Page 93 of High Season

Today, on the fourteenth of August, Tamara is on edge. She slopes into the kitchen where Patricia is washing dishes, and asks if Josie has any plans for her birthday. Patricia looks surprised that Tamara remembers, and says something vague about a special dinner at home.

“Sounds nice,” says Tamara.

“Yeah,” says Patricia, wary. “Yeah, it’ll be very low-key but lovely. Sixteen is a big birthday.”

Tamara nods. Hesitates.

“Hey, Patricia?” she says.

“Yes, love?”

“Did I tell you that it’s my friend’s cat’s birthday, too? I think it’d be really cool if we did her a cake.”

That night, Tamara waits at the beach until long after midnight. She sits, staring out to sea, the Tupperware of Patricia’s hastily assembled cake beside her.

Josie doesn’t come.

When the display on her watch face shows 1A.M.Tamara stands slowly, careful to keep the cake flat. She stretches out her legs, cramped from sitting for so long. She starts to walk up the hill.

Tamara has only been to Josie’s house a few times, but she knows which window belongs to her. She picks up a handful of rocks and tosses them at the glass, praying that it’s double-glazed. They bounce off with a soft smatter of sound. She waits for a minute. Nothing. She picks up another handful and tries again.

This time, a face appears at the window in seconds. Josie, sleepy, frowning down at Tamara. When she sees her standing there, her eyes widen. She pushes against the window to lift it open.

“What are you doing?”

Tamara retrieves the Tupperware from the ground and holds it out to her, an offering.

“Happy joint birthday,” she says in a loud whisper.

“Were you throwing rocks at the window?”

“Might have been.”

“I thought people only did that in films.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“I was sleeping, Tamara. I’m up early tomorrow.”

“Don’t you want to see the cake?”

Josie hesitates. Tamara can see her resolve weakening.

“What did you go for this time?”

Tamara peels off the Tupperware lid to reveal a buttercream cat with ginger fur,HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MITTENShastily iced above it.

Josie clasps her hands over her mouth to stifle a loud, wheezing laugh.

“Tamara,” she hisses, once she’s recovered. “You did not get my mum to make that.”

“I helped,” says Tamara. “And I brought two forks. Don’t make me eat Mittens on my own.”

She can see that Josie is trying hard not to smile.

“Fine,” she says. “Give me two minutes.”

THIRTY-TWO