Dad replies, set on the decision we made before Vian flew out here.

Although most of Ruth’s paints were still in a usable state, we decided to buy him a new set, one that he could call his own. Now I have a horrible feeling that we’ve misjudged the situation.

It warms my heart to watch Vian opening the presents from his family in Australia, knowing that he has people on the other side of the world who care about him. One of his aunts knitted him a navy jumper, and she even knitted me a scarf and Dad some socks.

‘Sorry, it’s a bit childish,’ Vian says to me with a self-conscious smile when I open his present – a cuddly koala toy.

‘No, it’s not. I love it,’ I reply with a grin.

Finally, only one present remains, and I feel slightly sick as Vian opens it.

He stares down at the paint set in his hands, his shoulders pulled together with tension.

I know at that moment that we’ve messed up.

‘Nell said you don’t really paint any more.’ Dad blunders forth with no notion of the pain that his one-time sort-of son is in.

‘No,’ Vian replies shortly.

‘We thought this might get you back into it.’

‘But only if you want to,’ I say quickly, moving to sit beside him on the sofa. ‘Otherwise we could return this and buy something else.’

‘Yeah. Thanks,’ Vian says quietly, closing the wrapping back around the set and putting it down on the floor beside the Christmas tree.

Dad goes off to take a shower and, as soon as the bathroom door closes, Vian makes an attempt to stand up. I put my hand on his arm to stop him and he stays where he is.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper as he stares at the floor. ‘I can see that we made a mistake.’

He doesn’t reply.

I edge closer to him, leaning my knees against his lap, all thoughts of awkwardness gone from my mind as I attempt to comfort him.

‘Is it just because painting reminds you of her?’ I ask gently.

‘It’s because painting killed her.’ He turns to look at me, his expression tortured. ‘And it was my fault!’

‘What are you talking about?’ I’m aghast.

‘That picture,’ he says. ‘The green one on your wall.’ His eyes are wide with horror at the recollection of a memory I don’t share. ‘I used up all of her cerulean to finish it. She was upset. She went out to buy some more and that was when the car hit her.’

‘No! No, that’s not it at all! Vian—’

‘My name is VAN!’ he yells in my face.

‘Van! Stop!’ I say, panicking. ‘You’ve got it wrong! She didn’t go out to buy paint, she went out to get milk!’

He stares at me.

‘She needed milk for dinner!’

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘It was paint. She said she had to finish her picture. She was angry.’

‘She was disappointed because her meeting with the gallery owner hadn’t gone well!’ I’ve raised my voice. ‘And she was annoyed because she’d had a long car journey! It wasn’t because you’d used up all of her cerulean.’ I stumble over my pronunciation of the word.

He shakes his head again, disbelieving. In his mind, he knows what happened and I’m only trying to make him feel better.

‘I promise you,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘You would say that!’

‘What’s going on?’ Dad demands to know from the doorway. He’s still hurriedly tying up his dressing gown, the hairs on his legs stuck flat to his skin with shower water.

I stare up at Dad, desperate for help. ‘Vian—’

‘VAN!’ he bellows.

I jolt, my eyes pricking with tears. I must call him Van from now on – I have to, even in my head. ‘Van thinks it’s his fault that Ruth went out that day, the day that she was—’

Dad looks appalled. ‘No, that’s not right at all. Why would you think that?’

‘He says that he used up all her cerulean,’ I explain. ‘That she went out to buy more.’

‘No, she went out to borrow some milk from Steven and Linzie, the farmers who live up the road.’ Dad kneels on the floor in front of Van, who stares at him, helplessly, tears streaming down his face. I know he wants to believe it wasn’t his fault, but he’s going to take some convincing.

‘It was Sunday. Sunday,’ Dad repeats. ‘None of the shops were open. There’s no way she could have gone out to buy more blue paint that day. She couldn’t even buy milk! She had to borrow some. I offered to go, but she said she wanted fresh air after being stuck in traffic for two hours. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine, because we’d used up all the milk. Believe me, I’ve tormented myself thinking about it, but she didn’t have to make macaroni cheese,’ Dad says tearfully, placing his hand on Van’s knee. ‘There was plenty of other food in the fridge.’

Van shudders. ‘I always thought it was my fault,’ he says in a pained voice.

‘No. No,’ Dad says firmly. ‘The only person to blame is that goddamn driver who took her off the road!’

Van crumples over and the most heart-wrenching sound comes from deep within him. I throw my arms around his neck and hug him hard, and he buries his face against me and sobs, his whole body heaving violently as his arms come around my waist.

There’s no way we’re leaving him alone to deal with his grief this time, Dad. No way.

We visit the cemetery that morning to place flowers on Ruth’s grave – a red rose and holly berry bouquet that Dad made. I style my light-blonde hair in a topknot that Mum taught me how to do in one of her rare motherly moments and wear my red velvet fitted dress – the most festive-looking thing in my wardrobe.

Dad looks handsome in a smart grey suit, but when I come downstairs, it’s Van who draws my attention. He’s wearing a white, slightly crumpled shirt – this is not a guy who owns an iron – which fits his long, lean frame to perfection. The top button is undone, revealing the smooth, golden skin on his chest. He grabs his denim jacket on the way out.

We’re going to Drew’s family pub for Christmas lunch. I was elated when Dad made the suggestion, but now I can’t think past my concern for Van.

He’s held onto that guilt for years, believing he was somehow responsible for his mother’s death. It’s devastating.

I glue myself to his side as we walk down the road from the car park, needing to keep him close. He’s very quiet, but I hope he knows that I’m here for him.

The Boatman is an old thatched pub, right on the river, and as we approach we can hear Christmas music playing. The outdoor festoon lights are on and they cheer up the grey day, as does the crackling fire in the hearth when we enter.

Drew’s mum Theresa welcomes us, handing Van and me glasses of sparkling cranberry and lemonade and Dad a glass of champagne.

‘One won’t hurt,’ I tell him when he dithers – he never drinks and drives.

‘I suppose we’ll be here for a couple of hours,’ he accepts, chinking our glasses.

At the bar, Drew’s older brother Nick is serving a couple of women. He’s a bit taller and broader than Drew, with curly blond hair. There is always an array of admirers hanging around the bar area – I’m glad that Drew works in the kitchen.

At that moment, Drew appears, wearing a black suit and a crisp white shirt, his hair styled back off his face.

‘Hey!’ He comes straight over.

I return his smile, recalling how pleased he was when I told him we were coming here for Christmas. ‘Do you remember Van?’ I introduce them. ‘And you know my dad.’

They greet each other and then Drew leads us into the restaurant, grabbing three menus on his way out of the door. He gestures to a great table, right in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass doors. We can see straight down the river from here.

Drew pulls out my chair for me and I sit down, smiling up at him.

‘I thought you’d be in the kitchen.’

‘One of our waitresses called in sick so I was needed out here,’ he reveals.

I’m diverted by Van, who looks to be about to take the chair next to Dad. ‘Sit next to me,’ I urge, patting the chair to my right.

‘We won’t give you too much trouble,’ Dad says as Van obliges me.

‘Glad to hear it,’ Drew replies. ‘I’ll leave you to look over your menus.’

‘Thanks,’ I say distractedly, helping Van to get settled. He picks up his menu and studies it intently.

About halfway through our meal, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. Drew catches me on my way out.

‘Enjoying your lunch so far?’ he asks.

‘Mmm, it’s lovely.’ It’s hard to go wrong with a turkey roast.

He frowns and jerks his chin in the direction of our table. ‘Is Vian all right?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘He seems a bit moody.’

‘No, he’s fine.’ I don’t want to share the details of how hard the last few days have been. ‘And actually, it’s Van now,’ I think to point out.

He smirks. ‘Like Van Morrison?’

I bristle, not appreciating his mocking tone. ‘I think it suits him.’

‘Yeah, it does! It’s cool.’ He quickly backtracks. ‘Hey, do you still want to take him surfing?’

I instantly perk up again. ‘Yes! Do you know when you’re next going?’

‘Possibly tomorrow. I’ll check with my bro.’

As I walk back to the table, it dawns on me that Van does suit him, because he is cool. I think of the boy in the photograph, riding that wave. I remember his friends and those girls, all tall and tanned with long, sexy legs, and I can picture Van hanging out with them, being a part of their gang.

Has he dated any of those girls? Is one of them his girlfriend?

Jealousy shreds my insides.

I don’t understand. He was always the jealous, possessive one, not me.

‘You’re coming to our New Year’s Eve party, right?’ Drew asks later. I’m hovering in the bar area, waiting for Van to return from the bathroom. Dad is chatting to Drew’s dad, Christopher.

‘Nah, we’re going to the one at the sailing club.’

His face falls and I laugh.

‘Yeah, of course we’re coming here.’

Loads of people from school are, including Ellie and her parents, who are giving us a lift. Dad intends to have an early night.

Drew tuts and elbows me, making me laugh again. Van chooses that moment to return, looking grumpier than ever.

‘Oh, I spoke to my bro,’ Drew says, shoving his hair off to one side. ‘We’re going to Porthleven the day after tomorrow if you’re up for it?’

‘Ace!’ I turn to Van. ‘You want to go surfing?’

‘Yeah!’ His face lights up. ‘You know where I can hire gear?’ he asks Drew.

‘My brother has a three-five wetsuit you can borrow and a seven-two pin-tail, big wave gun,’ Drew replies. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t make you go out on an eight-foot floatie.’

I have absolutely no idea what they’re talking about, but Van grins.

‘You’ll love Porthleven. It’s like the Holy Grail of British surfing,’ Drew tells him. ‘You get some really serious waves, man – proper barrels.’

‘Sounds awesome.’

My attention darts between them. I’m reeling at the change in Van.

‘You’re experienced, though, right?’ Drew asks. ‘Cos it’s a reef break and the waves unload really heavy, so you do not want to wipe out.’

I detect a warning in his tone. What does that mean? Is it dangerous?

Van shrugs, unfazed. ‘It’s pretty much all reef breaks where I come from.’

And because I’d give anything to keep him smiling like this, I try to ignore my pang of worry.

Damp earth and sheep-shorn grass… Glossy, ripe blackberries amongst sharp thorns and feathery ferns… I try to keep up with Vian as he leaps over patches of thick, squelchy mud on the winding track. Every time I jump, I can see the line where the sea meets the sky.

We come to a stop on a steep hill, high above a glittering cove. The air is heavy with the scent of sun-warmed grass and cowpats. I don’t know where our parents are – somewhere on the other side of the hedge. The sound reaches us of distant waves crashing onto the rocks far below. We won’t be rolling down this hill.

Vian pulls some flaky grey moss from a tree branch and I notice tiny droplets of blood beading out of a scratch on his arm.

‘You’ve hurt yourself.’ I take his hand. ‘Does it sting?’

‘It does now you’ve pointed it out,’ he mutters.

I pull him closer and press my lips to his wound, my tongue tasting the metallic tang of his blood.

‘What are you doing?’ His nostrils flare as he asks the question.

‘Kissing it better,’ I reply.

‘You just sucked my blood.’ He’s alarmed. ‘Like a vampire.’

I giggle at the look on his face. But my laughter dies as the years catapult us forward. Standing in front of me now is not ten-year-old Vian, but fifteen-year-old Van. The look in his eyes is intense as he stares down at me. He steps closer. I step back. He keeps coming and I trip and lose my footing, landing on the soft grass. He falls to his knees and drops forward, his hands trapping me on either side of my shoulders. My heart races as his lips come down to meet mine.

I jolt awake, and then shame engulfs me.

Van finds me down by the water. I’m cleaning out Platypus after the recent rainfall.

‘Shall we go out in it?’ he asks as I scoop up another bucket of water and dump it into the river.

‘It’s very early,’ I mumble. Not to mention cold.

‘So?’

‘Okay,’ I reluctantly agree, blowing a strand of hair out of my face. I’ve tied it up into a messy ponytail today and I’m wearing my old Levi 501s. ‘Can you ask Dad for a towel to wipe down the seats?’

I watch his departing back and feel something akin to seasickness.

He was like a brother to me for almost five years. So why am I dreaming about kissing him?

‘Can I row?’ he asks when he comes back, clutching the lead of an excited-looking Scampi.

Van always used to insist on taking the dog out with us, even though we hated cleaning his paws afterwards – he has a habit of leaping out of the boat before we’ve come to a stop.

‘If you want.’

He throws me the towel.

I busy myself wiping down the seats, then turn around to help Scampi aboard. Van passes me the oars and I slot them into place, then he climbs on, the boat wobbling precariously. Our ensuing laughter breaks the ice, but I still feel on edge as I sit at the back and he settles himself opposite me, his long legs knocking against my knees. Scampi is at the other end, his claws skittering around on the slippery surface as he tries to make himself comfortable.

Van uses one of the oars to push us away from the bank and then he rows properly, propelling us slowly through the water.

‘It’s been ages since I’ve been out in this,’ I confide. ‘Even longer since anyone else rowed me.’

‘Who rows you?’ he asks.

‘Ellie has a few times,’ I reply. ‘We went for a picnic on the other side in the summer. I don’t go out much by myself. Only when I want the peace and quiet.’

‘Because your dad’s so noisy,’ he teases.

I smile. ‘You know what I mean. It’s so still out here and lonely – in a good way. It gives me time to think… and write.’

‘So you do still write.’

‘Just poetry – nothing I’d ever show anyone.’

‘Not even me?’

‘No one,’ I state firmly.

Especially not you, after the way that dream made me feel.

‘What are your poems about?’

‘I don’t know.’ I shrug. ‘Stuff.’

‘Drew?’

I jolt and quickly shake my head. ‘No. Of course not.’

‘Why “of course not”? You do like him, don’t you?’ His stare is piercing.

I pull a face and avert my gaze, but he knocks his leg against mine to bring my attention back to him.

‘Don’t you?’ He’s not letting it lie.

I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’

He pulls on the oars with more force.

‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ I ask as we glide through the water.

He shakes his head. ‘Nope.’

‘Have you ever?’

‘Have you? Had a boyfriend?’ he replies.

‘No.’

He seems surprised.

‘So?’ I persist.

He shrugs. ‘Sort of.’

My stomach folds over. ‘One of the girls in your photos?’

He nods. ‘Jenna.’

‘Which one was she?’

‘She’s tall, with long, brown hair.’

I know exactly which girl he means and I’m breathless with a hurt that I don’t understand. Why should I feel betrayed?

‘How long did you go out?’

‘On and off for a few months. We never had sex, or anything.’

I blush violently at his casual admission. ‘I can’t believe you never told me about her,’ I mutter when I’ve recovered.

‘You never told me about Drew,’ he bats back, clenching his jaw.

‘Why would I? Nothing’s happened – at all! I’ve never even kissed a boy!’

‘Haven’t you?’ He cocks his head to one side and grins.

My burning cheeks tell him all he needs to know.

Still grinning, Van nods ahead to the bank that we’re about to collide with. ‘Shall we get out and go for a walk?’

I turn around and make a grab for a branch.

Scampi scrambles out as soon as the boat hits the bank, his legs sinking about ten centimetres into the mud.

I sigh and watch as he climbs up onto the grass and shakes himself, panting happily. Van catches my eye and laughs.

‘You’re cleaning the mud off,’ I warn.

‘Yeah, yeah.’ He waves me away dismissively.

After our argument of a couple of weeks ago, Dad promised to give me more space and independence, but I’m still astonished when he agrees to us hitching a lift from Drew and Nick to Porthleven.

‘Take care of her,’ Dad urges Van as we leave. ‘Find a payphone and call me if he drives too fast or in any way dangerously. I’ll come and collect you.’

Van agrees to Dad’s request, taking his responsibility seriously. I bite my tongue.

‘The great thing about Cornwall,’ Nick explains on the way, ‘is you have about forty different beaches that all face in slightly different directions, so there’s nearly always somewhere with a decent, surfable wave. Even in huge storms, you can find a nice, sheltered spot.’

I’m sitting on the back seat of the car, feeling kind of unsettled. It’s not only that I have Drew on one side of me and Van on the other; it’s also that I’ve never been anywhere on my own with four boys before – it’s a little intimidating.

Nick’s friend Max is in the front and he swivels around to talk to Van. ‘Drew says you compete.’ He means surfing competitions.

‘Sometimes,’ Van replies off handedly. His arms are folded across his chest and his bicep is pressing into mine.

‘Looking forward to seeing what you can do.’

I hear the challenge in Max’s voice and my unease grows, but Van just smirks and leans his head back on the headrest.

There is way too much testosterone in this car. I wish Ellie were here.

Eventually we pull up on the side of the road. We’re parked parallel to the coastline, some fifty feet above the sea, and through the foggy windows, we can see the steely blue-grey of the ocean.

Van rubs a hole in the condensation on his glass and peers out.

‘Whoa.’ He sounds reverent.

Nick leans past Max to look out of the passenger side window. ‘Shiiiit.’ He draws the word out.

Max glances at him and they laugh, their eyes wide. ‘Shall we go to Praa Sands instead?’ Nick suggests. ‘It should be a bit more manageable there.’

‘No way.’ Van is already reaching for the door handle.

Nick and Max grin, shrug and get out of the car.

‘Wait—’ I say, as Van slams the door. I slide over to his window and peer out. What I see scares the life out of me.

I clamber out of the car as an absolutely enormous wave explodes onto the rocks. I kid you not, I can feel the ground rumbling from up here.

‘No.’ I shake my head, catching Drew’s look of apprehension over the roof of the car. His usual cheeky grin is very much absent. ‘No.’ I storm around to the back and jolt to a stop when I see that Van is naked from the waist down. Luckily his hoodie is long enough to cover his front bits, but I blush madly as I turn away. ‘Don’t do this,’ I plead.

‘Nell, it’s fine,’ he replies flippantly, zipping up his wetsuit while Nick and Max get his board down. I jump as another wave detonates on the reef.

To my right is the end of a row of fishermen’s cottages and to my left are a couple of modern houses, but ahead is a lawned garden, and beyond it we have a perfect view of the ocean.

There’s a group of guys standing further along the road. I think they’re locals. A couple are wearing wetsuits, but the others are in jeans and hoodies. One of them glances over and turns back to his friends, saying something that prompts them all to look our way. There are a few raised eyebrows.

‘Please,’ I whisper to Van. ‘You’re not under any pressure.’

He scoffs and pulls on his boots.

I don’t want to embarrass him, but this is crazy! Those waves are bone-crushers!

‘You going out, mate?’ one of the surfers from further along comes over to ask.

‘Yep.’

‘You sure?’ Nick checks with a grin, propping Van’s board up against the car.

‘You’re going to get hammered,’ Max adds, teasingly.

I want to wipe the smile from both of their faces, but Van grins, not looking the least bit fazed as he grabs wax from the boot and rubs it onto his board.

I’m guessing that Nick, Max and Drew have zero intention of joining him, but I can’t even get angry, because if anyone’s to blame here, it’s me.

Van keeps staring at the ocean, a look of intense concentration on his face. The sky is overcast and huge, grey waves are marching in, breaking from right to left and crashing like thunder onto the rocky shore a hundred metres away. There are a few other surfers in the water, sitting towards the channel on the left-hand side. I swear they look nervous.

Van’s brow furrows as he shuts the boot and scans the beach. Is he having second thoughts?

‘Where do I get in?’ he asks the surfer that came over.

Oh God, no, he’s not…

The guy points to a cream stone building, right by the water. ‘Down there by the old lifeboat house. Jump off the rock, on the left, into the channel, then paddle round to the right into the take-off zone.’

‘Got it.’

Before I know it, Van is walking away from us, his board under his arm.

Drew materialises by my side, but I can’t look at him and I think he senses that I’m incapable of casual conversation. I chew the inside of my cheek, watching anxiously as Van launches himself into the water and begins to paddle out.

‘He’s paddling right past the other surfers,’ Max comments, as though this is somehow frowned upon. ‘I hope he knows what he’s doing.’

‘They’re not taking off on anything anyway,’ Nick replies.

The minutes tick by. The other guys further along have somehow integrated into our group, but I try not to listen to their banter as I stand and stare at Van, way out in the vast ocean, all alone.

He’s waiting…

And then the horizon turns black.

‘That is a massive set!’ Nick exclaims.

I feel sick to my stomach as a huge, dark wave rolls towards Van.

‘Here we go,’ Drew says.

As it starts to feather, Van swings around towards the shore and paddles hard.

‘He’s going!’ Nick shouts.

Even in my overwrought state, I can feel the tension from those around me.

‘He’s going to get sucked over the falls.’ Max sounds uncharacteristically worried, but then Van gives two more powerful strokes and jumps to his feet.

‘He’s got it!’ Nick yells as Van knifes the rail of his board into the face of the wave. My heart soars…

…And then the lip of the wave curls over into a tube. Van stands tall and drags his hand in the water to slow himself down, before disappearing from view…

One…

Two…

‘He’s gonna wipe out!’ I hear someone say.

Three torturous seconds…

Four…

‘Fuuuuuck!’

Five, and suddenly, Van is spat out of the wave into the channel, looking like he’s been ejected from a giant fire hose. And he’s still standing!

The cheers from around me are mental. I clutch my hands to my face, holding back tears, as Nick claps me on the back, laughing.

‘I thought he was a goner!’ he cries. ‘That was the biggest barrel I have ever seen!’

Van flicks his wet hair out of his face and glances our way. I can see his grin from here.

I feel like I need time to myself when we get home. The atmosphere was buzzing in the car, the boys plying each other with horror stories about surfers they knew who’d broken bones or had to have stitches, and one guy who’d literally been scalped.

I still feel shaken now, even as I lie here on my bed. They’re all a bunch of freaking nutters, the lot of them.

There’s a knock on my door.

‘Yes?’

The door cracks open to reveal Van. He regards me with amusement and I narrow my eyes at him in return. He bobs under the door frame and nods at the bed. ‘Budge up.’

‘Where’s Dad?’ I ask warily.

‘Asleep on the sofa,’ he replies.

I edge over and he lies down, resting his head on my pillow.

He still smells of the ocean: cold, wild and free.

‘Sorry for scaring you,’ he whispers, folding his arms across his chest. His little finger snags mine and my heart contracts.

He turns his face towards me and I tense, but when I look at him, his eyes are staring past me to the wall.

‘The colour of wheat,’ I murmur, reaching out to run my fingers over his name, written in cursive in what I only now realise is cerulean: Vian Stanley Stirling. ‘It’s my favourite green. Do you remember?’

I glance back at him and his eyes meet mine. He nods seriously and turns on his side, propping his head up with one hand.

‘Will you ever paint again?’ I ask.

He hesitantly lifts his shoulders in a small shrug.

‘What would you paint,’ I ask, ‘if you had to paint one thing?’

He doesn’t answer me, but his stare is prompting butterflies to crowd my already jittery stomach.

‘Van?’ I prompt.

His lips tilt up at the corners. ‘You’re calling me Van, at last,’ he notes.

‘I guess it does suit you,’ I admit reluctantly. ‘So what would you want to paint?’

‘I know what I’d want to paint, but I wouldn’t attempt it.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Your eyes,’ he says.

Goosebumps spring up all over my body.

‘Why wouldn’t you attempt it?’ My voice breaks on the question.

‘I’d never be able to pull it off.’

We both start as we hear movement downstairs. Van slowly gets down from the bed, stretching his bent arms over his head as he walks over to the window and looks out. I sit up, feeling edgy as hell.

It’s the following day and we’re at Kynance Cove. Van is staring into the sun, which is low in the clear blue sky. There’s only a light breeze, but it’s very, very cold. The cove in front of us is only accessible when the tide is out. A towering rock almost as tall as the nearby cliffs sits alone on the beach to our left and aquamarine waves crash at its base – the water is so clear that you can see through it as it curls.

The grass-topped cliffs are sliced through with coloured layers: brown, orange, purple, silver and charcoal. The base of the cliffs looks sandy, but it’s an illusion created by millions of beige barnacles clinging to the rock surface.

‘I think that’s where we built our sandcastle.’ Van’s voice cuts through the silence, currently punctuated only by the cries of gulls. ‘I recognise the shape of the cove.’

We’re alone – Dad stayed up at the café with Scampi. We had to wait until the tide went out a bit before we could get round here, and even then, we had to take off our shoes and socks and wade through the freezing water obstructing our path. My feet still feel numb, but it was worth it.

‘The rock surfaces are so varied,’ Van says as we wander. ‘Those look like they’re part of a game of Tetris, all chunky and solid, and those slick black ones are like melted wax. And check out those! They’re green and red!’ he exclaims.

They look like snakeskin, polished by thousands of years of crashing waves.

‘I think that’s called serpentinite,’ I tell him, smiling at his enthusiasm. ‘Does this place inspire you? Could you imagine painting here?’

Instead of answering, he climbs up onto a rock, turning around to hold his hand down to me. I stretch up and take it, allowing him to hoist me up to his level.

‘I can see how it inspired Mum,’ he says eventually.

‘It’s very different in the summer.’ I try to avoid standing on the beds of mussels clinging to the surface in clusters like shiny blue-black beetles. ‘You can barely move.’

At the moment, ours are the only footprints on the sand.

Van cups his hands and blows on them.

‘They’re blue!’ I observe with dismay. He left his borrowed gloves at home.

I pull off my own and shove them into my pockets before taking his hands in mine and rubbing vigorously. He stares down at me and I return his smile. His face is drenched in sunlight and, at that moment, I realise something. His eyes are not simply dark blue. Shards of green and gold are spliced through the navy, like a firework exploding in a night sky. I haven’t noticed before. But then, I haven’t really been looking.

‘Why have you stopped?’ he murmurs.

I wasn’t aware that my hands had stilled.

‘Better?’ I ask quickly.

‘Not really,’ he replies, opening his mouth to show me that his teeth are chattering.

‘Do you want to go back to the café?’

‘No.’ He grins and places his hands on my waist. I’m thrown for a second, but then his freezing fingers find my bare skin and I scream.

He bursts out laughing as I jerk away from him. But a split-second later his face falls and he grabs me before I stagger off the edge.

‘Whoa!’ He tugs me forward and we collide. ‘Sorry, that was close!’

I laugh, feeling skittish. ‘Funny, though.’

‘Yeah.’ He bends his head and blows hot air down my collar.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask warily, shivering.

‘Warming you up. You’re shivering.’

‘I shivered because you blew on my neck,’ I point out.

He responds by blowing on my neck again. This time the tremor ricochets through my body.

‘That tickles.’ I tense as his hands land back on my hips. ‘Don’t you dare put them up my jumper again…’

‘I won’t,’ he promises, and although I could step away from him, I stay where I am.

He bows his head again, but this time his lips touch my neck and all of my nerve endings stand to attention. What is he doing? I don’t ask. I’m completely frozen in place. His lips trail up my neck and brush against my ear. My heart is pounding against my ribcage, threatening to break out. Then he rests his cheek against mine. Despite the cold, his skin is warm. Is he simply seeking closeness? Because what I’m feeling right now is very confusing.

I do not feel sisterly. Not one bit.

He pulls back and stares at me.

‘Van?’ I ask uncertainly, edging away, but he closes up the distance between us again and his pupils dilate, flooding out the fireworks with black.

An electric shock sparks and fizzes against my lips and I dazedly realise it’s because he’s kissing me.

I gasp with shock and his tongue slips through my parted lips to brush against mine.

‘What—’ I say, but his tongue cuts me off and a frisson spirals all the way down my body, starting at the top of my head and bursting out through the tips of my toes.

His lips are soft and his hands hold me steady, which is just as well because I’m dizzy from the short, sharp breaths I’m barely managing to take. And then he abruptly breaks away from me. My eyes come into focus in time to see a look of panic cross his features as he stares over the top of my head.

I hear Scampi bark.

Van forces a grin and waves, jumping down to the sand with a soft thud.

I cast a look over my shoulder to see Dad, in his green trousers and brown cardy, trudging across the sand towards us.

‘Didn’t even have to take off my shoes!’ he shouts with a smile, acknowledging the retreating tide. ‘What a beautiful day it is!’

At least I can be sure of one thing: he didn’t see us kissing.

When we get home, I go straight to bed, telling Dad I don’t feel well. It’s not even a lie.

If Dad had seen us… I can’t bear to imagine how shocked he would’ve been… How disappointed… How disgusted… He thinks of Van as a son, as my brother, and the thought makes me feel sick with shame. It’s as though the explosion in Van’s eyes has detonated in my stomach and all of the sparks have subsided, leaving behind only ash and rubble. Why did Van do that? I can’t even look at him, so how am I going to be able to ask?

The next day, Dad has to return to work, so we’ve got two choices: stay together alone at the house, or go with Dad.

‘I’ve been wanting to see the maze again,’ Van says at breakfast.

He’s acting like nothing happened. Maybe I can too.

But I doubt it.

We’re wandering along a damp cobblestoned path, underneath feathery palm fronds that umbrella out over our heads. Van runs his hands over the leaves of an evergreen bush and they spring back up after him, flicking drops of rainwater onto his coat.

His hands are going to be turning blue in a minute. I won’t be warming them up this time.

‘I can’t believe you left your gloves at home again,’ I mutter.

‘At last! She speaks!’ he says sardonically. ‘I thought we were going to walk around here all day in silence.’

I sigh heavily and fold my arms across my chest.

‘We used to hide under these.’ Van crouches down beside a giant gunnera plant – the leaves are absolutely enormous. ‘You used to imagine fairies throwing parties here.’ He smiles at me and stands back up.

I’m not really in the mood for casual reminiscing. ‘There’s the maze,’ I point out as we continue walking.

It looks like a brain, all wiggly lines and organic curves planted into the hill.

‘It’s tiny!’ Van exclaims.

He means the height of the cherry laurel hedges. ‘They only used to come up to our heads,’ I remind him.

His brow furrows, but he’s grinning. ‘Yeah, I suppose they did. I wonder if I still know how to find my way.’

He sets off at a jog, cutting across the grass instead of following the path as you’re supposed to.

Then again, we never did follow the paths. Dad used to tell us off for it.

By the time I reach the bottom, he’s already well into the maze. The hedges only come to his chest-height and I can’t help but smile at the look on his face as he jumps over the muddy patches on the path. It reminds me of running along the coastal track with him, that time he scratched his arm on the blackberry bush.

Of course, I dreamt about that very same day, but when I think about how my dream unfolded, heat collects on my face. I imagined kissing him well before it became a reality.

A loud whistle brings my attention back to him. Van is already at the thatched hut in the centre, looking dead pleased with himself. I bite my lip and wait for him to find his way back to me.

‘Isn’t there a beach?’ he calls on his approach.

‘Yes, at the bottom.’

‘Can we go and see?’

‘We’ve got all day.’

Dad is looking after the volunteers today, so he’ll be occupied, but we can retire to the crib hut – staffroom – when we get fed up with aimlessly wandering. There are lots of books and magazines to read there, plus tea and coffee, not to mention biscuits.

The lush green gardens are planted across steeply sloping land, and there’s a stream that cuts through the middle, spilling out at the bottom.

We push through a wooden gate and come out in the tiny hamlet of Durgan. The stone cottages have slate roofs and red-brick chimneys and, in the summer, their gardens are overflowing with flowers. But now everything is green and brown, with the only bright colours coming from the red and blue boats upended on the side of the track.

Crunching across the grey rocks on the beach, we come to a stop on the claggy sand by the shore. The river mouth is in the distance on our left and, beyond that, the wide blue Atlantic Ocean. Sailing boats are moored to buoys in the water in front of us and vibrant green seaweed has washed up onto the shore, along with the occasional jellyfish. Van prods one with his boot.

‘I remember these jellyfish,’ he says. It’s clear with a brown star on its back. ‘We used to come here and skim stones.’ He reaches down and picks up a flat pebble, walking towards the water. I watch as he cocks his long, lean body to one side and sends a stone skipping across the surface.

‘Why did you do it?’

Van’s eyebrows knot together as he glances over his shoulder at me. A few seconds tick by before he answers. ‘I wanted to be your first.’

I pull a face. ‘Why?’

He picks up another stone. ‘People say you never forget your first,’ he mumbles, launching the stone at the water. It skips seven times before sinking.

‘I was never going to forget that, anyway,’ I mutter. ‘The image is burned onto my retinas every time I close my eyes.’

His lips quirk up into a smile.

‘I still don’t understand why you did it.’

‘I wanted to,’ he replies in a low voice.

‘But why did you want to? I’m like your sister,’ I hiss, my insides flooding with shame once more.

He recoils and then shakes his head. ‘No, you’re not,’ he states firmly.

‘What if Dad had seen us?’

‘He didn’t.’

‘You wouldn’t have wanted him to, though, right?’

He looks away, then kicks at the stones at his feet, bending down to pick up another. I can tell he’s uncomfortable.

‘If it was really okay for you to kiss me, why should you care who sees us?’ I persevere.

‘He’s your dad,’ he says pointedly, cutting his eyes to mine. ‘I wouldn’t have been comfortable kissing Jenna in front of her dad, either.’

‘Was she your first kiss?’ I ask hesitantly.

‘No.’ His reply is short.

‘How many girls have you kissed?’

‘Before yesterday? Three.’ He pauses, while I stand there feeling inexplicably ill. ‘My first was my friend’s older sister, Kerry-Ann. I was thirteen and she was fifteen.’

‘Spare me the details!’

‘Okay.’ He’s nonplussed. ‘You asked.’

‘Who was your second?’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘I thought you didn’t want to know.’

‘Just tell me.’

‘A British girl who was in Australia on holiday. Her name was Nicola.’

‘I don’t want her name,’ I snap.

‘You sound like you’re jealous.’

‘I’m not,’ I reply through gritted teeth.

‘Because if you really do think of me as a brother, it’s kind of weird that you feel jealous.’

‘You used to get jealous of other kids!’ I accuse with embarrassment. ‘What about poor Edward?’

‘Who?’

‘That boy! Edward! The one who was here on holiday when we caught Webster!’

‘Oh. Him.’ Van grins and skims another stone. ‘That was different. We were ten. I only wanted your attention.’

I sigh. ‘I still don’t understand why you wanted to be my first.’

He regards me for a long moment before answering. ‘I figured it was me or Drew.’

So he kissed me because he was being his usual possessive self? That was his way of dealing with an outside threat? I don’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

‘Well, don’t let it happen again, okay?’ I say under my breath.

He shrugs. ‘Okay.’

Definitely disappointed.

That evening we arrive home to two messages on the answer machine. The first is from Ellie, and I smile as I stand in the hall, listening to her rambling on about being bored out of her brains. She begs for us to do something tomorrow because she can’t wait even one more day for New Year’s Eve. I giggle when her voice cuts out because the time limit on her message has expired.

‘Sounds like she’s missing you,’ Van comments with amusement.

‘Yeah.’ I feel bad that Ellie and I haven’t had a chance to catch up, but she knew how much I needed to spend some one-on-one time with Van.

I start with surprise as the next message begins to play.

‘Hi, it’s Drew. I wanted to let Nell know that my bro and I are going surfing at Chapel Porth tomorrow. Thought she and Van might like to come.’

Van presses his palms together in a prayer and gives me a beseeching look.

My shoulders slump. I don’t much fancy the stress of watching him surf again. ‘I’ll see if Ellie wants to come, too,’ I say resignedly.

As it turns out, quite a few of our friends are up for a trip to the beach, and the next day I find myself sitting between Van and Ellie in the back seat of her brother Graham’s car, while Graham’s girlfriend rides shotgun.

While I’m loving my new-found freedom, being able to go out with people my own age instead of having to ask Dad to drive me places, I’m not exactly relaxed being this close to Van. He’s staring out of the window in silence as Ellie chats ten to the dozen about what she’s been up to over the holidays. I ask lots of questions to keep her talking, but I’m uncomfortable knowing how much lies unsaid between the two of us. I wonder if I’ll ever confess to Van kissing me.

We pull up in the car park and see that Drew, Nick, Max, Brooke and Brad have just arrived. Ellie and I clamber out to greet Brooke, leaving the boys to get ready while we go to the coffee shop. This place is famous for its ‘Hedgehog’ ice-cream cones – Cornish vanilla rolled in caramelised hazelnuts – but today we’re stocking up on hot drinks.

The café is nestled in the crevice of two, big grassy hills. From back here the hills climb skywards towards the ocean until they become high cliffs, dropping straight down onto the white beach or crystalline green water, depending on whether the tide is in or out. Sitting on the cliffs to the right are the old Wheal Coates tin mine ruins that Dad and I sometimes walk Scampi around.

There’s a queue, and by the time we’ve been served, the others are ready to go.

‘We were here yesterday and there were these really glassy sets coming through,’ Nick tells Van as they walk on the sand in front of us. ‘Perfect A-frames, not a drop of water out of place.’

‘His tail-end was shredding,’ Max enthuses.

Ellie nudges me and rolls her eyes at all of their surf speak, but I kind of like listening to the way they talk. I look past her to Brooke, but her attention is fixed on Van. Ellie notices and nudges me again.

Brooke glances at us. ‘What?’

Ellie nods at the back of Van’s head and grins.

Brooke shrugs. ‘Your brother is hot,’ she mouths at me.

I shake my head. ‘He’s not my brother,’ I whisper.

She doesn’t care about the technicalities, and her fixation with Van does not improve when she sees him surf. I struggle to take my eyes away from him, too. Even Ellie seems impressed.

‘Whoa,’ she says, as Van makes a rapid change of direction, sending spray into the air. He gathers speed as he surfs down the face of a clean, green wave and boosts his board off the lip before coming back down to continue riding.

I’m having a much better time than the other day. Not only do I have my friends with me, but these waves seem a lot friendlier than the ones at Porthleven. We talk about this and that, falling silent every so often to watch.

‘Who was that?’ I ask with amazement as one surfer’s tail fins disengage the wave and the guy rides backwards for a couple of seconds. ‘Was that Brad?’

‘I think it was Nick,’ Brooke replies. They have the same colour hair.

I have to admit, I’m in awe of these guys.

Suddenly Van flies off the lip of the wave and does an actual 360 in the air before coming back down again and continuing to ride.

‘Oh my God!’ Ellie gasps, her jaw hitting the sand.

‘Holy shit!’ Brooke erupts, leaping to her feet.

Wow.

That was beautiful.

All anyone can talk about when we arrive at The Boatman for New Year’s Eve is Van’s 360 manoeuvre. Half of our friends saw it, but everyone heard about it.

‘I’ve never seen anyone do an air reverse,’ Brad raves.

‘No, not aside from professional surfers,’ Max says.

‘Would you like to surf professionally?’ Brooke asks Van, her face alight with interest.

He shrugs, embarrassed by the attention, and Brooke’s is avid.

I decide to leave them to it and go to find Ellie. She’s on the deck, under the festoon lights. We perch together on a bench seat, facing outwards. A bunch of other friends are out here, too, so we kill time chatting.

‘She wanted to know what was happening in Neighbours,’ Van mutters in my ear about ten minutes later. I stiffen at his close proximity.

‘I want to know what’s happening in Neighbours.’ I look up at him. ‘Jason Donovan hasn’t even left here yet.’ Australia is eighteen months ahead of us in terms of episodes.

‘I don’t watch it.’ He nods at the bench. ‘As you well know.’

I scoot over, but he still ends up pressed against my side. The warmth from his body seeps right into my skin and I have to admit, it feels nice. I was a bit cold, even with all the people teeming out here.

‘Brooke likes you,’ I say. Ellie is talking to another friend from school and isn’t listening. ‘You know she lives right over there.’ I feign nonchalance as I nod across the creek at Brooke’s chocolate-box cottage. It seems like way more than three weeks ago that I was there for her brother’s birthday.

‘Yeah, she invited me to go and see her place later.’

‘Did she?’ I glance at him. ‘So you’re up for a fifth?’

‘Fifth?’ From his side profile, I can see his confusion, but then understanding dawns on his face. Fifth kiss.

‘I wasn’t intending to go.’ He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. ‘What about you? Going for a second?’ He nods straight ahead and I follow the line of his sight to see Drew weaving through the crowd with a tray of canapés. He catches my eye and comes over, saving me from having to answer Van’s question.

‘Please take some of these off my hands.’ He presents his tray to us.

‘Thanks.’ Van grabs a mini Yorkshire pudding and gets to his feet, leaving us to it.

Where is he going?

‘That’s it, I’m taking a break,’ Drew decides, making space for the tray on the table amongst the empty glasses. He sits down in Van’s vacated spot on the bench.

Is Van going to Brooke’s?

I try to concentrate. ‘Did you cook these?’ I’m sure they’re delicious, but to my anxious taste buds, they have the flavour and consistency of cardboard.

‘Not those ones. My biggest contribution to tonight is the playlist,’ Drew replies. ‘The best the eighties has to offer.’

I can’t believe that tomorrow is a new decade, 1990.

‘I love this song,’ I say.

It’s ‘Don’t You Forget About Me’ by Simple Minds, which is on the soundtrack for The Breakfast Club, another of my favourite films.

‘Me too.’

‘You do like cooking, though, right?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t mind it, but it’s not what I want to do with my life.’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘I don’t know. I’m thinking about studying Philosophy at university, hoping it’ll inspire me a bit. What about you?’

‘English, I think.’ I glance over my shoulder. Is Van at the bar?

‘No, I mean, what do you want to do as a career?’

‘Oh! Maybe something to do with publishing – books or magazines.’ I know I sound vague, but I’m distracted. Maybe he went to the loo…

I take another canapé and at the same time do a sweep of the room. I’m looking for Brooke now, as well as Van. I feel ill when I spy neither.

‘Guess I’d better get this back to the kitchen.’ Drew stands up and grabs the tray. ‘See you later.’

I feel bad as he walks off – was I rude? At Brad’s birthday party, he had my undivided attention and my stomach was full of butterflies.

Where are my butterflies now?

Almost as if in answer, my mind recalls Van’s kiss and my stomach is rapidly alive with the winged, fluttery creatures.

Oh my God.

Has Van ruined Drew for me?

Van reappears and settles himself back on the bench. Confusingly, my butterflies multiply, vanquishing my worries of only moments before as to his whereabouts.

‘I thought you’d gone to Brooke’s.’ I feel breathless as he passes me a non-alcoholic cocktail.

‘No.’ He frowns. ‘Bar.’ He chinks my glass. ‘I can’t believe I gave up an Australian summer for a British winter,’ he says wryly.

‘I’ll try not to take that personally.’ I take a sip of my drink.

He smiles while staring into the crowd.

‘Seriously, though, are you glad you came?’ I ask.

He hesitates before nodding. ‘I’m a bit homesick,’ he admits.

‘Are you?’ His comment not only surprises me, it hurts.

He shrugs. ‘I miss my friends. And Dad.’

The hurt deepens. I don’t know why. I suppose I want us to be enough for him, but why should we be enough for him? I should be glad we’re not all he’s got. I am glad. So why do I feel injured?

His little finger hooks mine and I try to swallow my hurt, but then he presses a tender kiss to my shoulder and I instantly tense up, scanning the people around us to see if anyone noticed.

‘Chill out,’ Van says wearily.

‘My friends think of you as my brother,’ I reply darkly, extricating my finger.

‘Jesus, Nell,’ he mutters, shoving his hair from his face. He turns to look at me and his hair falls forward again as he leans in close. ‘I am not your brother.’ He stresses the last three words. ‘And you want the truth?’ His eyes flash. ‘It actually kind of kills me that you hated it, because all I’ve thought about since I fucking did it is doing it again.’

I’m stunned, and then the most overwhelming urge comes out of nowhere and slams into my back, trying to propel me forward.

He withdraws slightly and I drag my focus away from his lips to meet his eyes.

‘There,’ he murmurs, as though he’s just received the answer to a question he’s been asking himself.

‘Nell, you’ve got to come and dance with me to this song!’ Ellie practically shouts in my face.

I can barely gather together my thoughts. What does she want?

‘Come on!’ she urges as I stare at her blankly. ‘Dance!’ She throws her hands up with frustration before reaching down with a laugh and pulling me to my feet.

She drags me inside to the dance floor, where the tables have been moved out of the restaurant area and disco lights are bouncing balls of sparkling colour off the walls. I belatedly notice that the song playing is Kim Wilde’s ‘Kids in America’ – one of our favourites – but I’m too dazed to have fun.

I don’t go back and join Van for the rest of the evening, but I’m always aware of where he is and I know he’s never on his own, mostly talking surf with the other guys.

As the minutes count down to midnight, I’m surrounded by my friends on the dance floor. Drew is close by, as are Ellie and Brooke, but Van is on the other side of the room with Nick and Max.

‘Ten, nine, eight…’ The crowd begins to chant. ‘Seven, six, five…’ Van and I lock eyes with each other across the jam-packed space. ‘Four, three, two, one…’ Everyone erupts with cheers and I’m engulfed by Ellie, followed by Brooke, and then Drew is in front of me, smiling and flashing his dimple.

I’m immune to it. He cups my face with his hands and bends down to kiss me, but at the last second, I turn my face away so his lips land on my cheek. When he withdraws, I’m staring at Van.

‘Do you want to use the bathroom first?’ I whisper when we arrive home, kicking off my shoes in the hall and attempting to act normally.

‘No, go for it,’ Van replies, also in a whisper so we don’t disturb Dad.

I walk straight ahead, pulling on the light switch and closing the bathroom door behind me. I take off my make-up and brush my teeth as quickly as I can, knowing that he’s out in the hall, waiting his turn.

My heart stutters when I open the door to find him right there. His night-sky eyes penetrate mine as the moment draws out. And then my heart does an about-turn and speeds up. He takes a step towards me and I slowly back into the bathroom. Without breaking eye contact, he closes the door behind him and locks it, his hand reaching for the light switch. There’s a click and the room falls into darkness.

I am intensely aware of the sound of our breathing. He edges closer so we’re hip to hip, my lower back pressed against the cold, hard edge of the basin. My eyes adjust enough to see the shape of him, so I know that when he bows his head he’s going to kiss me, but it still comes as a shock to feel his lips on mine.

I’m effervescent as I kiss him back, my hands twisting in the fabric of his shirt as my knees turn to jelly. He clasps my face and deepens our kiss, and my head spins as our tongues entangle. Out of the blue, Ellie and Brooke’s shocked faces assault my mind and I slide my mouth away, panting. But Van is still there, pressed up against me, and the pull is too strong. I shut out Ellie and Brooke and Dad and everyone else, and return my lips to his.

A week and a half later, I lie in bed, experiencing the strangest, most confusing mix of emotions. Tomorrow morning, Van flies home to Australia and I am devastatingly, crushingly sad at the thought of him leaving. As soon as Dad is asleep, I’m going to him.

Over the last ten days, our relationship has fast-forwarded at a whiplashing speed. It’s been near impossible to keep our hands off each other when Dad has been in the room, and we’ve stolen kisses and caresses at every opportunity – behind doors, down on the deck, even on the sofa when Dad has been in the bathroom. But in the two hours between Dad leaving for work and Ellie’s mum picking me up for school, we haven’t had to hide.

At first, we stayed in the house, kissing and cuddling in the living room, but the last few days have seen things getting increasingly heated, and as soon as Dad’s car has pulled away from the drive, we’ve retreated to Van’s bedroom, where we’ve been getting to know each other on a much more intimate level.

Yesterday, we came scarily close to going the whole way. The same thing happened this morning, with us only just managing to stop. We haven’t had any protection and it has been agonising, but we couldn’t buy condoms from the village shop without fear of Dad finding out, and although Van has been surfing with Nick and Max on a few occasions, he hasn’t found any on his ventures.

Then, this evening, he discovered that the sailing club has machines in the men’s bathrooms…

We are taking that final step tonight.

I always thought that I’d have a boyfriend for months, maybe a year, before I’d consider going the whole way, and I certainly didn’t think I’d lose my virginity at the age of fifteen.

But I desperately want Van to be my first – in every way – and he wants me to be his.

I’m excited, apprehensive, miserable about him leaving, and I still have lingering feelings of guilt and shame. Van and I may not technically be siblings, but we lived like brother and sister for five years and I hate to think of people judging us. Dad, without a doubt, would be horrified at how our feelings have developed.

I’m also sad that I’m about to jump over this huge milestone and I can’t even tell my best friend. Ellie already feels snubbed because I haven’t invited her to hang out with us after school.

I crane my neck and listen. Dad must be asleep by now. It’s not the first time we’ve taken a risk, but there is a very big difference between those early days when I lay in Van’s bed and we innocently talked to what we’re doing now.

We both feel terrible about going behind Dad’s back and deceiving him, but tonight we’d do just about anything to deaden the pain of Van’s impending departure.

I slip out of bed and creep over the floorboards, carefully avoiding those that creak. Moments later I’m in the hall, slipping on my shoes and hurrying through the freezing night air to the annexe. I tap lightly on the door and it opens.

All the emotions I’ve been experiencing intensify when I stare into Van’s eyes. He tugs me into the room and closes the door before pressing my back up against the wall. His jeans are rough against the soft material of my PJs, and when he breaks our kiss to stare at me, his eyes are black with desire.

Past his shoulder, I catch sight of his packed bags and tears spring up in my eyes. His expression becomes tormented as he rests his forehead against mine. I blink back tears, not wanting to waste precious moments by crying.

We undress each other and move to the bed, kissing and caressing and getting closer and closer to the point of no return. I feel crazily on edge – like something inside me will snap if it doesn’t happen soon.

‘Are you ready?’ he whispers, his breath hot in my ear.

I nod and he sits up, the duvet falling from his back and leaving me exposed.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ he murmurs, running his hand along the curve of my waist.

I shiver with the cold, but reach up to touch him, too, tracing my fingers over the contours of his chest.

‘You are,’ I reply and he smiles such a sweet smile at me before reaching for the condom on his bedside table.

My eyes are as round as saucers as he rolls it on, nerves ricocheting around my stomach.

And then I blink and wake up in a nightmare.

The door has flown open, the lights have gone on and Dad is standing in the middle of the room. He shakes his head quickly, as though he can’t believe his eyes.

Van jolts backwards, accidentally leaving me uncovered. He realises his mistake and hastily tries to repair it, but in doing so, Dad catches sight of Van’s own exposed frame and, I swear, I never again want to see that look on my father’s face.

‘What the HELL is going on?’ he shouts, his eyebrows practically hitting his hairline as Van wilts in front of him. ‘What are you DOING?’

It’s a rhetorical question. There is absolutely no doubt about what we’re doing.

‘She’s like your SISTER!’ he yells, shock and horror streaking across his features.

I realise with a pang that his fury is, at this moment, entirely directed at Van.

Dad’s eyes are wide as he advances, Van hastily reaching for his hoodie and pulling it on. ‘I brought you here!’ Dad yells in Van’s face. ‘I paid for your ticket! You were – you are! – like a son to me! And you’re doing this here,’ he looks around the room, ‘with my daughter… under my nose… in your mother’s studio?’

My heart splits in two as Van jolts viciously.

‘Dad, please!’ I interject, knowing that the damage my father is doing to him is irreparable. I grab Van’s hand. ‘Don’t blame him!’

Dad looks at me as though he can’t believe I’m actually here, but he breaks eye contact almost immediately.

‘Put some clothes on,’ he spits in my general direction, gathering up my pyjamas from the floor and hurling them at the bed. ‘How could you?’ He sounds so hurt that I burst into tears, weighed down with regret and remorse.

‘I’m sorry!’ I blub as I slide my arms into my pyjama top. Van comes out of his daze and pulls on his jeans.

‘You two were supposed to be brother and sister!’ He can’t even look at me. It’s all of my worst fears realised.

‘But we are not brother and sister!’ Van raises his voice angrily. ‘I love her!’ He shakes his head rapidly and points at me. ‘I’ve always loved her, but what I feel for her now is not the same as when we were ten. I am in love with her.’

Dad’s eyes rest on me and I nod, my heart squeezing excruciatingly.

‘We love each other,’ I whisper, willing him to understand, to accept this for what it is. ‘I’m in love with him.’

He stares at me for a long moment, but then his confused expression clouds over with dismay and disappointment.

‘Go back to bed,’ he tells me in a choked voice before looking at Van. ‘If you weren’t already leaving in the morning, I’d be booking you on the next flight home.’

Van slumps on the bed and buries his head in his hands as Dad waits for me to leave the room.

I didn’t know it was possible to feel this bad. Obviously, we all went through worse five years ago, but this is a different kind of agony. This humiliation, this level of remorse… I don’t know how I’ll ever recover.

Two weeks have passed since Van left and I’m still not sure how I’m getting up and functioning each day. Ellie thinks I’m heartbroken over my ‘brother’ leaving, and the thought of her finding out what actually happened fills me with dread. I come home from school each day and retreat to my room. I can barely eat, I barely sleep, and on top of all that, I feel absolutely heartbroken – because I’ve lost Van, too.

‘Nell.’ Dad is outside my bedroom door.

I don’t reply, but he comes in anyway. It’s Saturday so I don’t have to drag my bones from bed, and I don’t intend to.

‘I thought we might take Scampi for a walk on the beach,’ he says quietly.

I shake my head.

‘Nell, we can’t keep living like this.’

I roll away to face the wall, pulling the cuddly koala Van gave me for Christmas against my chest.

Dad sighs heavily and the end of my mattress compresses as he sits down on my bed.

‘It’s time to move on,’ he tells me in a husky voice. ‘What’s done is done.’

My chest heaves as I begin to shake with silent sobs.

‘Nell,’ Dad murmurs.

‘I miss him!’ I cry.

This time he doesn’t say anything, but after a minute I feel his hand on my shoulder. He gently but firmly turns me to face him.

‘I love you, darling,’ he says in a voice racked with emotion, his eyes brimming with tears as he brushes hair away from my face.

I feel like it’s the first time he’s looked at me properly since he found us together.

‘This is for the best. You’re too young to be doing that sort of thing. You’re only fifteen!’ he says imploringly, squeezing my shoulder. ‘I know this might be hard to believe right now, but one day, maybe five years from now, you’ll look back and understand why this happened.’

A feeling of déjà vu comes over me and I flash back to Van and me, aged five, at the top of the stairs. We were eavesdropping on our parents and Ruth said something similar.

But no. I’ll never understand this, not in five years, not in twenty, not when I’m an old lady, shrivelled and grey.

The only boy I’ve ever loved is halfway round the other side of the world. And God only knows when I’ll see him again.