The garden looked incredible. There was no other word for it. The tables were topped with snowy tablecloths, glasses, small vases filled with flowers and sparkling tea-light holders. The fairy lights had been painstakingly draped around every possible kind of support from cherry tree branches to the patio awning. Bottles were lying in tubs, ready to be doused in ice and cold water.
The grass was crisp and green. A stack of logs was piled at the ready beside the chimenea. The gas barbeque was all set and in the kitchen there was a fridge full of food, and as a backdrop to it all, an English country garden in the warm sunshine of a glowing August day. Lush, well-watered greenery, the perfume of roses and the liquid warble of birdsong.
It was beautiful. Dave walked round it all, making a tweak and adjustment here and there. Wanting everything to look and be perfect. He could not remember feeling so excited. His friends were coming, both neighbour friends and some teacher friends. River’s producer was coming. Actors from Stratford were coming. And then… he had to pinch himself, Van Saint, Dean Vincent and some other long-lost friends from the art school days were coming… and icing on top of the cake… Franklyn Gregory and his wife had supposedly said yes.
‘I know he’s Hollywood A list, but Franklyn as a person was a man of his word,’ River had told him, ‘so… I think you should probably expect the man himself to be standing in your garden at some point this evening. So make sure your phone is charged and you can take some pictures.’
And at 8.35 p.m., the Franklyn Gregory show rolled into Ambleside. Just as the sky darkened properly, just when the fairy lights and tea lights moved to maximum twinkle, and the guests were two to three drinks in and sparkling with charm and enjoyment… just at the perfect entrance opportunity, when the backdrop was already set, Franklyn and Mena arrived. They were so extraordinary looking, Dave couldn’t help noticing as he was introduced and found himself making small talk to this superstar and, quite frankly, supermodel. They were so trim, so dapper, so shiny. Their skin and teeth gleamed, their hair was like fake hair, it was so perfect. And they weren’t overdressed, Franklyn was in a pair of pale jeans and a pale blue shirt, Mena in the sort of simple summer dress with floaty sleeves and a short skirt that Natalie would wear. But everything fitted beautifully and just looked so perfect.
‘This is a gorgeous place you have here,’ Franklyn bloody Gregory was telling him.
‘Thank you so much… are you enjoying being in Stratford?’ he managed, feeling totally star-struck and catching a glance at a work colleague over Franklyn’s shoulder whose jaw was literally hanging open.
‘Oh my gosh, we love it. It is so beautiful here. The countryside is just gorgeous. So green. Truly it’s a privilege to be here. And doing Shakespeare. I mean, he’s the boss,’ Franklyn replied, ‘he’s the man.’
Dave was trying to picture River and Franklyn as a couple and he just couldn’t see it. This man was so together… so focused, so professional. River… he looked for longer than he meant to in her direction. She looked amazing tonight… like some boho writer girl straight out of your dreams.
And while Franklyn and Mena were still in his garden… while he was still entertaining one of Hollywood’s biggest current names, that’s when Van Saint pulled up in his Ferrari, of course. For a glorious half-hour or so, Van Saint, Dean and Mitchell, who he’d once studied, painted and worked alongside, were in his garden, dazzled by this party. Dazzled by the celebrities, of course, but also by River, the actors, and the loveliness of the setting, the music and it all.
‘This is incredible, Dave,’ Van Saint told him, ‘you’ve built a really interesting life out here in the sticks. It almost makes me think maybe I could leave the grimy, inner-city hell of east London for a lovely place like this.’
Dave snorted. He’d seen the glossy magazine articles. He knew that Van Saint (real name Jim Roberts btw) lived in a multi-million pound Georgian mansion, complete with glassed in rooftop pool and obligatory cinema basement in ‘grimy, inner-city hell’ east London.
Dave topped up their champagne glasses, let them play their own music on the speakers and listened to their talk of gallery events in Zurich, Basel, New York and Chicago.
‘Come on, you must still wish you were part of the team?’ Dean Vincent asked him, when several bottles of the good stuff had been drained.
‘No… not really, I like teaching. It gives a lot back,’ Dave said.
‘Is it not boring as fuck?’ Van Saint asked, leaning over Dave from his tall height, a sneer on his face. ‘Don’t you wake up some mornings and wonder why on earth you’d want to drive your fucking car to the same fucking school to look at the same fucking faces all over again?’
That was a surprisingly accurate portrayal of how Dave did, in fact, feel on some mornings of the week… but he wasn’t going to give Van Saint the satisfaction of agreeing with him.
‘You teach art,’ Van Saint was saying now, ‘but do you still make art? Hmmmm? Do you?’ He jabbed at Dave’s chest with his finger.
Dave remembered that Van Saint had always been confident, opinionated, and over-bearing but clearly his massive success had now turned him into a totally obnoxious prick.
‘I do some painting… but it’s a hobby. Just a hobby,’ Dave muttered. But somehow, he must have glanced towards the summerhouse, because Van Saint was on it like a bloodhound.
He pointed and declared: ‘To the summerhouse, to inspect the latest works by Dave Simpson, class of 1992.’
What time was it?
Dave had no idea: 4 a.m. – 5 a.m.? He was stumbling around, very much the worse for wear, in his own house. He’d put out the fires in the garden. God, that had been painfully hot and difficult work. There was definitely no fire anywhere any more. He’d seen everyone off the premises; well, he thought he had. A quick look round the living room had revealed either a pile of coats or someone asleep on the couch, but no matter, no matter. He would worry about that in the morning. Right now, he had to get to bed. Bed… bed… his lovely bed was calling. In the kitchen he held a glass under the tap, filled it with water and then took a sip or two. Then realised he’d had far too much booze for any mere glass of water to help. He was way, way beyond the water stage. This was going to call for truckloads of industrial-strength painkillers in the morning, but he didn’t want to think about that right now.
Nevertheless, he kept hold of the glass and headed for the staircase, sloshing water in his wake. He had long ago forgotten about the ankle and went up stair by stair only dimly, right at the back of his mind, wondering why his leg was hurting so much.
Bed, bed… he needed his lovely big bed, up there at the top of the stairs. There was something, some other little mental tug, telling him there was a reason why he couldn’t get to his bed. But never mind, never mind, he needed to get to that bed.
Dave pushed open the door of his bedroom, or at least, the bedroom he thought of as his, the one he’d shared with his wife for so many years and stumbled into the room. He threw off his jacket, his shirt, then undid his belt and buttons and let his jeans fall to the floor. Very fashionable and expensive jeans, by the way, that he had bought especially for this party, hoping to meet the approval of Dean Vincent and the legend that was Van Saint. Quite frankly – bollocks to the pair of them.
‘Bollocks to the pair of you,’ he said out loud. Water… water, where was his water? He felt around, located the glass on the floor and took another gulp.
Then, wearing only his boxers, and also his socks, because the thought of going all the way down there to take them off was quite frankly exhausting, he got into his delightful, oh-so-welcoming and comfortable bed. Oh! That was so good, so lovely. This bed felt more comfortable than it had done for weeks. Oh, why was this bed so delicious? Still, he was aware of just the vaguest feeling that he wasn’t supposed to be here, which was ridiculous, because this was definitely his lovely, lovely bed.
He closed his eyes but then heard something… and thought he felt something move.
There was someone else here… or just right over there.
‘Tess?’ he asked out loud. ‘Tess?’
He leaned up on one elbow and, eyes adjusting to the dimness, he looked at the other person in the bed. As it was now after 5 a.m., there was just enough daylight coming in from around the edges of the blinds for Dave to see who was lying beside him.
‘River?’ he said in surprise. For it was she. He saw the dark hair and the pale face still with the slash of red lipstick and the dark, smudgy eyes.
She was absolutely lovely, wasn’t she? He had been thinking this for weeks, he realised with absolute drunken clarity. She. Was. Lovely. Gorgeous. So funny. Creative. Mercurial and delightful.
‘River, I think you’re absolutely lovely,’ he said out loud.
Tess leaned in. Her lips brushed against Nathan’s. She felt the roughness of his hair against her lip, then his much softer lip and the hesitant tip of his tongue. And she wanted more of this kiss, felt hungrier for kissing than she had for a very long time. It was sort of the same… it was still kissing… but it was also quite enticingly different too. She ran a hand over Nathan’s very smooth, bald head. It felt satiny, sexy. So different from the hairy man she was used to.
She had no idea where this kiss was going to lead… but for now, it was a sensationally different kiss, happening right here on the terrace, under the sunset, on the California beachfront.
River opened her eyes and looked right at Dave.
She got up on her elbow too. And it didn’t look as if she was wearing anything under that sheet. Not a stitch.
‘Dave?’ she asked, sounding blurry. ‘You look weird and you’re in my bed.’
‘No,’ he said, sure of himself, but sounding very blurry too, ‘this is my bed. You’re in my bed.’
‘No, this is definitely my bed,’ she said.
‘You’re definitely in my bed,’ he repeated. ‘And I think you’re lovely.’
‘Oh, you are sweet,’ she said and she put her arms around his neck, which meant the sheet around her fell away and Dave saw exquisitely delicate boobs down there below the mouth that was moving in on his. Small, hard, white teeth bumped against his. He tasted warm wine mouth, wet and soft. Those delectable boobs were now pressed against his chest. Dave wrapped his arms around her and kissed back.