“Sorry to gatecrash like this.” Francis settles in an armchair by the kitchen fire, slender legs crossed, elegant hands curled around a steaming mug.
I let him in. What else could I have done? OK, I could’ve told him to get lost, told him Theo would rather eat rotting sea urchins than spend a single second with him, and slammed the door in his lovely face. I was tempted. Fuck, every instinct screamed at me to do it, to send Francis packing once and for all. It would have been the easiest thing in the world, and Theo would be none the wiser.
But I had no right. The decision as to whether or not to see Francis rests with Theo, and Theo alone. So I let him in.
Fists aching from the urge to knock him flat onto the driveway, I’d moved aside and led Francis along to the kitchen. I even made the bastard a cup of tea. No one can say I haven’t been brought up properly. Not that Francis needed me to show him where to go. It was painfully obvious he knew his way around just fine. Handy for Theo having this place, the perfect romantic getaway.
“What’re you doing here?” Zara asks now. She regards him through narrowed eyes, although her initial shock has worn off, helped along, it seems to me, by his display of concern over her injury.
Francis looks between us, his gaze direct. “I have to see Theo. This has gone on long enough.”
“You really hurt him,” Zara says. “I mean, really hurt him. He was in pieces.”
“You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t spent every second of every day since we broke up wondering how to put things right?” He leans forward, pleading for understanding.
I study him from my perch on the corner of the kitchen table, searching for any sign that he’s playing us. Nothing. As far as I can tell, his regret is genuine.
“What happened?” Zara’s tone softens. “Theo won’t talk about it.”
Francis examines the contents of his mug. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say, not if Theo hasn’t. It was all so stupid, a misunderstanding that got out of hand. I would never have set out to hurt him, I swear.” His voice cracks.
“We believe you,” Zara reaches out to touch his arm, “but how come you’ve waited so long? If it was a misunderstanding, you need to sort it out.”
“I tried, of course I did. Phone calls, texts… I even wrote Theo a letter. Anything to get him to hear me out. I went to Oxford several times. If I could just see him face-to-face, I knew we might have a chance. But Giles and Meredith were like bodyguards, wouldn’t let me near him. No way I was giving up that easily, though.”
“How did you know he was here?”
“I went to his house. His dad didn’t exactly invite me in for a cup of tea, but he told me where to find Theo, and that was all I cared about.” Francis lifts his head, expression earnest. “Is there any hope he’ll see me? Any at all?”
Zara pats his arm. “I’m sure he will. He’s been miserable these past couple of months. It’s obvious he still cares about you. Right, Luke?”
I flinch. What’re you asking me for? I want to fling at her. You’re the one who’s known him all your life. I’m just his plaything, a distraction to amuse him over the summer. How should I know how he feels? I thought I did, but I don’t. I stare down at my hands, balled into fists on my thighs.
“I dunno. Maybe.” The admission clogs like wet sand in my throat.
There’s a pause. I glance up to find Francis surveying me, his expression curious, assessing. After a moment, his shoulders relax.
“Thanks for saying that.” He directs his smile at Zara, before turning it on me. “And thanks for not leaving me out in the rain.”
“Everything will work out,” Zara assures him. “You’ll see.”
I say nothing. My face feels stiff, a clay mask that will crumble to dust if I so much as twitch a muscle. Does Francis have any idea how much I wish I’d left him on the doorstep? From the appraising look he gave me, I’d wager he does, or at least suspects.
Confident now that Theo won’t turf him from the cottage on sight, Francis falls into easy conversation with Zara. He asks her about school, and has her in stitches over the antics of Lord What’s-his-name of Wherever, who, if half of what Francis says is true, belongs on a psychiatric ward. Every so often, his gaze rests on me with that mixture of curiosity and puzzlement. It’s as if I’m a piece of contemporary art, fascinating but indecipherable.
And I can’t take my eyes off him. Even while despising him, despising myself, I find it impossible to tear my gaze away. It isn’t just that he’s incredible to look at, although that’s part of it. What he has is less tangible than beauty. It’s in the deceptive languor that barely conceals a vibrant energy, the rich expressiveness of his voice, the way his face comes alive when he laughs. I hate him, hate him for being what Theo wants, and yet he’s more mesmerising than anyone I’ve ever met.
No wonder Theo’s hooked on him. I never stood a chance, not really. This time with Theo, the spark I’d been so sure was beginning to catch and grow into something bright, unstoppable, was all for nothing.
The front door slams.
My head snaps up at once. Zara breaks off mid-sentence and her gaze connects with mine, anxious and a little afraid. Francis pushes himself to his feet, body rippling with tension. Our eyes converge on the doorway.
Theo appears first, a carrier bag in each hand. When he sees me propped against the table, he hesitates, biting his lip. Though he’s pale and drawn, he offers me an awkward smile. I should say something, anything, to warn him.
But it’s too late.
Theo turns, searching for Zara, and looks straight at Francis. If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it possible for him to get any paler, but he does. It’s like watching a vampire suck every last drop of blood from his face. The carrier bags slip from his fingers, thudding to the floor with the clang of glass on glass. Theo doesn’t seem to notice. He simply stares at his ex, features blank with shock.
Francis opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Giles materialises in the doorway with Meredith at his shoulder.
“Theo, what’s up with you today? That’s my wine you’re…” Spying our visitor, his face hardens. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Francis arches an eyebrow. “Ah, the faithful guard dogs.”
“Get out.” I thought Giles hated me, but the icy loathing in his voice as he addresses Theo’s ex is something else altogether.
Francis only shrugs. “I’m going nowhere. Not until I’ve talked to Theo.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Buster. Either you walk out of here on your own, or I throw you out. It’s up to you.”
“What? So you own this place now? Face it, Giles. You’re not throwing me anywhere.”
“Watch me.” Giles glares, moving to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Theo.
A grim smile pulls at my mouth. Forget all the shit he’s given me this summer. Right now, I could kiss him. Meredith, hovering in the doorway with a bulging carrier bag, snags my eye as if to say, “See? Not so bad, is he?”
Francis extends his palms in a conciliatory gesture. “Look, I’m not here to make trouble. I just want to talk to Theo.”
“And what if Theo doesn’t want to talk to you?”
“Then I’ll go and never bother you again, but I need to hear it from him. I have to be sure this is what he wants. You can’t make that decision for him, Giles. Does he even know I came to Oxford, that you and Meredith refused to let me see him?”
This gets a reaction. Theo shoots Giles a startled look, but then his gaze returns to Francis, an insect drawn to a Venus fly trap.
“You didn’t tell him.” For the first time, Francis sounds angry. “You had no right to keep that from him, either of you.”
Giles explodes. “We had every right. Do you have any idea what you did to Theo? You destroyed him, and if you think we were just going to let you come crawling back so you could hurt him all over again—”
Theo lays a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s OK, I’ll handle this.” He meets Francis’s gaze head-on. “Why are you here, really?”
“To see you.” Francis stares into Theo’s eyes and it’s like he’s transmitting his very soul across the space between them. “Can we talk, in private?”
Theo hesitates, but only for a second. There’s no standing up to a look like that. “Fine. You have five minutes.”
He pivots and makes for the door, Meredith stepping aside to let him pass. I turn away. I can’t stop Theo from going, but that doesn’t mean I have to watch. Francis hurls a triumphant smirk at Giles, and then he’s gone.
The door has barely shut behind him when Giles erupts. “What the fuck is Theo playing at? He should have let me chuck the bastard out in the rain.”
“That’s not fair,” Zara says. “Francis drove all this way just to talk to Theo, and he did seem genuinely sorry.”
“Oh, that’s all right then. So what if he messed Theo up for months? None of it matters so long as he’s sorry.”
“Giles, don’t you dare act like I don’t care about Theo. I care about him every bit as much as you do.”
“Really? You have a funny way of showing it.”
Zara tries to push herself off the sofa, but winces when she puts weight on her injured foot. She subsides onto the cushions with a glower. Meredith rolls her eyes and carries her shopping over to the worktop, where she begins unpacking it in her quiet, methodical way.
Giles starts to pace. The squeak of his trainers and the periodic banging of cupboard doors filter through to me, distant, insignificant, like the sounds you hear when you’re half asleep. My mind is elsewhere, with Theo and Francis, wherever they are. I can visualise them, alone together, Francis on his knees, face rent with regret and pain. And Theo will forgive him. How can he not? He’ll look at Francis with that softness, the softness I’ve come to think of as mine. Then he’ll kneel down in front of him, take Francis in his arms, and…
“And you.” Giles gets in my face, arms folded across his chest. “What exactly were you thinking?”
I blink, attempting to clear my head. “Huh?”
“You, letting him in like that. The moment you knew who he was, you should’ve told him to drive off the nearest cliff.”
For once, we’re in complete agreement, although I’d rather saw off my own balls with a breadknife than admit it. “Maybe I thought Theo should have the chance to decide for himself. You ever consider that?”
“Oh, but I was forgetting.” Giles’s lip curls in a sneer. “You’ve known Theo for all of a few weeks and you’re already an expert.”
“Right, whereas you know everything about him? That’s bullshit. He hasn’t even told you what happened between him and Francis, and you still think you have the right to dictate his life? You have no idea what went on.”
“No, but I saw what it did to him, and unlike everyone else here, I actually care enough never to want to see him hurt like that again.”
My fist comes up. I pull it back and prepare to swing, to land Giles one right on the jaw.
Meredith forces her way between us. “Giles, stop it. You’re not the only one here who cares about Theo. Plus, Luke does have a point.”
“Yeah, I should’ve known you’d take his side. So you think we should just let Francis come swanning back in and break Theo all over again?”
“You don’t know that’s what will happen. He might be truly sorry, like Zara said, and,” Meredith casts me a glance that’s full of apology, “if Theo’s still in love with him, don’t you think we should give him the space to try and work things out?”
Giles scowls around at the three of us, but he’s outnumbered. His shoulders sag, and he expels his breath in a long sigh. “I don’t trust him, that’s all.”
Meredith says something commiserating, but I’m in no mood to listen. I’ve heard as much as I can take. I push off the table and make for the exit.
“Where’re you going?” Giles asks. There’s a trace of something that could be regret in his tone.
I ignore him, yanking open the kitchen door, and escape into the hallway. No one comes after me. I’m grateful for that. At the foot of the stairs, I lean my pounding forehead against the cool paintwork of the wall and close my eyes, taking refuge in the quiet darkness behind my eyelids. If I’ve been through a shittier day than this, I can’t remember.
I don’t mean to eavesdrop, that’s the God honest truth. I only intend to pause for a moment, to collect myself before slipping up to my room and my iPod, where I’ll be able to blast my eardrums with Lamb of God’s Ashes of the Wake until I forget my own name.
But the door to the dining room is half open, and Francis’s voice, raw with passionate intensity, drifts out to where I’m standing just outside. “It’s the only thing that makes sense, Theo, we both know it.”
I freeze, the air stuck in my throat, waiting. Theo says nothing. Gripped by some sadistic urge to torture myself, I edge nearer the door.
When Dean and I were about eight, we slipped upstairs to his parents’ bedroom while they were preoccupied decorating the lounge, and unearthed the forbidden DVD of 28 Days Later. We watched it on Dean’s ancient fourteen-inch telly, both of us glued to the edge of the bed, rigid with fear at the horror unfolding. I wanted to pull a pillow over my head, to crawl under the duvet and hide, but pride stopped me. I wouldn’t be the first to crack. That’s how it is now. I know I won’t like what I’m about to see, and yet I have to look.
Theo has his back to the window, so I can’t make out his expression. Mere hours earlier, I’d stood in that very spot, confronting him, pouring every poisonous drop of frustration and spite into the void that separated us. Now, as I watch, transfixed, Francis steps closer, captures Theo’s face between his palms, and kisses him.
Theo doesn’t move, not right away. It’s as though Francis’s touch has turned him to stone. Then, in slow motion, like a statue come to life after an eternity, unable quite to believe his luck, he reaches up and lays his hands on his ex’s shoulders.
It shouldn’t be a shock. Deep down, the moment I found Francis waiting on the doorstep, I knew how this would play out. Still, it is. Seeing Theo with Francis, witnessing with my own eyes what everyone has been telling me all along… He may as well have set a sword on fire and plunged the white-hot blade into my gut.
A gasp hitches in my throat. It’s barely a sound, a sharp intake of breath, like when someone barges you in the school corridor, but it’s enough. Theo shoves Francis away with a force that sends him stumbling backwards. Francis steadies himself against the table and turns to study me. Though his mouth quirks in evident amusement, his eyes are slits of ice.
“Zara’s boyfriend, huh?” He raises his eyebrows at Theo, before returning his attention to me. “Is there a problem?”
“No problem.” My voice comes out flat and faraway. I look past Francis, straight into Theo’s anguished face. “I just wanted to know you were all right, but I can see you are.”
“Luke,” Theo takes a pace towards me, hands outstretched, “it isn’t—”
I turn and flee. Theo calls after me, but he can have nothing to say that I want to hear. Without pausing to think, I wrench open the front door and spill out into the storm. Drops the size of bullets pelt my cheeks, the bare skin of my arms. In an instant, I’m drenched, my jeans and T-shirt clinging to me like cellophane. It doesn’t matter. I would’ve braved an Arctic blizzard, anything to escape Francis’s smirk and the crushing weight of Theo’s guilt, the depth of his betrayal.
Clouds, thick and black, race each other across the sky, taking the last of the daylight with them. I break into a jog, head bent, hands clenched against the pain, and skirt the edge of the cottage. When I round the corner, a shadowy form looms out at me from the gloom of the undercover patio. I stumble to a halt. My heart vaults into my chest. Then the shape solidifies into something unthreatening, familiar. My surfboard. I let out a sigh of relief. It’s like glimpsing a friend in a crowd of hostile strangers.
I don’t stop to think. I yank open the board bag’s zipper and pull out my board. Slick with rain, my hands fumble with the fins, but I work fast. Any hesitation and my common sense will butt in, inform me what I’m about to do is crazy. I can’t allow it, can’t afford to. This is the one thing that has the power to help me forget.
I hoist the Spitfire onto my shoulders and run, the souls of my trainers slipping on the sodden grass. When I enter the woods, I slow down, but only a fraction. More than once, my foot connects with an exposed root and I almost go down. Dimly, I’m aware of my board bumping and scraping against bark. I’ll regret this later, curse myself for my carelessness when I inspect the damage, but the alarm bells are a distant ringing in my ears.
The instant I lurch from the trees and onto the beach, the elements re-launch their assault. A fierce wind drives me backwards, hurling rain and clumps of wet sand into my face. I barely notice, oblivious to everything but the sea. A huge steel-grey vortex, indistinguishable from the swirling clouds above, it batters itself in a frenzy against the shore. The sheer force of it, the angry ferocity, unleashes a tendril of fear in my heart.
Don’t stop. Don’t think.
I drop my board to the sand and strip to my boxers. My clothes are too wet to offer any protection from the chill and will only drag me down. My mind flashes to the wetsuit I left back at the cottage. No time to worry about that now. Frigid pellets ping off my back and shoulders. I’m shivering, but scarcely feel the cold. I take a final look at the wall of water ahead of me, imagine riding it as though on the back of a blue whale. Then I hoist my board up once more and race to meet it.
The first wave hits, a thousand icy needles to my shins. The shock snags the air in my lungs. I grit my teeth and wade deeper. The sea is like a living thing. At every step, it tugs me this way and that, having its fun with me before swallowing me whole. The beginnings of panic gnaw at my stomach. I’ll never make it. This is madness, far more advanced than anything I’ve ever attempted.
Quelling the voice of reason, I push forward. Once up to my waist in freezing water, I lower my board on to its heaving surface. Wave after wave crashes over me, threatening to tear the Spitfire from my grasp.
“No you bloody don’t.” Somehow, saying it out loud lends me strength. Jaw set, fingers clamped in a death grip on the edge of my board, I haul myself on and start to paddle.
It’s like declaring war on the Atlantic. I battle through enemy lines, sometimes losing ground, but always ploughing onwards, ducking through wave after charging wave, the ocean determined to force me into retreat. My arms and legs scream with the effort. It takes all my resolve to keep going, not to give in. Through the pain and exhaustion, I imagine I hear someone shouting my name, but it’s only the howling wind, the furious roar of the surf.
Finally, I’m through. Not that it’s much calmer even out here. The swell dips and bucks beneath me, a thoroughbred intent on throwing off an inept rider. I lie flat against my board, heart thudding, muscles on fire, and try to catch my breath. What am I doing? I’m a strong surfer, but waves this big, this powerful, will test my skill to the limit. Moreover, if anything goes wrong, if I get into difficulty, I’m on my own.
Mum’s face, serious and trusting as it had been the night before I left for Cornwall, wavers in front of my eyes. “Never, ever go out on your board without someone being close by. Promise me.”
And I promised. Guilt crushes my ribcage. I promised, and now I’m about to break my word in the worst possible way.
I could always cheat, take the easy way out and ride the waves on my belly. It would be the safe thing to do, the sensible thing. It isn’t as if I’m trying to impress anyone. Besides, no one will ever know.
I’ve made up my mind to dispense with the heroics when I glance up and see the wave rushing towards me. Fear rips a gasp from my mouth. A triple header, easily three times my height, the barrage of water advances on me with frightening speed. Adrenaline surges through me. Instinct takes over. My body moves into position, every muscle tensed. I didn’t come out here to be carried to shore like a novice. I doubt I’ll have the nerve to tackle anything this foolhardy again, and I’m going to ride it like a pro.
I wait, senses alert, every grain of concentration fixed on the waterfall hurtling closer. Before I’m expecting it, before I’m ready, it’s there, looming above me, blotting out the sky. I tense, nerve endings tingling in anticipation. Wait… Wait… Wait… Now!
The wave shifts underneath me and I move into action, launching myself to my feet in the single fluid motion that is second nature to me.
The moment I’m up, I know I’m in trouble. I’ve timed it all wrong, taken off too early. The growing darkness, the roiling sea, my own muddled brain have all conspired against me, skewing my judgement. Worse still, there’s nothing I can do to stop what’s about to happen.
In the split second before impact, the horrible truth occurs to me. I’ve forgotten to attach my leash. I cry out, a scream of pure terror. With nothing to connect us, my board slides from under me. I hit the water just as the monstrous wave slams on top of me, punching the breath from my lungs and jarring every bone in my body. I struggle, gag on a gallon of salt water. The riptide is too strong. I reach for the surface, grabbing for my board, a piece of driftwood, anything to cling on to, but my fist closes on emptiness. Then the current has me in its clutches, greedy, uncaring, and is dragging me down…down…down…
* * * * *