The Summer Without You

09/01/2010

18h24

‘Listen to this.’ Ted. Whispering. Dark hallway, door jamb. Door is pushed open gently.

Nursery. Dimly lit by a white rabbit light. Narrow wardrobe with pink gingham fabric doors, a crib with a lace-frilled hood.

The camera moves towards the crib. Rocking. Cooing sound, like a pigeon.

Ella, lying on her back, chewing on her own foot. Hair fuzzy and dark. A fluffy pink pig beside her. Eyes look large in her head. Blue now.

She sees the camera – or the person behind it – and coos.

‘My little love dove.’

She coos again. And smiles. One tooth.

Blackness.

09/17/2010

10h38

‘And here we see the Marina in her natural habitat – an air-conditioned boutique with dense growth of overpriced clothes. Watch how she moves, fleet of foot, eyes alert to every colour offer and sale sign, the wheels of the stroller in perpetual motion, never stopping lest the dominant male should try to oust her from the store.’ Ted. Low-voiced.

Marina looks over. Holds up a pale lemon fake-fur coat with matching bonnet. ‘What do you think?’

‘Too small for you.’

Rolls her eyes. ‘For Ella.’

‘Too big for her.’

Marina picks up similar coat in ivory. Holds them up side by side.

‘The blue.’

Marina narrows her eyes, turns back to the rack. Camera zooms out.

‘The male is in danger now. The first of the warning signs has been emitted and he must proceed with caution or risk incurring the wrath of the female, who is never more deadly, more ferocious than in this arena.’ Camera swings to a couple of women chatting by the tills. ‘Witness how the females guard the area, patrolling in packs and keeping the males away.’

‘You are a child.’ Marina.

Camera swings back. Marina is looking down at him. Navy overcoat. Blonde hair swept onto one shoulder. Shades worn like Alice band. Smile.

‘I’m going for the yellow.’ Holds up coat and bonnet.

‘My clear favourite.’

‘It’s such a great colour on her. Very few babies really look good in it. Ella is one of the lucky few.’

‘I agree.’

Marina narrows her eyes again. ‘You will say literally anything to get out of here, won’t you?’

‘Literally anything.’

Laughter. Yellow fuzz on screen.

Blackness.

09/19/2010

12h57

‘Look at him, Ella. Does Daddy look funny?’ Marina.

Camera zooms in on Ted, running, orange kite bumping on ground behind him. Park. Speed-walkers. Runners. Small dogs. Ted waves back to camera.

Camera jogs. Waving back?

Dog is chasing after Ted, snapping at the kite.

‘Hey!’ Ted. Pulling on string, trying to lift kite into air. No wind.

Camera jogs. Giggling. Marina.

Ted running faster. Dog owner joins chase. Dog gaining on kite.

‘Oh my gosh . . . no . . . ’ Marina.

Dog leaps. Catches kites. Owner reaches him. Dog won’t release kite.

Camera pans to path. Navy buckled flats. Laughing. Hard. Marina. ‘Oh no, don’t look at Daddy, Ella. Don’t look.’

Camera swings back up. Ted remonstrating with owner. Hands on hips. Dog holding on to kite. Owner lifts dog. Dog still holding kite. Ted pulls on kite. Rips. Throws hands in air. Dismissive. Owner walks off, stroking dog’s head. Dog holding kite. Ted, alone. No kite.

‘Oh, baby, may you never remember seeing your daddy lose against a pug.’ Marina laughing.

Camera pans round hood of buggy. Ella sleeping. Lemon-yellow bonnet and coat. Thumb in mouth. Pink pig, less fluffy. Rosy cheeks.

‘Aaah. Lucky Daddy.’

Blackness.

Bobbi was standing on Ro’s bed, trying to see her shoes in the mirror on top of the chest of drawers. She was wearing a peacock-coloured short silk kaftan with turquoise feathered sandals that laced up her slim calves, Pocahontas-style, and large gold hoop earrings with tiny beads on them, flashing in her hair.

‘No, I . . . Amazing.’ Ro shrugged, wondering whether she was underdressed – ‘casual’ to her meant jeans that fit and a clean T-shirt, so she was wearing her new red skinny jeans, new striped Breton top and new wedges. It was this or the sequin dress.

Bobbi jumped off the bed, beaming. ‘Great. Great.’ She rubbed her hands together distractedly. ‘Or maybe . . . Do you think the peach shorts suit?’

Ro shook her head. ‘No. That’s perfect.’ She felt strangely protective to see Bobbi so nervous. ‘Come on. The boys are waiting,’ she said, picking up one of Matt’s jumpers from the bed and tucking it under her arm.

‘Because he’s our housemate and Melodie invited the whole house,’ Ro sighed.

‘But he doesn’t belong with us and we all know it. He’s using Hump’s house as a hotel.’

‘And technically speaking, he can. I agree it’s a shame we don’t see more of him, but he’s paid for his room and there’s no contractual obligation for him to hang out with us.’

‘He’s only going so he can add Brook Whitmore to his contacts. You know who Brook is, right? You Googled him yet?’

Ro gave her an ‘as if’ look that didn’t appear to translate – or compute.

Ro tutted and gave her a stern look. What was tonight about if not for Bobbi to add Brook to her own list of contacts? Hadn’t she already said she wanted to tap up Brook through Melodie’s yoga classes?

Ro put her hand on Bobbi’s arm as they paused at the door. ‘Look, you don’t need to be best mates with him, just be tolerant. I don’t want anything to be awkward for Melodie tonight.’

Bobbi sighed dramatically. Relations between Bobbi and Greg had plummeted from cool to downright chilly, and whatever had drawn them together so fiercely that first night was now just as fiercely repelling them. Something had happened either at the club or back home afterwards, even Hump agreed that, and the atmosphere between them was becoming – as he had feared – openly hostile. Ro was half convinced that it was Bobbi’s attitude that meant he was spending more and more time with the Southampton crowd every weekend.

‘Fine, fine. I’ll be civil. But for one night only.’ She grabbed Matt’s jumper from Ro’s grip. ‘And gimme that,’ she said, throwing it across the room, out of sight and out of reach.

They wandered downstairs, where Hump and Greg were leaning against the porch veranda – Greg in his usual preppy chinos and white Oxford, Hump in long check shorts, a linen shirt and yellow flip-flops. Greg stood to attention as the girls joined them; Hump wolf-whistled.

‘Go, Ro!’ Hump crooned, not calling her Big Foot for once, as he walked round her like she was a vintage car, his hands bouncing her bob lightly. Her extreme haircut had rendered him speechless for a full seven seconds when she’d hopped off the Jitney yesterday, but she had persisted in wearing Matt’s clothes at the studio today, and this was the first time he, or anyone, was seeing her as Bobbi had truly envisioned. ‘Hey, so you are a girl. I just couldn’t be sure before. You sure you’re going to be OK walking in those shoes?’

She should have known! There was always a tease with him. ‘Bog off, Hump,’ she grinned.

Ro saw Greg’s eyes slide over to Bobbi. There was a natural opportunity for him to compliment Bobbi too – especially for someone with manners like his – but whether or not he intended to say anything, he didn’t get the chance.

‘House photo!’ Bobbi ordered, getting her phone out of her bag. ‘You can take it, Greg.’

Ro shot her a look – Bobbi’s point was clear – but Bobbi just smiled back with innocent eyes, sending the photo out into the ethernet as soon as the phone was back in her hands again. Just as Ro needed a camera lens to validate her life, so Bobbi, it seemed, needed social media.

‘And I’m sitting in the front,’ Bobbi said bossily, climbing into the front seat of the yellow Defender before Greg could.

Hump rolled the car down the drive and they swept through the wide lanes in the early evening sun, shades on and the radio blasting. They passed a large, gold-tinted pond with a family of swans gliding across it, waving back at the cyclists in bikinis and board shorts who cheered at the sight of the Hamptons’ already-beloved Humper. Ro closed her eyes happily. It was the all-American dream she’d been sold in films all her life, and here she was doing it, living it. The only thing stopping it from being perfect was Matt not being here to share it with her.

‘What are your friends up to tonight?’ Ro asked, leaning in to him slightly.

He looked up bashfully and pocketed his phone. ‘They’re at a gala charity dinner. It’s a couples thing.’

‘Oh . . . Well, it’s great you could come to this. Melodie’s become a really good friend.’ She felt like she was bragging, but she couldn’t hide how proud she was to have someone like Melodie in her life. ‘Do you know her?’

‘By family reputation only. Barrington Dredging is a big local company. I’m looking forward to meeting her husband too. He’s an influential man and has really put a voice to all those people worst affected by Sandy. You know there’s a grass-roots campaign to get him to run for senator next year?’ Greg added.

Bobbi whipped round in her seat, an accusing but silent ‘See?’ in her eyes, just as Hump pulled up a short pitch to a pair of reddish solid-wood gates at least two metres high. Nowhere was far from anywhere in the Hamptons. He leaned over and spoke into the intercom. The gates swung back and they rolled in.

Everyone was silent as they parked in front of an angular building so low slung its roof couldn’t be seen from the road. The house was constructed from the same reddish wood as the gates and had huge plates of green-tinted glass. It looked, to Ro, like toddlers’ stacking cubes on a giant scale, the upper levels set at seemingly random angles and overhanging the ground floor to create shaded loggias below.

‘Fuck . . . me,’ Bobbi muttered not so under her breath, fiddling with her seat belt. ‘That’s only a Moji Fukayama design. You know who he is, right?’ She looked across at Hump, who shrugged. ‘He won the International Architecture Award – it’s the most prestigious mantle out there. He takes on, like, one project a year. One! We’re all scrabbling around trying to do bigger, bolder, more, and he takes one per year and even then not always.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Hump nodded, clearly totally disinterested and spotting Melodie waiting for them by the door. She was looking radiant in a lipstick-pink origami-folded silk dress, her lustrous hair left down. Next to her was a handsome young waiter who looked like he did day shifts in the Ralph Lauren store and bench-pressed ponies, holding a tray of pink champagne. ‘Now let’s party.’

‘I thought we said “casual”,’ Ro said under her breath as she and Melodie kissed their hellos. ‘Casual to me means marmalade on toast, not –’ she gestured to the handsome waiter who was waiting for Bobbi to choose a drink ‘– him.’

Melodie patted her arm. ‘This is casual. Rather than me stressing about it, I delegate. You see? Casual.’

Casual, Hamptons-style maybe. What would every person here think if they saw what passed for casual back home? Lap trays, pyjamas and fleecy socks, and a box set of Borgen.

Ro made the introductions to Bobbi and Greg, and they all followed Melodie through into an open-plan all-white sitting room that was, Ro imagined, just like walking into heaven. On the angled, vaulted ceiling, a ghostly pink haze rippled along it like a light show. There was no music playing, but there was sound and she saw, to her left, a wall with pink-lit water skinning down the length and width of it. Her eye followed the water’s fall and she saw how it fed into a deep, narrow groove that was cut through the polished concrete floor like a Mondrian line, dissecting it with arrow-straight precision to the glass wall opposite, where it dashed underneath to the pool outdoors.

Ro had never seen anything like it, and she looked over at Bobbi to check she was still remembering to breathe in and out. It was debatable – Bobbi was rotating on the spot, open-mouthed. The house somehow appeared to have two fasciae: inside the house, the irregular angles of the walls were in contrast to the cuboid parallelograms of the exterior, and Ro could almost see Bobbi’s mind whirling at the engineering and advanced maths involved in building a house like this.

‘Would you like me to pinch you?’ Melodie asked her, bringing her over the drink that she had been too distracted to collect on her way in.

‘I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’m standing here. I can’t believe this is your home. It’s part of architectural legend.’ Bobbi smacked a hand over her heart. ‘It is because of buildings like this that I do what I do.’

‘It’s official. She really does love her job more than I do mine,’ Greg murmured, watching from the sidelines.

‘It’s certainly a very interesting house to live in.’ Melodie smiled modestly.

‘Did you and your husband commission it, or did it come onto the market? I know that the architect is incredibly controlling about who he will build for. I mean, he actually interviews his clients first, right?’

‘Well, it never came onto the open market, but we bought it quite soon after it had been built. The previous owners divorced and couldn’t afford to keep it.’

‘Luckily for us,’ Brook said, picking up the conversation as he walked into the room. ‘So long as we don’t divorce,’ he grinned, squeezing the back of Melodie’s neck affectionately.

‘That’s not likely, darling,’ Melodie said, a wicked gleam in her eye. ‘Obviously, I only married you for your money.’

Brook laughed expansively. ‘The other way round more like.’ He turned to face the small group, all looking on politely. ‘Now, you must be Bobbi,’ he said, beaming with bonhomie and holding out a hand.

‘Yes, Bobbi Winkleman. A pleasure,’ Bobbi said, stepping smartly forward from the group and staking her claim.

‘And Ro, of course,’ Brook said, turning to her. ‘Well, I say of course, but . . . your hair.’

‘I had a dramatic cut this week, yes. I guess I must look quite different from when we met at the Wölffer party.’ Ro’s hands patted it soothingly.

‘Yes, we are.’ Hump grinned, clearly delighted that a suggestion of drinks had been accidentally upgraded to lunch. ‘I’ll set it up.’

Brook looked at him through interested eyes, immediately discerning Greg’s more reserved manners and professional demeanour. He never seemed fully ‘off’, as though he could chair a board meeting at any moment. ‘Now, we haven’t met.’

‘Overy & Chambers. I’ve heard of them. Environmental practice, right?’ Brook said thoughtfully.

‘I’m flattered you know that. Most people have never heard of us. We’re below radar compared to the corporate behemoths.’

‘Ah, but you guys are smarter than them. You’re at the coalface of federal policy. Leave those sharks to chasing paltry dollars in discrimination lawsuits. The future is environmental – global warming, carbon emissions, polar navigation rights, natural-disaster relief . . . They’re the big issues that affect the planet’s billions of normal people, not just multinationals. You guys are the G8 of law.’

‘Well, I’ve not heard it described like that before. I’ll have it put on my cards,’ Greg laughed. ‘Which field are you in, Mr Whitmore?’

‘Call me Brook. I’m an insurance man, I’m afraid: the grey man in the grey suit.’

‘You’re so not grey,’ Ro said, looking at his deep tan. He was certainly well into his late fifties, if not early sixties, but looked fitter and better than most forty-year-olds.

‘That’s because of the twice-monthly trips to Bermuda to play golf,’ Melodie said, patting her husband’s arm.

‘My wife doesn’t believe me when I tell her ninety-eight per cent of my business is conducted on the golf course.’

Melodie rolled her eyes. ‘Meanwhile, most other people are out there working for a living . . .’

‘As I recall, you don’t seem to mind the trips yourself, Songbird. And besides, you do play a little golf too.’ He stepped back to his wife and rested his arm over her shoulder. ‘Her yoga flexibility gives her a wonderful swing.’

Melodie’s smile seemed to fix in place. ‘Well . . . why don’t we go outside and enjoy the fresh air rather than standing in here?’ she suggested, motioning towards the terrace.

Hump joined her, his large foot straddling the groove in the floor; Bobbi followed, but – still distracted by the avant-garde building – she stepped without looking and her thin heel caught in the gap as she walked. She shrieked as her forward momentum was thrown and her ankle twisted, her knee buckling.

‘I’ve got you!’ Greg said, lunging forward and catching her one-handed – for he was holding his drink too – by the elbow. He held her still for a moment while she recovered her balance. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yeah,’ Bobbi murmured, embarrassed, as Brook rushed over and took her by the other elbow. Bobbi stood between the two men, both her elbows supported, until Greg, realizing the ridiculousness of the situation, took a step back, demurring to their host.

‘Is your ankle hurt?’ Brook asked solicitously at the sight of her foot completely free of her shoe and attached only by the calf straps.

‘I’m good, thank you. It was entirely my own fault,’ Bobbi replied, clearly on her best behaviour, bending to slip her foot back into the shoe.

‘No, it wasn’t at all. You’re not the first person that’s happened to. Melodie’s always telling me to infill it. The“crack”, she calls it. She says it’s a safety hazard, even though neither she nor I – you’ll be relieved to hear – wear high-heel shoes. I suppose she does have a point.’ He scuffed the groove lightly with his shoe, an almost loving gesture. ‘Clearly I’d hate for anybody to come to any harm, but . . . it’s a Fukayama house. That doesn’t really mean anything to my wife, but—’

‘Oh, but it does to me!’ Bobbi gasped. ‘He’s my absolute hero. I studied him obsessively at college.’

Brook looked surprised. ‘Really? No one ever usually knows what I’m talking about when I mention his name. It’s like I’m speaking in tongues.’

‘I know them well! Dick Eastman is one of my oldest friends. We were at Varsity together.’

‘He’s a great man, a true visionary. I’ve learned so much from him,’ Bobbi gushed, eyes sparkling at the news that her host was an old friend of her top boss. Ro could almost see the cogs in her mind working, wondering how to take best advantage of the situation.

‘You know, I always find myself jealous of architects. I share your love for the discipline but lack the requisite creative vision myself. Of course, I can appreciate it when I see it –’ he gestured to the award-winning house surrounding them ‘– but it’s not quite the same.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like a tour?’

Ro thought Bobbi was going to swoon on the spot, and as Brook led her out of the room, Ro almost had to wonder whether Bobbi hadn’t sabotaged herself on purpose.

‘Well, I guess we should go out too,’ Ro smiled, looking over at Hump and Melodie, who were already standing by the pool.

Ro hesitated. He was clearly straining to hear the conversation between Brook and Bobbi in the next room, as Bobbi’s laughter kept drifting through in coquettish fragments.

‘Shall we join the others?’ She jerked her thumb behind her and he nodded, following behind reluctantly.

She carefully picked her way over the groove in the floor, and they walked towards the terrace, Ro trying to take in the immaculate garden. It was like a modern-day Versailles, with box balls and trees planted in rigid symmetry, and parterres criss-crossing the lawn in a saltire. It was certainly impressive and clearly very high maintenance, although not to her taste – she preferred Florence’s house, where beach balls lay strewn on the grass and pool towels were stretched messily across the old-school plastic loungers.

They joined Melodie and Hump’s conversation – seemingly on ZZ Top, of all things – Ro trying to adjust to this new context in which she had to view her friend. They had met and bonded in a small, dark yoga studio where Melodie had brought Ro along for the ride on her hunt for spiritual riches; but seeing her here – in what had to be one of the most spectacular properties in the Hamptons – it was hard to reconcile that humility with such lavishness. What could the woman who lived in this possibly be searching for?

A peal of laughter rippled over to them and they all looked up to see Brook and Bobbi in an upstairs bedroom, Bobbi folded over with amusement at something Brook had said, her hand resting on his arm. Ro glanced back at Melodie, who had looked over too, an inscrutable expression on her smiling face. And she thought, then, that perhaps she knew.

‘I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to seeing your posters up,’ Melodie said as the waiter set down her lobster salad. Only a sliver of flame-red daylight was left in the inky night sky. They were seated now at a slim glass table beside the illuminated pool, which was flickering like candlelight, the dark garden dotted with discreet uplighters.

‘It’s funny, I’ve never done anything like that before. I wasn’t even sure if I could do it. It was really interesting having to find a single image that can communicate a specific message.’

‘Sorry, what’s this? Greg asked, putting his hand over his wine glass as the waiter came round with a bottle of Pouilly fumé.

‘Ro’s in cahoots with Florence Wiseman for her kooky seed-bombing campaign,’ Hump explained, a devilish look on his face.

‘Hey! It is not kooky! There is sound reasoning behind her objectives,’ Ro said defensively. ‘And I hardly think we’re in cahoots. She was doing me a favour because I hadn’t got any work on and she had to commission someone anyway. It helped us both out.’

‘Is this the project to replant the dunes?’ Brook asked her, the first time he’d spoken to her since the introductions at the beginning of the evening. Ro was sitting to his left, Bobbi to his right, but Bobbi had monopolized his attention all night, barely pausing for breath, much less food.

‘A noble idea,’ he replied, sipping his wine thoughtfully. A pause bloomed after the comment. Noble?

‘Well, I admire the sentiment, I really do, but it’s going to take more than grass to protect this town when the next northeaster comes.’

‘The storms that hit us throughout the winter come from the northeast, the prevailing wind and tide direction,’ Melodie offered, overhearing.

‘So what do you think should be done?’ Greg asked, clearly interested as he leaned in on his elbows.

‘Well, something, for a start. For too long now, the town’s been paralysed into inactivity by the damned LWRP,’ Brook said.

But before Melodie could help, Brook butted in. ‘It stands for the Local Waterfront Revitalization Program. A town citizens’ committee drafted it in the late 1990s and the town adopted its recommendations when the Department of State authorized it in 2007. Basically, they advocate an “elevate or retreat policy”: either lift or relocate vulnerable structures—’

‘Oh! Strategic retreat, right? I’ve heard of that!’ Ro said excitedly, remembering Bobbi’s comments their first afternoon together on the beach.

‘The problem is, they wouldn’t know consistency if it hit them on the ass,’ Brook interrupted. ‘Policy states they’re outlawing rebuilding in certain areas and yet after every storm, there they are handing out emergency permits for owners to repair their properties. It’s too expensive. At some point, we’re going to be hit by a super-storm that’ll leave us with a clean-up cost that even Lloyds of London can’t cover.’

‘But what are you saying – that these people aren’t entitled to protect their homes? That the State doesn’t have an obligation to help them? They’re taxpayers; these are their homes, their businesses,’ Greg argued, eyes shining. ‘Are they just to be left to the elements without either support or recompense? When the LWRP was drafted, there were only half as many hurricanes as there have been since 1995, and the problem’s only going to get worse.’

Greg looked at her coolly, the first time he had looked at her all dinner, Ro thought, though she may have missed a glance as she fiddled with the claws. ‘I’m an environmental attorney, Bobbi. It’s my job to know.’

‘I agree with you, Greg,’ Brook nodded, pulling Greg’s gaze back to him. ‘I advise on the National Flood Insurance Program and we’re all in accord that new thinking is needed; new policy is needed. It’s already coming from the top. As you’re probably aware, a bill has just passed from the House of Representatives to the Senate with $50.7 billion in Hurricane Sandy aid and long-term hazard reduction. I know Senator McClusky is absolutely focused on making damn sure some of that money comes our way, but we’re on the frontline here, and Montauk more than anyone.’

‘They were worst affected by Sandy,’ Melodie said kindly, for Ro’s benefit again. ‘Their beaches and dunes were all but destroyed, only to be hit by another north-easter a week later.’

‘It’s an emergency over there, that’s for sure,’ Hump said, pulling apart a bread roll and scattering crumbs all over the table. ‘The surf’s great, but . . .’ he shrugged.

‘So you’re saying shelling out for repairs is too expensive – but what’s the alternative?’ Greg persisted. He lived for the cut and thrust of debate, it seemed.

‘Well, that’s where there may be progress. I’m on the Coastal Erosion Committee.’ This time Brook looked directly at Ro. ‘It’s an advisory council that was set up by East Hampton Town Board in December, after Sandy. I’m on it, some town officials, local business owners, environmental advocates, engineers, you name it . . . We report our recommendations directly to the board.’

‘Well, you’re already on a hiding to nothing, then. She’s a lovely lady but hardly the steadiest boat in the harbour.’

Ro frowned. What did that mean? But Greg wasn’t interested in personalities or reputations. He wanted theories, ideas. ‘So what’s your consensus, Brook?’

Brook turned back to him, holding one hand up, index finger outstretched, to indicate for more wine to be poured. ‘Well, our interim proposal is that measures currently considered “hard structures” – such as sandbags – are redefined as “seasonal structures”. That would mean they could be put in before the winter storms hit and removed in the spring.’ He reached for his refilled glass.

‘We’re pushing for a programme of soft measures.’ Brook cleared his throat and took a sip of wine. ‘Beach nourishment, in other words.’

‘Rebuilding the beaches? But that’s just throwing money away,’ Bobbi scoffed, launching herself into the debate. ‘You’re dredging or importing sand – whatever – at these colossal costs only for it to be dragged out to sea during the next storm.’

‘No, no. Not at all,’ Brook countered. ‘Beach nourishment isn’t just a matter of relocating sand to beaches. When storm season hits, a nourished beach can absorb a storm’s energy.’

‘But how?’ Bobbi frowned. ‘I don’t get it. The sand just gets pulled out to sea again.’

Brook put down his glass, a pleased smile on his face as he patted her hand. Ro saw Greg’s eyes watch the gesture. ‘You see, Bobbi, a nourished beach is all about the angle and the volume of the sand.’ He tried to show it for her with his hands. ‘As a storm hits land, yes, the waves will carry the sediment offshore, but where it shoals further out, the waves break, weakening their force before they hit the shoreline, protecting dunes and the properties behind them from wave attack and limiting how far ashore the storm surge will travel. Do you see?’

His tone of voice was worryingly close to patronizing and Ro shot a nervous look at her volatile housemate, looking for danger signs. But Bobbi, to Ro’s astonishment, was nodding back at him, her mouth parted a little in studied interest. For Brook’s benefit, though, or Greg’s? She was putting on a fine show and seemed oblivious to the fact that both Melodie and Greg were staring daggers at her.

‘Are you really in insurance? You sound like a geography professor to me,’ Hump grinned, looking more like he wanted to start a food fight with the bread rolls than debate environmental policy.

Brook threw his head back and laughed. ‘I only know all about it because of the savings it generates for my industry. Did you know that after Hurricane Isabel in 2003, an estimated one hundred and five million dollars in damage was prevented because it struck a nourished beach? The project was designed to stop a nine-foot storm surge – and it did! Over a hundred million dollars saved. Isn’t that incredible?’ He looked around the table in genuine amazement. ‘Don’t get me wrong. It’s not a permanent solution – nothing ever will be – but I do passionately believe it is a long-term vision that can protect our backshore assets and coastal communities for decades to come, and really help restore confidence in the real-estate values and property sectors there.’

‘And insurance industry,’ Greg added drily, well able to see that Brook’s interests weren’t purely philanthropic.

‘Exactly!’ Brook agreed. ‘Everyone agrees coastal ecology and economy are closely intertwined.’

‘Well, I’m not holding my breath,’ Melodie said, grasping her wine glass lightly. ‘It’ll all get tied up in the usual red tape. Look at the fiasco over the Montauk lighthouse. The rock face has been severely eroding right in front of everyone’s noses for years, and even though they’ve had the plans and money in place to build an abutment that will shore up the cliffs, some archaic law has prevented the State from transferring the funding to the lighthouse’s owner. The tip of that coast has come in from three hundred feet, when the lighthouse was built, to only fifty feet today. And all because it never occurred to anyone to actually transfer ownership to the town. I mean, it’s laughable,’ Melodie exclaimed with a high, brittle laugh, shaking her head.

‘I think what my wife’s trying to say is that a life in politics is not for her,’ Brook joked.

‘I just don’t have the patience for all that wrangling and procrastination. Either do it or don’t, but don’t spend ten years talking about it.’

‘But that’s precisely why Florence’s campaign is so exciting,’ Ro offered, keen to be able to contribute to the conversation. ‘She’s not just content to let things get caught up in bureaucratic tangles. She’s out there doing something about it right now.’

‘I agree her campaign is part of the solution – just not all of it,’ Brook said, managing to agree and yet disagree with her at the same time, something she noticed he’d managed with Greg and Bobbi too. He was indeed a skilled politician: slippery and hard to hook. ‘Sandy eroded some dunes that were thirty feet high to just two feet. The dunes can only do so much. Beach nourishment is the answer.’

Oh. Ro fell quiet again, feeling out of her depth, and she concentrated on her food, deciding to wait for the conversation to change topics. No one discussed local politics with anything like the same passion back home – although why would they when the most pressing thing on their agenda was introducing kerbside recycling and e-bills for utilities?

She wondered what Matt would think to see her sitting with these people who had all been unknown to her not so long ago, discussing important issues in such lavish surroundings. She tried to imagine him sitting here too – contributing with Blackadder quotes and factoids he picked up from reading the miscellanea book in the loo. She tried to imagine him drinking with Hump, debating with Greg, agreeing with Bobbi, but it was like trying to picture him with a shaved head. She just couldn’t see it.

Chapter Sixteen