The Summer Without You

10/01/2010

07h27

Closed door.

‘Anything?’ Ted calls.

‘Gimme a minute!’ Marina. Behind the door. Cross.

Audible sigh. Camera shifts slightly. Glimpse of grey silk walls. Pans across room, past vast double bed, to crib. Zooms in. Ella sleeping. Thumb in. Pink pig in her other hand.

Door opens. Camera switches back. Marina wearing a thin blue dressing gown. Holding a small white stick.

‘Well?’ Ted. Anxious. Impatient.

Marina pale, hair unbrushed. Slowly places a hand to her belly.

Audible gasp. ‘Does that . . . ? Are you saying . . . ?’ Ted. Voice thick.

‘It’s so soon, Ted . . . You are never coming near me again. Do you hear?’ Marina.

Smiles.

Camera angle changes. Ted. Stands up.

‘No, no, no!’ Squeals as camera gets closer. ‘You’ve done quite enough damage! Ted!’

Whoop. Ted.

Blackness.

11/06/2010

17h19

‘OK, let’s give it another go.’ Marina. Scene out of focus, deep blue. Camera pulls back. Focus sharpens. Pair of legs. Jeans. Tanned feet. Pedicure. Wooden floor. Coral sofa.

Angle swings up to show Ella sitting on the floor, cross-legged and wobbly. Surrounded on all sides by pink cushions.

‘And there we have it!’ Triumphant. ‘Ella is officially sitting—Oh! Oh!’

Scene out of focus. Coral. Muffled voices. Crying.

Blackness.

12/25/2010

02h17

‘You are crazy.’ Marina.

Camera on Ted, cross-legged on floor, screwdriver in mouth. Fronds of Christmas tree in background. Presents in red foil paper with snowmen. Leaning against coral sofa. Wearing boxers. Bare chest. Beer beside him on the floor.

‘It’ll just be so much better if she gets it pre-assembled.’

‘But you’ve been doing it for five hours now. She’ll be up soon.’

‘I’ve nearly got it.’

Camera zooms in on elaborate wooden doll’s house.

‘I don’t think you have, Ted. Is that a window or a door? It looks like a window to me.’

Frowns at the window in the doorway. ‘Nearly there.’

‘It’s not like she’ll remember if it’s not pre-assembled anyway.’

Ted looks up to camera. ‘You go to bed, then. There’s nothing stopping you. You don’t have to stay up.’

‘What? And miss you taking a chomp out of Rudolph’s carrot? You have to be kidding.’

‘I told you. I don’t like carrots when they’re cooked. I’m certainly not eating one raw.’

‘But it’s for Ella. What will she think to come down and find Rudolph hasn’t eaten the carrot she left out?’

Ted. Straight to camera. Eyebrows up. ‘Like you say, I doubt she’ll remember. Besides, you need the folic acid.’

Sigh. ‘Fine. Pass it over.’

Ted picks up carrot from plate on table out of shot. Holds out carrot.

Marina’s hand comes into shot. Reaching.

Ted pulls back carrot.

‘Hey!’ Marina reaches closer.

Ted grabs her wrist. Pulls her towards him. Leans up. Face inches from screen. Closes his eyes. Kisses her.

Blackness.

Ro opened her eyes, startled to find they’d even shut, her heart pounding as her fingers found the soft pucker on her own mouth, reflected back to her on the screen.

She sat in silence, calming herself down. W-why . . . why had she . . . ? She shook her head and pushed herself off the stool angrily. She was overtired, that was it. It was gone eleven and she’d worked far too late, that was what it was. It was only Monday and she’d already worked fourteen hours this week.

Hump had said he was out tonight, which was all the more reason for her to stake her claim on the sofa. She switched off the screens with fierce stabs, grabbed her bag and went home. She needed a beer.

It was 11.35 a.m. and Ro was sitting in the child pose, breathing like a professional, like she’d been doing it all her life, when the door opened and someone entered. The lesson was more than halfway through – what was the point of coming now? she wondered irritably – but she kept her eyes closed, desperately and determinedly trying to find Matt in her subconscious. She had to find him today. She’d slept badly, agitated and upset by her body’s own betrayal last night, trying to understand why she had imagined kissing Ted back as he moved in to the camera while she sat alone in the studio in the dark. Were kisses like yawns – contagious, maybe? For God’s sake, him, of all people!

But she couldn’t sink down thanks to the sudden hard slap of expensive shoes hitting the wooden floor. She couldn’t float away as she heard the gentle pad of manicured bare feet lightly running over. She couldn’t drift into her subconscious over the jingle of pretty hippy bracelets as hair was quickly tied in a topknot, and by the time Ro felt the soft breeze as a mat was thrown out and unfurled beside her, she knew the intruder by name.

‘What are you doing here?’ Ro whispered back, still keeping her eyes closed and privately giving herself a brownie point for putting on her new sleek olive yoga kit. ‘It’s Tuesday morning.’

‘I know that. I’ve got a meeting in an hour. Thought I’d try to chill beforehand.’

A meeting out here? Ro listened to the sound of Bobbi inhaling deeply and knew from her movements that she was running through some warm-up stretches.

Melodie began moving the class through some salutations and Ro got onto her knees, looking across finally at Bobbi, who was wearing a white crop top and navy hot-pant-style shorts, her body doubled over, her nose taking a well-earned rest on her knees.

‘It’s so dark in here. What’s with all the gloom?’ Bobbi whispered again, turning her cheek onto her knees so that she could look at Ro.

Ro, who was upside down in downward dog, tutted lightly. ‘It allows the mind to rest from external stimulation and helps with the meditation. We all like it.’

The ‘we’ sounded cliquey and she flashed a brief smile to take any sting out of the words, but Bobbi wasn’t looking. She couldn’t take her eyes off Melodie. Ro closed her eyes again, trying to engage with the light inside her.

‘She looks good for her age, don’t you think?’ Bobbi whispered, sitting up from her stretch and joining in with the rest of the class.

‘She’s only forty-one. Hardly a pensioner,’ Ro whispered as they slid from downward dog into a plank.

‘Check out her toe ring. That stone’s citrine. Pomellato, if I’m not mistaken. Probably, what, eight thousand? Just on her toe.’

‘You are obsessed. Melodie isn’t remotely acquisitive. She’s a very spiritual woman.’

Ro fell quiet, still disquieted from the dinner party at the weekend. Bobbi and Brook’s continued high spirits and private conversations had persisted throughout the meal, long after the open-table topics had ended and the plates had been cleared. Bobbi had insisted she had only been ‘being polite’ as Hump teased her all the way home. Greg hadn’t said a word, and Ro had a bad feeling about what might happen if Brook’s showman ego and Bobbi’s ambition were given further opportunity to merge.

The class repeated the sequence, pushing back into a downward dog again. Ro felt the sense of calm trickle down her as she focused on her breath, trying to loop it in one continuous, fluid motion, and by the time they started on the salutation seals, ten minutes later, she wasn’t even aware of Bobbi’s competitive meditation beside her. It was beginning to happen again, the peace that settled upon her during the class transporting her across continents and time zones . . .

Ro sighed, losing her concentration again. ‘We’re nearly done. Honestly, I don’t know why you bothered coming.’

The Wölffer? The night Ro had met Brook for the first time – and Bobbi had been there too. Could they have met there, before the dinner? Was that why Bobbi had been so curious about him? Why she’d been so nervous about what to wear?

Bobbi looked across at Ro. ‘If I can pull it off, it’s just the kind of new business I need to bring in to make the partners sit up and take notice.’

‘I know, right?’ Bobbi deadpanned, as they rolled onto their backs to the bridge position, hips in the air, arms by their sides. ‘Hey! Is this giving me a double chin?’ Bobbi demanded.

‘Can’t. See,’ Ro muttered, more concerned with not being smothered by her breasts, which had slid up her chest and were making breathing difficult. What was it with yoga that made apparently reflexive behaviour strained?

They relaxed into the final pose – the Shavasana – lying flat on the floor, palms up, and Ro closed her eyes for the last time, trying to forget about Bobbi’s ambitions and push herself back down into a lucid mental state. She had to find Matt today; she had to have some feeling of connection with him to hold on to. What had happened in the studio last night was nothing to do with Ted Connor, she knew that. It was just a reflection of her loneliness. The affection she saw between Ted and Marina was a mirror to her and Matt, and she missed his touch. She missed being touched so badly she wanted to cry – back slaps from Hump on the way to the fridge didn’t count. Matt had been so certain that their reunion sex would more than make up for his absence, but she had never counted on feeling so physically isolated that a yoga class would be her only escape from the loneliness.

She inhaled as deeply as she could; her ribcage spread gratifyingly wide with each inhalation, the lotus oil and gamelan background music pulling her to a land that was as dark and ancient as this one was bright and shiny and new. Matt was in there somewhere; she could sense him, like smoke in the mist. But even as the familiar feeling of safety settled over her, something was wrong – she couldn’t see his face.

The class had ended now. People could get up when they felt ready to. Most took advantage of the peace to lie there for a few minutes longer, but beside her, she heard Bobbi jump up and dash across the room, determined to be first at the water cooler. Ro opened her eyes, jolted back to reality once again, and stared bleakly at the ceiling. No matter what she did, it was going to be yet another day without him.

Ro turned, her newly purchased yoga mat on her shoulder narrowly missing knocking over a white mannequin in a $1,000 dress. Florence was walking towards her down Newton Lane, a cardboard roll under her arm.

Ro beamed, grateful for yet another diversion to keep her from going back to the studio – the scene of last night’s crime. She didn’t want to see Ted Connor’s face when she hadn’t been able to find Matt’s, and she’d hopped on her bike straight after Melodie’s class, adamant that she couldn’t go another minute without owning her own yoga mat. She’d do anything to delay pressing ‘play’ again.

‘I’m free. I was just putting up my ads, at last.’ She pointed to her advert, now hanging in the window of the hardware store, and showed off one of the high-quality cards Hump had sweet-talked his printer into doing as a small run, for her to leave in the smarter galleries.

Florence nodded approvingly. ‘Well, we’d better hurry, then – before your phone starts ringing off its hook.’ She tapped the large tube under her arm. ‘This warrants a coffee and a muffin – my treat. We need to admire the fruits of our labour.’

They wandered into the Golden Pear, Ro grabbing them a table at the back where there was more space and the tables were larger, while Florence poured them each a coffee from the orange-rimmed percolators – signifying the French roast – and carefully chose the two best-looking gluten-free banana muffins.

Ro, who had picked up a free copy of the East Hampton Star on the way in, began absently scanning the news as she waited.

Suspicious School Visitor Is Arrested

East Hampton Village’s police chief this week explained the sequence of events that led to the arrest of a father who visited the John Marshall Elementary School on June 29 and allegedly identified himself in the parking lot as a New York City police officer . . .

Sandy Left Vacationers Wondering, How Are the Beaches?

It’s the first question being put to employees working the phones at Montauk’s beachfront motels this summer. The good news is that reservations are strong. The scary news is that such a strong tourist season has such a shaky foundation . . .

Vigorous Debate Over Town Manager

The question of whether a manager or administrator is appropriate and advisable for the town of East Hampton was the subject of a lively debate at the village’s Emergency Services building on Saturday. The ninety-minute forum provided residents with a range of opinions from elected officials and others . . .

Ro was about to move on to the next story when her eyes caught sight of a name in the text. She leaned in closer.

Support for a change in the organizational structure has argued that since its inception, the local town government has grown in complexity to the point where it is believed management of the administrative details of government should be in the hands of professionals. The Town Board spends ‘an inordinate amount of time on administrative details, many of which people are truly not qualified to do, but it’s part of the job’, said one reformer, who asked not to be named. Supporters cited the $24-million deficit that pushed the town to the brink of bankruptcy, accrued three years ago under the leadership of Florence Wiseman, saying it would not have occurred under the steer of a qualified administrator and that questions were still unanswered over the handling of the issue, particularly the $3-million black hole that remains unaccounted for . . .

‘Here we go,’ Florence said, setting down a tray with the coffees and muffins.

Ro looked up, quickly folding the paper away, but not before Florence caught sight of the headline.

‘Oh.’ She drew her lips into a thin line as she sat down slowly, her back to the room. ‘Well, that ruined my breakfast this morning.’ She shook her head slowly.

Ro blushed, embarrassed that Florence had caught her hunched over it, reading it avidly as though it was a gossip column. Florence had been one of the first people to show her kindness and friendship since arriving here and this was how she repaid her? But a $3-million black hole . . . ? She couldn’t not ask about it.

‘May I ask what happened?’ Ro took her coffee cup and wrapped her hand round it.

Florence busied herself with stirring her coffee and was quiet for a long while. ‘We made some bad calls,’ she said finally. ‘Invested too heavily in a highway-maintenance scheme that was later badly damaged by Sandy anyway, so that was money down the drain. We privatized the recycling programme hoping to make some savings, but it was a complete fiasco during the changeover: some people had no collections for over a month, and with the costs of trying to put it right, we ended up spending more than we ever could have saved . . .’ Her brow furrowed. ‘It was just a bad year. We couldn’t do right for doing wrong. We overspent, borrowed too much . . . There were too many people writing cheques. It was shambolic – I readily put my hand up to it . . .’ She inhaled sharply, meeting Ro’s gaze with watery eyes. ‘And I was having problems in my personal life. I was there in name only. I was grieving and . . . not myself.’ Her voice faltered, but she stared back at Ro with wet, determined eyes. ‘It was the first and only time I’ve ever given less than my all to the town, but I take full responsibility. It happened under my watch. When we discovered the money was missing, I offered to resign, but the board gave me a vote of confidence.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, nearly all of them, anyway. Some members saw it as the perfect opportunity to try to get rid of me; they see me as getting in their way. I’m a stickler for making sure our rules are fair to everyone – not just the rich weekenders – and that they’re rigorously enforced. It doesn’t always make me popular, especially when there’s money involved.’

‘It’s still missing. We’ve brought in a team of forensic accountants to try to trace it.’ She shrugged. ‘It appears to have been taken in small deposits, rather than one lump sum – that’s why it’s taking so long to trace. There’s just so many accounts to work through . . . Hundreds, in fact, some moving just a few dollars. There’s been a full investigation and inquiry. I was exonerated of any wrongdoing, but . . . mud sticks, doesn’t it? And until they find the money, the whiff of suspicion hovers over me.’

Ro put her hand on Florence’s arm lightly. ‘But that’s terrible. Surely no one who knows you could think you’re capable of something like that . . .’

‘My true friends don’t, of course, but to those for whom I’m just a public official . . .’ Florence chewed her inner cheek. ‘I think it’s the size of the loss that makes people wonder whether maybe there’s some truth in it.’

‘Well, doesn’t it strike you as odd that the number’s so . . . small? I mean, if you were going to defraud the town accounts, why take such a measly sum?’

‘If you’re going to go to the trouble and risk of stealing it, why not take thirty million dollars? That would still be insignificant enough to stay below radar for a long time, certainly long enough for the thief to cover their tracks and disappear. But three million?’ She pursed her lips together tightly. ‘It’s almost a domestic sum.’

Ro frowned again; she couldn’t fathom this world where $3 million was almost considered pocket change. ‘So what are you saying?’

‘I’m saying that I don’t think whoever took the money actually wanted the money. I think they took it either hoping to frame me for it or, at the very least, make me look incompetent slash suspicious – delete as appropriate.’ She shrugged. ‘Either way, my reputation’s shattered.’

‘Transparently, yes. The authorities were able to establish pretty quickly that I don’t have it in any of my accounts, unless of course I’m secretly some technological mastermind capable of siphoning money through hundreds of offshore accounts.’ She smiled. ‘And given my callouts to my IT support company for help with my email account, I don’t think that’s an avenue they’re actively exploring.’

There was a long pause as Ro digested the hypothesis. Frankly, it seemed almost egoistic on Florence’s part to believe that someone would go to such lengths to smear her, that they would steal $3 million and not even want it.

The sudden scraping of a chair being pushed back made Florence stop, sitting straighter in her chair as she looked across at the people sitting nearby. A middle-aged couple were standing up, a newspaper rolled under his arm, sunglasses on the top of her head.

But Florence just shook her head. ‘No, I’m being a blabbermouth, forgetting myself. I’m too indiscreet sometimes,’ she said, shutting the conversation down as though remembering where they were. ‘This is neither the time nor the place for this conversation, but . . .’ She patted Ro’s hand. ‘I do appreciate your loyalty, Ro.’

Ro felt disappointed that she had to let the matter drop. Florence’s theories were almost more dramatic than the actual crimes. ‘Well, I think you and I got the measure of each other very quickly, Florence.’ Ro shrugged lightly.

Florence looked touched as she reached down for the cardboard tube. ‘Anyway, on to some fun business,’ she said brightly, pulling out the poster and pinning it flat at the corners with the saucers and plates.

‘Ace!’ Ro gasped, taking in the lustrous quality of the finished product, which her printout hadn’t been able to achieve. Ro looked at Ella’s image – her blacked-out silhouette telling nothing more than that she was going to be tall, and her hand around her brother’s revealing that she was kind. It was strange seeing her again, now that Ro had been privy to such seminal, intimate moments in her life. Ro smiled at the recollection of Ted engaged in the tug-of-war with the pug over the kite, her grandparents’ pride as they took turns holding her, her beloved pink pig, Binky. Did she still have it?

The sudden shout made Ro look up, just as she saw a man advancing towards her, his face twisted in a vicious sneer. He was wearing jeans and a blue hoodie – the hood pulled up, his arms up in the air like he’d thrown out a sheet across a bed. Ro saw something coming towards her. She couldn’t work out what it was: there was no time. She was just up and out of her seat, blocking Florence from the impact of whatever was coming.

She screamed as, in the next second, her skin stung like it had been ripped from her face and arms at once. Florence screamed too, rising from her chair, trying to support Ro as she toppled back against the table, coffees and muffins crashing to the floor, making more noise, more mess, more heat.

Ro felt like her skin was on fire, taut and raw. Someone grabbed a tablecloth from the neighbouring table and ran at her again. She blanched, unable to react in time, paralyzed now. She heard a man shout, ‘Get this off quickly!’ and felt hands rip her T-shirt away like it was made of paper, the tablecloth pressed against her scalded skin.

‘Soak another one in cold water! Get it out here now!’ the man demanded, sending the waitress running out to the kitchen.

Ro began to shake as the shock set in. What had happened? Her skin felt scorched and tight, several sizes too small.

‘Oh my God, how could this happen? Who would do this?’ Florence was crying, the manager’s arms around her as everyone clamoured for a better look, some people taking photos on their phones.

‘Did anyone see his face? Do you have CCTV?’ the man demanded. He still had his arms around Ro, holding the tablecloth to her.

‘For Chrissakes,’ the man muttered furiously. ‘It’s OK, Ro, we’ll find out who did this.’

He knew her name? Ro looked up and saw that she was in Ted Connor’s arms. Again.

Ro stepped out of the cool bath, shivering, wrapping herself carefully in the pima cotton dressing gown that someone had just happened to have bought from the Monogram Shop over the road and generously given her as a cover-up. The cotton felt good against her vulnerable skin, and she could tell just from the feel of it that it would have been expensive. The kindness of strangers. They weren’t all bad, then?

She felt the tears flow again and sat on the edge of the bath, letting them fall. Her hand, forearms and neck had been worst affected, her face mainly protected – bar a few drops – by her instinct to raise her arms. Thankfully, Florence hadn’t been hurt at all. The situation would have been even worse if it had been her thinner, more fragile skin that had been scalded.

The paramedics had said she’d been lucky – she had mainly first-degree burns, apart from on her arms, which had second-degree severity and would probably blister within the next few days. She didn’t feel lucky. A stranger with a coffee pot? Wrong time, wrong place. Bloody unlucky.

Ted Connor had driven her and Florence back to Hump’s house, Florence increasingly agitated by what had passed and Ro’s injuries. They were downstairs now, Hump trying to soothe the older woman with cups of camomile tea and Rescue Remedy as he’d ordered Ro into the deep, cold bath he’d drawn for her. The shock on his face as he’d opened the door to them had almost been one of the worst things.

She wiped her eyes and opened the bathroom door, pausing to listen for noises downstairs. Hump’s voice drifted to her ear and she could tell from his tone he was calming Florence down, fully back in the doctor mode he’d walked away from, apparently without a backward glance.

She walked lightly over the landing to her bedroom, dodging the creaky boards – she knew where they all were now – not wanting to alert them that she’d got out of the bath. It was Matt she wanted to speak to, Matt she wanted to comfort her. Much as she loved Hump, only Matt could make her feel better.

She walked straight over to the laptop set up on the pine chest of drawers and pressed the Skype button, waiting for the distinctive bubbly underwater-sound dial tone to fill the room. She held her breath, staring at his Skype ID picture on the screen, as it rang. She needed him desperately now. More than she’d ever needed him. He had to be there. He had to be. Pick up.

‘Dammit, Matt, where are you?’ she screamed, kicking at the chest of drawers furiously as the line disconnected, all her pent-up rage and frustration and fear tumbling over each other in a tangled ball that left her breathless and exhausted. ‘I need you! Where the fuck are you? You can’t not be here. You can’t!’ she cried, her hands balled into fists, tears streaming down her face as she leaned on her forearms – forgetting – before crying out from the pressure against the burns. ‘Ow! OW! Bastard!’ she railed, sinking to the floor in dejection, sobbing.

‘Rowena.’ The voice was quiet, so quiet she hardly registered it over her sobs and the sound of blood rushing in torrents through her head. She felt so unbelievably angry, as though the heat in her skin was boiling her blood, and she realized she was pounding the floor with her fists.

It was only the soft touch of skin on hers that made her stop. She looked at the hand closed gently round her wrist and knew she had seen it before. On the film . . . She opened her eyes. Ted Connor was kneeling beside her, his head dipped beneath hers, trying to get her to look at him. His face as close to hers now as it had been on the screen last night as he’d leaned in for the kiss.

The shock of the visual echo stunned her into stillness. ‘Hey,’ he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips, his voice so quiet she was forced into silence to hear him. She watched his eyes travelling over her face and knew she must look hideous – as red and blotchy from crying as the rest of her was from the scald.

He helped her stand, his arms supporting her as she walked to the bed. For some reason, her legs couldn’t stop shaking and she felt as boneless as jelly. She got to the side of it and hesitated. She was nude beneath the robe.

‘I’ll turn round while you . . .’ he said quietly, turning his back to her.

Quickly, she slipped off the robe and slid between the sheets. They felt cool against her skin, which felt like it was trapping fire beneath the dermis.

‘OK,’ she croaked, holding the sheet close to her neck, still shivering slightly, paradoxically.

He turned back, handing her a white caplet and the glass of water from the table. ‘Painkiller. Hump says to take these regularly, every four hours, OK?’

She leaned up on her elbow, swallowing the pill like an obedient child as her body began to realize it was spent – Matt’s absence the proverbial last straw on today. Ted took the glass from her, and she lay back on the pillow, silent tears streaming from the outer corners of her eyes, forcing them shut.

Occasional hiccups punctuated the silence, but she was too far removed from herself to care about little indignities today.

‘I’ll let you sleep,’ Ted murmured after a moment, intruding into her oblivion, and she realized she’d already forgotten he was there. Sleep was claiming her fast, as adrenalin gave way to a smothering exhaustion.

‘Don’t go. Not yet,’ she mumbled, and she turned her hand so that her fingers caught his. ‘Please stay, just a little longer.’ She felt sleep rolling up from her feet, making her body heavy, drowsy, even her mind just filling with a tempting empty blackness. She felt him hesitate, then relax, felt the weight of his body dropping onto the side of the mattress.

‘I’m so tired of being alone,’ she murmured, almost incoherent now, barely aware of his hand lightly stroking the back of hers.

She couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t trust her own ears when her body was so fugged with pain and fright and shock. But she thought she heard him say two words as she dropped into the chasm she so desperately craved. ‘Me too.’

Chapter Seventeen