The Summer Without You

03/09/2011

13h19

Ella sitting in high chair. Red velvet dress. Red velvet bow in her hair, growing out lighter.

Beside her, grey-haired man in sports jacket and tie holding up her pink pig. ‘Did you drop Binky, Ella-moo?’

Ella claps, kicks her legs. Chubby now.

‘Dad, see if you can get her to say “El-la”.’ Ted.

‘Can you say “El-la”? El-la?’

Ella stares at pink pig. Out of reach. Bottom lip pushes out.

‘The other babies in the group are talking already.’

‘Talking?’ The grey-haired man keeps his eyes on Ella, waving her pink pig. ‘El-la.’

‘Well, they’re not having conversations.’ Chuckle. ‘But single words. Like Mama, Dada. She’s ahead of the curve on everything else. Marina’s worried, thinks maybe we should take her to see a specialist.’

‘A specialist? She’s nine months old, for Pete’s sake.’

‘Yes, but Marina says a lot of the other babies in her group are making sounds already. They start at any time from six months, you know.’

‘Listen, if she’s not talking yet, it’s because she’s developing in another area instead – like memory or motor control. There’s nothing wrong with her grip, that’s for sure. You worry too much, son.’

‘I guess.’

‘El-la.’

‘Tada!’ Marina. Out of shot. Camera swings over a dressed dining table. Marina walking through doorway carrying a heavy plate with a roast chicken. Silver-haired woman behind carrying tureen.

‘Lunch is served, everybody—’

‘Ta-da.’

Collective gasp. Marina looks over at Ella. Camera swings back.

‘Say that again, baby!’ Ted. Excited. ‘Ta-da. Ta-da.’

Ella reaches for pink pig, legs kicking. ‘Ta-da.’

Collective cheer. Clapping. Ella claps. Giggles excitedly.

‘Ta-da.’ All the adults, cooing. ‘Ta-da.’

‘Oh, Ted, her first word. I can’t believe it.’ Sound of plate being set down. Walks back into shot.

‘Ta-da, my sweetie. Ta-da. Ma-ma says “ta-da”.’

Ella goes quiet. Red. Redder.

‘Uh . . .’ Dad.

‘Oh . . .’ Mum.

Ella cries. Marina wrinkles her nose.

Camera shakes. ‘Tada!’ Ted. Laughing.

Blackness.

03/28/2011

11h18

Beach. Bright day. Heavy sea. Dunes. Egypt Beach?

Shaky zoom onto Ted running to the water. Rolled-up red trousers, a jumper and a down sleeveless jacket. Ella on his shoulders wearing a toddler snowsuit. Shrieks.

Runs into the shallows. Runs back out. Runs back in. Runs back out.

Ted looks up at camera. Waves.

Points camera (or Marina?) out to Ella. Ella points at camera.

Soft laugh. Marina.

Runs back into water. Runs back out. Runs back in . . .

Blackness.

03/28/2011

14h33

Same day. Ted hunched over with bucket and spade, digging deep moat round intricate sandcastle. Three towers. Cocktail umbrellas as flags. Shells for windows. Wearing red trousers – rolled up over bare feet – and a grey Ralph Lauren down gilet.

‘Are you sure the tide’s going to come this high?’ Marina. Bare feet just in shot. Raspberry-pink pedicure.

‘I checked this morning. Should hit here by three thirty-six p.m.’

‘Thereabouts.’

Ted looks up. Winks. ‘Thereabouts.’

Ella sitting on blue check blanket. Wearing pale pink snowsuit and bobble hat, with light brown tendrils peeking through. Sandy hands. Hitting empty bucket with small green spade.

Ted sits back on haunches, inspecting castle. ‘It’s missing something.’

‘National Guard? White knight?’

‘Ha, ha.’

‘Working drawbridge?’

‘Working drawbridge!’ He clicks fingers, points at Marina.

‘Ted, I was kidding!’

‘But you’re right. It’s just what it needs.’

‘It’s made of sand, Ted.’

‘Don’t be so defeatist. Where there’s a will, there’s a—’

Ella staggers into shot like drunkard. Small, lurching steps. Unbalanced.

‘Ted, the trench!’ Marina. Gasps.

Ella straddles moat. Sheer luck. Loses balance on castle wall. Falls down hard on bottom.

Castle crushed. Ted crestfallen. ‘Oh.’

Ella cries.

Blackness.

04/01/2011

14h21

Ella. On a swing. Park. Pink striped dress and cardigan. Marina pushing her. Heavily pregnant.

‘Why don’t you let me take over with that?’ Older woman’s voice behind the camera.

‘It’s OK — I’ve got it.’

‘You are worn out.’

Marina looks to camera. ‘Mom, I am fine.’

Ella kicks excitedly, little fists gripping the chain links. Pink pig on her lap.

‘When are you stopping work?’

‘Next Friday.’

‘The baby’s due a week Tuesday.’

‘I’m aware of that.’ Tight smile.

‘I’m just worried about you, mine heart.’

‘Mom! I have had a baby before. I do know how this goes.’

Silence. Ella swings back and forth.

Blackness.

Ro took off the headphones, niggled by something, and stared out into the square distractedly. There were no shadows on the grass today. A front had come in off the Atlantic, the sky colour-washed in an eau-de-nil tint and the air wet, gently misting her on her frequent coffee runs over the road.

She just couldn’t settle. The weekend’s revelation had left her reeling, although she didn’t understand why – people got divorced all the time, especially around here where more money and younger bodies were the commodities traded as a matter of course. But still, she just couldn’t reconcile what had been plain enough on Saturday night with what she was seeing on film here.

Granted, the last films she’d seen had been shot three years ago now. But could everything have fallen apart so spectacularly between Ted and Marina in that time? There was no hint of it on screen – the cheeky winks, private looks, fond teasing . . . It spoke absolutely of a couple in love and in love with their family. She thought of Marina’s mother’s comment that Marina was exhausted just looking after Ella. Was this what having kids did to people – sapping them of energy, vitality, freedom, time and destroying their relationship in the process?

She sighed, stretching her arms above her head and wondering where Melodie was. If she had been gently slipping out of her yoga routine before the attack, now it had come to an abrupt halt altogether: her recuperative confinement at home had coincided with Melodie reducing the class roster to every other day as the summer social season really kicked in and she was cornered into chairing endless swanky lunches for Brook’s business clients and charity commitments instead.

She heard the slop-slap of flip-flops coming along the boardwalk and looked up in readiness of Hump’s easygoing presence appearing at the doorway, coffees in his hands. Instead, a woman trailing two kids walked through the door, eyes widening with delight – even behind her Chanel shades – as she took in the portrait of the two young brothers on the wall immediately opposite. Ro rose from her seat and gave a big smile. Another client, sold.

‘Why don’t you come into Manhattan for the day? We could have lunch again.’

Ro flopped onto the chair and extended her legs, putting her feet on top of the chest of drawers. ‘Because I’m snowed. And as I recall, we didn’t have lunch last time: you trapped me in a dressing-room cubicle for three hours, walked me at gunpoint to the till, made me spend all my money and then cut off my hair.’

Ro chuckled, reaching up to her toes with the nail-polish brush and trying not to paint her skin. ‘It was, but I’m still snowed. I just had another commission yesterday from one of the guests at Lauren and Paul’s wedding. Besides, I thought you were flat out working on that house that didn’t fit the plot.’

‘No, steps. I’ve stepped the house with the lowest dimension looking onto the road boundary, and the top one at the back looking onto the beach.’

‘Oh. Right . . .’ Ro felt her voice thin out. Bobbi had been deliberately oblique about her new mystery client, refusing to name him. And now she was pitching to him over dinner? ‘Is that standard practice?’

‘Well, strictly speaking, no. But we’re all crazy busy and we gotta eat, right? This way, two birds, one stone.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Ro muttered, not buying that excuse for one moment. ‘And is he attractive?’

Oh no. No. No. ‘What, you mean nose hair and prostate problems?’ She tried to keep her tone light. It couldn’t be Brook. It couldn’t be. What if it was?

‘Listen, technically he’s a realtor but actually he’s way more diverse than that. He’s a really top-flight businessman, a non-exec – I checked out his LinkedIn page – and I’ve always wanted to date a non-exec.’

‘That is so the wrong reason to date someone!’ Ro spluttered. God, did everyone out here think like this? Was that why Ted and Marina had split – both of them trading up? She thought about Greg and wondered what was happening with him and Erin (who clearly did think like that). He hadn’t come over to the house at all during Independence Day weekend, although Hump had heard through friends that Greg had been in Southampton for the celebrations. (Neither of them had dared to tell Bobbi that.) His clandestine relationship with Erin was obviously still going on, but there had been no announcement made of the engagement between Erin and Todd, and Hump was beginning to think she’d entirely misunderstood the conversation.

‘Listen, there’s nothing wrong with being practical while you still can be. Make these decisions before you fall because once you’ve fallen, it’s over, done – you’ll put up with anything. I mean, look at you! Would you have gotten together with Matt if you’d known he was going to string you along for eleven years and then take a hike?’

‘Bobbi!’ Ro shrieked, half cross, half shocked that Bobbi could be that insensitive. She had built up some immunity to Bobbi’s bluntness but not a rhino hide.

‘Hey, listen, I say that with love. You are wasting your summer, not to mention your life, waiting around for him. It’s about time you start seeing the situation for what it is.’

‘A pause,’ Bobbi echoed. ‘You ever hear of anyone else ever having a pause?’

‘Y-y- . . .’ Ro stammered, wanting to say ‘yes’ but unable to think of an example.

‘No!’ Bobbi answered for her. ‘And that’s because there is no such thing.’

‘You do not know Matt. You can’t say that. I have no problem with him taking a bit of time to himself before we settle down. You’re the one who’s got a problem with it,’ Ro cried furiously.

There was a long silence – really long – Bobbi’s attempt at tact coming rather too late. ‘Well, it just makes me sad watching you, that’s all. You deserve better.’

Downstairs, Ro heard the front door slam, Hump shouting out for her. She could hear him bounding up the stairs. ‘Yeah, right. Look, enjoy dinner tonight. Whatever.’ Her tone was surly. ‘I’ll see you on Friday.’

But Ro had already hit ‘disconnect’ and was pressing her hands to her eyes, trying to stop the frustration from coming out as tears. She would not cry. She would not.

‘Hey! Knock, why don’t you!’ she spluttered, watching the surprise unfurl on his face as he took in her red eyes and tense posture.

‘S-sorry.’ He had stopped in the doorway and was hunched over, leaning his hands on his thighs for support. He was panting.

Ro sniffed, watching him and feeling the hairs on her arms bristle. Something was wrong. Hump was fit. He could run for miles without tiring. ‘Why are you out of breath?’

He looked up at her and the apology she saw in his eyes was chilling. ‘You have to come with me . . . It’s Florence.’

Ro felt clutched by cold hands. ‘What about her?’ she asked, her voice small and hollow. It was Tuesday already. She had last seen Florence on Friday and she suddenly realized she’d forgotten to look in on Monday morning, too hung-over from the weekend’s celebrations, too shocked by Ted’s surprise girlfriend, to make the short detour.

‘She’s in the hospital.’ He swallowed hard as though the words were rocks in his throat. ‘In a coma.’

Chapter Twenty-One