She was awake at four. It wasn’t the sound of a sparrow pecking on the windowpane that did it, or even the distant cymbal crash of the waves on the beach, but the vast, spreading emptiness of Matt’s side of the bed that blew over her like a cold breeze. Her right hand had habitually reached behind her, her right foot exploring the space for his legs, but only the smooth expanse of uncrumpled cotton had met her touch – she could still only sleep on her side of the bed – and the realization he was gone had shattered her sleep for the night.
Ro groaned and blinked blearily, her face half smothered by the deep, feathered peach pillow, her left arm dangling over the side of the bed to the floor. Without moving her head, she swivelled her eyes slowly, taking in her surroundings and trying to remember how the rooms in the house joined together, but she couldn’t. Last night’s tour had been brief to say the least – they had stayed at the studio longer than expected, Hump intrigued to see more of her work and insisting she show him her back catalogue, and she was so tired on their return (3 a.m. London time), she’d felt almost punch-drunk. Hump’s plans for supper on the porch had had to be drastically revised. That cookie had been her dinner, the coffee her nightcap, and Hump had no sooner shown her her room – the largest guest room on account of her living there full-time – than she had started untying her shoelaces, drawn to the bed as though hypnotized. Hump had only just managed to bolt from the room before she’d pulled her T-shirt over her head, too tired even to care whether her new housemate saw her in her underwear.
She saw now the floor was wooden with wide, glossy boards the colour of treacle and had a pale green cotton rug atop it. Her bedstead was brass – creaky when she turned over – and the old, tumbled linen sheets were covered with what seemed to be a hand-stitched eiderdown decorated with faded yellow, green and blue diamonds arranged in a star. Both Bobbi and Greg had to bring their own bedding and towels, but Hump had agreed she could use his linens and save on the hefty cost of transporting her own over from the UK or having to buy new here. She noticed a thick bundle of forest-green towels folded neatly on a rattan chair by the window, her own cargoes, T-shirt and bra strewn across the floor like a breadcrumb trail.
She swept a leg across the fitted sheet beneath her – it was so old it had a silken feel to it now – and turned over with another groan, the pillow billowing either side of her face like an airbag. The ceiling was boarded white, with a plain brass pendant light and peach shade, and a pair of unlined curtains hung from a metal pole, not quite meeting in the middle so that a column of strengthening light was drawn along the floor and up the opposite wall, beside her head. There was a narrow pine wardrobe in the far left corner, with a matching chest of drawers with heart-shaped handles and two bedside tables.
Strictly speaking, the decor wasn’t Ro’s thing. She liked twenty shades of taupe and reindeer-hide rugs – at least, that was what she’d been planning for the sitting room before Matt had interrupted her with his ‘pause’ – but even so, the room had warmth and a personality to it that she liked. Hump had said this was his grandfather’s house, but she was pretty sure this room had a woman’s touch.
Ro had slept with the windows open – more by accident than design – and she swung her legs out of bed, crossing the floor in a curious jog as every floorboard she touched creaked. She pulled the curtains back – which rattled like cargo trains on a track – and leaned on the sill. The sky looked as bleary as she felt – pasty white with just a hint of colour – still shrouded by a thick sea mist that wasn’t yet on the retreat; the grass on Egypt Green opposite was beaded with dewdrops and glistened like it had been threaded with crystals in the night; small brown-tummied birds she couldn’t identify pecked at the ground for worms; a battered white pickup truck drove slowly past with a posse of Hispanic labourers wedged inside, all wearing baseball caps, their brown arms hanging out of the cab. She watched as they hooked a left and then a right past the junction and motored towards the standalone grand building she’d passed yesterday. Through the trees on the opposite side of the street, she could just make out the form of the vast neighbouring house – grey-cedared, white-windowed, a turquoise pool unwrinkled by the breeze.
Looking left and right at her own house, she saw that her room was in the middle of the row of three dormers, the other guest rooms presumably either side of hers. She vaguely wondered at what time Bobbi and Greg were arriving and how it would be seeing Bobbi again. Things had felt so easy with Hump last night, but Bobbi was more intense, demanding. More New York. Ro yawned and stretched. Right now, she was feeling very Barnes.
She turned away from the window with a shiver. It was chilly at this hour and she was in just her knickers: she had been too sleepy last night even to think of bringing her bag upstairs. She eyed yesterday’s clothes with disdain – they had dried stiff with salt, and the cargoes had tide marks on them from the seawater. Every time she looked at them she was reminded of the horror on the beach. She had to get some fresh clothes from her bag.
Pulling the eiderdown from the bed, Ro wrapped it around her shoulders, opened her door tentatively and peered out. The landing area was square, with the staircase rising from a void in the centre, and was framed with balustrading all the way round. Again the floor was wooden, with a couple of lamps standing on small tables and various stippled oil paintings on the walls – all of them seascapes, clearly worked by the same hand. It was apparent no designer had ever been let near the place, yet it had a look of substance about it, that the person who’d arranged it last may not have known about trends, but had known their own mind.
On the far side of the staircase, a door opposite – Hump’s room, she assumed – was closed, as was a door to the right; she vaguely recalled Hump saying his room was ensuite. To the left, she could see through the gap, was a bathroom. Ro tiptoed across, tripping on the corner of the eiderdown as she approached and falling forwards with her arms outstretched so that the door banged loudly against the bathroom wall.
‘Dammit,’ she muttered, using the facilities as quietly as she could, even putting a flannel beneath the water from the tap so that it didn’t make a noise hitting the porcelain bowl. The last thing Hump needed was to be disturbed by his jet-lagged lodger.
She crept down the stairs, her body hunched beneath the quilt, grimacing every time a floorboard groaned beneath her weight. She frowned as her feet touched the downstairs floor and she took in the hall, as though seeing it for the first time. She had clearly passed through here last night, but she had no recollection of it at all. Had she sleepwalked up the stairs?
The cottage was far roomier than it appeared from the street, with as much depth as it had width, and downstairs shared the same square layout as upstairs, with rooms flanking off from the central hall. The front door – to her left – was half glazed behind a porch screen, the walls a dark olive green and hung with a few sepia-tinted photographs of a sailing yacht. In the corner to her right, beneath the turn of the staircase, stood an old writing desk, a stack of papers on it gathered into a messy pile and secured by a large McDonald’s Coke cup, the straw bent at a jaunty angle.
Ro walked into the room immediately opposite the bottom of the stairs. Three small sofas covered with a faded blue and pink floral print were arranged in a U-shape, a round, glass-topped coffee table between them ringed by coffee mugs. A bowl of potpourri – potpourri? – was gathering dust on the mantelpiece of a brick-front chimney, and curling copies of crossword magazines were slotted into a magazine rack.
Next to the sitting room, at the back of the house, was a small dining room. It boasted the same wooden floor and subtle cream wallpaper of the sitting room, but was dominated by a long mahogany table with eight spoon-back chairs. A pair of silver candelabras still held the stubs of cherry-red candles – wax tears dripping down their sides and puddling in soft pools below – and elaborately swagged curtains were held in place by brass scroll tiebacks.
The dining room led into the kitchen – a blue vinyl and veneer 1950s job that seemed not to have been touched on the last redux thirty years earlier. On the plus side, it looked spotlessly clean and had a certain retro cool to it. Ro made a beeline for the kettle. She realized she had left her ‘morning box’ of teabags and marmalade at the studio with the other items she’d had air-freighted over. She rummaged the overhead cupboard, trying to find something that would pass as tea. Green tea didn’t cut it, nor did camomile in her opinion. She had no idea what ‘rooibos’ even was. She filled the kettle, but the water clattered through the pipes like children down slides and with an accompanying whistle as the pressure was released. Bloody hell, was nothing in this house quiet?
‘Yo,’ a voice behind her said, and Ro turned to find Hump yawning, wandering into the kitchen as he stretched his long, bare – really very defined – torso, like a big cat.
‘Oh my God, Hump!’ Ro cried, sagging against the worktop, her hands clapped over her hammering heart. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack! What are you doing out of bed at this hour?’ she whispered furiously.
He raised a bemused eyebrow. ‘Why are you whispering? We’re the only people in the house and we’re both up.’
She narrowed her eyes in a ‘ha, ha’ response. ‘Why are you up? I was being so quiet.’
‘Yeah? I’ve heard quieter bulldozers,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘What are you doing up? I thought that was the point of you staying up till the point of delirium last night. I was beginning to think you were on drugs.’
‘I was trying to find my bag.’
‘Well, it’s not in there,’ Hump wise-cracked, looking at the open cupboard behind her.
‘And I also thought I would make a cup of tea,’ she added. ‘Not that I can find any tea with tea in it.’
He grinned. ‘Your bag’s in the hall, by the desk.’
‘Oh. I must have missed it.’ She realized she was standing before him wearing just the quilt, and pulled it tighter around her shoulders. It was still odd, this sudden intimacy between them – they had become friends online, but were scarcely past ‘strangers’ in real life, living together after just two fleeting meetings when it had taken her seven years to live with the man she loved. She briefly wondered what Matt would say if he could see her right now, standing in just a quilt opposite a man wearing only a pair of cut-off trackie-bums.
Hump clearly had no such reservations. ‘So, what do you think, then?’ he asked, spreading his arms wide and gesturing to the house.
‘Love it. So charming.’
He looked pleased. ‘Thanks. Yeah. I love it too. I mean, I know it needs doing up . . . updating, but—’ He shrugged and she knew he meant money he didn’t have. ‘Besides, I kinda like having it how they had it.’
‘They? I thought you said it was your grandfather’s?’
‘Yeah, he left it to me. My grandmother died a few years before him.’
Ro nodded. ‘Did she make this?’ she asked, looking down at the quilt.
‘For their twentieth wedding anniversary apparently.’
‘Cool!’ She twisted her head to get a better look at the pattern down her back. ‘I can see why you didn’t want a load of reprobates trashing the place. It feels like a home.’ The kettle began whistling even more insistently. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’
‘“Fancy a cuppa?” That’s tea, right?’ Hump echoed with a big grin, mimicking her accent but sounding more like Lord Grantham instead. ‘No, thanks. I’m strictly a Joe guy.’
‘Ha! Backatcha! That means coffee. I know that – you can’t fool me,’ Ro said, pointing a finger at him. She reluctantly took a camomile teabag from the box – the least of all evils on offer – and dropped it in her cup. ‘By the way, where can I buy some hammers and nails and things? I need to get some stuff before my car’s picked up by the hire company later.’
‘There’s a hardware store on Newton Lane. Guaranteed to sell anything you need.’
‘Newton Lane. Now where’s that?’ The aroma of camomile drifted to her nose and she tried not to gag. She moved the spoon lethargically through the infusion. Tea that looked like wee was no way to start the day.
‘From here? Back up to Main Street, straight over the lights, on the right.’
‘Great. I’ll head over there now, then.’ She poured the untouched cup of camomile straight down the sink.
Hump raised an eyebrow. ‘Not yet you won’t.’ His eyes rose to the clock. ‘There ain’t nowhere open at half four in the morning round here.’
‘Oh yeah,’ Ro remembered. She felt so awake already. ‘Bummer.’
‘They open at eight.’
Ro grunted. What was she going to do for three and a half hours? ‘You should go back to bed, Hump,’ she said miserably. ‘You’ve got a busy day ahead of you. I should probably wash my hair. It looks like someone’s tried to knit it.’
He watched her for a moment – disgruntled and out of sorts with her new home and time zone. He ducked low to look at the pale sky through the window. ‘You’ve brought a swimsuit, right?’
Ro looked across at him suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘Go put it on. We’re going out.’
‘Not in the ocean we’re not!’ She’d had more than enough exposure to the Atlantic temperatures yesterday.
‘Did I say that?’
‘So what are we doing, then?’
‘You’re so demanding!’ he chortled. ‘Just trust me and go put it on, will you?’
Ro exited the kitchen with narrowed eyes but did as he asked. She was never going to get back to sleep now, and there was nothing else to do. She picked up her bag as she passed the desk, doubling back for the cup of Coke. It was half drunk and completely flat, but it was still better than camomile tea.
‘Now this is how to wake up,’ Ro sighed, letting her paddle drop on her thighs as the orange kayak continued to cut through the water without her assistance.
‘Don’t worry about me! I’m fine! I’ll just carry on, shall I?’ Hump called mockingly over her shoulder, his paddle a syncopated blur as alternate ends cut through the water.
‘My arms are killing me. And I’ve drenched myself,’ Ro half laughed, half wailed as she looked down at her T-shirt, which, for the second time in twelve hours, was soaked and now also clinging to her swimsuit beneath.
‘That’s because you’re putting the paddle in flat. You’ve got to twist your wrist.’
‘Yeah, yeah. I bet you say that to all the girls,’ Ro quipped, making Hump splutter with laughter behind her.
‘I could get used to this.’ She sighed happily again as they drifted past long reeds. They were the only ones out on the ‘pond’ – a large saltwater lake that was set back behind Georgica Beach, where the ocean had breached the sandy banks to create a spit. All the inhabitants of the shoreline houses were still tucked up in bed, making this expedition feel even more secretive and special as a result. It felt so wild and natural here, unlike the groomed perfection of the streets and beach, with its whiter-than-white sand and picture-postcard bars. She watched a couple of swans gliding on the green water on the far side of the lake – or pond, as Hump kept calling it, although it was pretty damn big to be called a pond in her estimation. If something was halfway between a puddle and a lake, then that was a pond.
‘Do you do this a lot, then?’ she asked, turning her head slightly so that he could hear.
‘Much as I can.’
‘I expect your party lifestyle gets in the way, doesn’t it?’ she asked. His Facebook page had been gruelling to read at times.
‘Actually, those are the mornings when I like coming here most. Reminds me of what really matters when I’ve travelled too far down the path of hedonism.’ He paddled on one side for a few strokes, turning the craft slowly away from the reeds. ‘Sunset’s a good time to come out too, although it’s busier. Hey, you ever tried stand-up paddle-boarding?’
‘No, and I’m not sure I should. My centre of gravity is all in my chest. I’d be permanently face first in the water.’ She heard Hump chuckling behind her. ‘What?’
‘Well, between that and your crazy feet . . .’
‘Hey, it’s not funny. It was mortifying when I was younger. I was always convinced someone would notice during swimming lessons. It was like having a third nipple or something.’ It was true she had lived with a fear of being noticed for most of her life, and the inhibitive worry about her feet had transferred to her curves when puberty hit. Strangely, though, she didn’t feel as self-conscious around Hump. He was so unthreatening, non-judgemental. He was easier company to be around than many of her girlfriends, and they hadn’t stopped talking, laughing and joking since she’d arrived. The only thing they hadn’t done enough was eat, and her tummy grumbled loudly as if to make the point.
‘Urgh, I’m starved,’ she said, slapping her hand over her stomach and almost losing her paddle to the water. Hump caught it and handed it back.
‘Yeah? Me too.’ He checked his watch. ‘Hmm, it’s gone seven. I know a great place does early-bird breakfasts.’
‘Perfect.’
‘Wanna head back?’
‘Totally. But then I must get home to wash my hair before we go to the studio and greet Joe Public. I can’t keep getting all this seawater in it and not rinsing it. It looks like it was styled by crabs on crack.’
‘You’re a riot, you know that?’ Hump chuckled behind her as he started paddling again.
Ro began paddling too. ‘Actually, I think I’m pretty good at this,’ she said, as they picked up speed rapidly. ‘I don’t usually do any exercise, but any sport that involves sitting down, I just seem to be a natural,’ she said, just as her paddle hit the water flat, with a smack, and lifted half a cubic ton of water with it as she pulled it back up. It landed on Hump like an upturned bucket and he jumped out of his seat from the shock, landing so hard that the kayak wobbled precariously beneath them, pushing out waves in the water that raced for the reeds.
‘Hump!’ Ro called worriedly, letting go of her oar to hold on to the sides for balance.
‘No – don’t let go!’ Hump cried, just as the paddle drifted past him. He reached – she could feel his weight shifting as he extended his arm for it, but the kayak was still rocking violently and gallons of cold water slopped into the seats.
‘Hump!’ she cried again, trying to counterbalance by leaning the other way, but Hump was too heavy, his limbs too long as he made one last effort for the paddle, and in another second, they had overturned.
Ro surfaced with a splutter. The water was so cold she was too shocked to speak.
‘You OK?’ Hump asked calmly, running his hands over his face and hair like he was in the shower.
Ro reached her arm out for the capsized kayak and leaned on it. ‘Yeah. Think so,’ she gasped, shocked by the cold for the second time in twenty-four hours.
‘Pst, look casual,’ he whispered as a family of curious ducks floated past them treading water, and he began whistling nonchalantly. She giggled helplessly as the ducks did a glide-by before drifting off.
Hump swam over to her, effortlessly turning the boat the right side up. ‘Anyway, sorry,’ he grinned. ‘You were saying you’re a natural . . .’
‘Do your thing. I’ll be in here ordering breakfast,’ Hump said, jerking his thumb towards a cafe called the Golden Pear. ‘What do you want?’
‘Uh. Tea and toast, maybe? I don’t mind. Surprise me!’ Ro said, pushing open the door of the hardware store.
She paused in the entrance, wondering where to start and wishing she’d written a list. If they’d had time to go back home, she could have done that and changed into dry clothes. Instead, because they were passing anyway, Hump had insisted it made sense to drop by on the way past. It made sense to him maybe: he was practically dry, his hair was so short it was dry before they’d even got back to the car, and he’d only been wearing a pair of surf baggies. She, on the other hand, now had hair like a swan’s nest and a still-wet T-shirt that clung to her like she was Pamela Anderson on a modelling shoot.
‘Right, think, Ro, think,’ she muttered, her eyes scanning the floor-to-ceiling shelves housing plastic sweeping brushes, metal bins, pots of paint and coils of rope. ‘You need a hammer, picture hooks . . . um, some wall brackets for the TV screens, Rawlplugs, screws . . . picture wire, a spirit level . . . um . . .’
‘Can I help you, ma’am?’ a man asked her. He was in his fifties and wearing grey overalls.
‘No, I think I’m OK, thanks,’ Ro said, standing to attention and smoothing her hair self-consciously, but her watch strap caught in it and she had to disentangle herself in front of him, awkward, embarrassed smiles on both their faces. ‘Oh . . . Oh. There we go. I’m fine.’
He nodded, hearing her accent, and handed her a blue plastic basket. ‘Maybe this would be useful, then.’
‘Thanks.’
She wandered down the dark, crowded aisles, finding herself tempted by the gardening trowels and fireplace grates. She always spent far too much in places like this, coming away with new kettles or willow screens when she’d just popped in for some turps; B&Q held the same fascination for her as the Selfridges shoe department did to most other women.
She found what she needed – and what she didn’t, but no way was she walking away from that ceramic Chinese runner duck; it would look adorable outside the studio door – and brought it to the counter, just as the bell above the door jangled and some more customers came in, their voices tumbling over one another like wrestling puppies.
‘You just visiting?’ the man in the grey overalls asked, as he scanned the barcodes into the till.
‘Actually, I’m staying for the summer,’ Ro nodded. ‘I’m a photographer. I’ve got a studio in Amagansett Square.’
‘Yeah? You can put an ad in our window if you like. Five bucks a week. Lots of passing trade.’
‘Maybe I’ll do that,’ Ro said politely. She’d need to think about how she advertised here. People wouldn’t just wander past the studio on foot like they did back home. Everyone drove everywhere. She couldn’t just wait for people to stumble across her.
‘That’s forty-six dollars eighty-four,’ the man said, and she handed over her Visa card. She had yet to get some cash out and knew that was another job for this morning. ‘I’m Bob, by the way.’
‘Ro.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Ro.’ He offered his hand to her and she shook it with a smile. Her eyes fell to the display by the till as she waited to sign: LED torches, gum, copper travel-sickness bangles, waterproof cases . . .
She picked up one. It was large with double zips, a hanging cord and a belt clip – ideal for keeping her camera dry should she dare to venture out on a kayak again. ‘Do these really work?’ she asked sceptically, examining the seams.
‘Best I ever found. I use mine all the time. I keep a boat out in Shelter Island and it’s saved my cell more times than I can count.’
Ro deliberated. Phones weren’t cheap, but her camera was a whole other level at £3,000 new. ‘You’re sure, though? They don’t leak even a little bit?’
The shopkeeper shrugged, looking up at someone behind her. ‘Ted, how you found that waterproof case I sold you?’
‘Fine, Bob. Not let me down yet,’ the man replied.
Ro turned politely – and froze.
Him! From the beach!
His face, when he saw her, echoed hers – mouth agape, eyes wide with horror. In front of him, his two children were pulling twine off a coil and watching as it looped over his feet on the floor. He looked down at the sudden distraction and Ro quickly turned and grabbed the duck and brown bag full of miscellanea from the counter. Bowing her head low, she darted past him. He caught her by the elbow, but she yanked it away angrily. No way was he going to accost her again.
‘Get your bloody hands off me!’ she spat, and he recoiled immediately, holding his hands up in the air like she was pointing a gun at him.
‘I—’
‘Hey, wait!’ she heard the shopkeeper call, but Ro didn’t turn back. She wasn’t going back there for a stupid waterproof case when that maniac was around. She pushed the door open so it hard it almost flung back in her face, and ran down the street to the Golden Pear.
Hump was waiting for her, two enormous steaming cups of coffee sitting in front of him. He looked up from reading the local paper as she burst in, breathless and agitated, turning back to make sure she hadn’t been followed.
‘Hey, what’s up?’ he asked, frowning as he saw her expression. ‘Now what’s happened?’
Ro shook her head, too upset to talk. How could she have run into him – him of all people – twice in under twenty-four hours? She pulled her chair back and it scraped jarringly across the floor, but she didn’t register; she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror as she sat down: Matt’s unflatteringly oversized grey T-shirt clung to her in some places, billowed in others – giving her the shoulders of a prop forward – and her red and turquoise striped swimsuit had soaked through her beige shorts, giving her the bottom of a toddler. ‘Nothing.’
‘Doesn’t look like nothing.’
She shrugged and took a gulp of coffee.
He leaned forward on his elbows. ‘Why is it that whenever I leave you alone for ten minutes, you come back looking like your dog just died?’
‘I don’t have a dog.’
‘Matt have this much trouble with you?’
‘No!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘It’s really nothing.’
‘It’s a long story, I bet.’ She met his eyes at her own refrain, just as the waitress came over with their plates. ‘It is? Jeez, I think you’d better tell me this long story. What else we got to talk about?’ he said, gesturing to their over-stacked piles of wholegrain pancakes with fruit that seemingly came as the sidebar to tea and toast. ‘Trust me, we’re gonna be here a while.’