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THE FIRST SUMMER – 2011

‘Hang on, hang on,’ Libby said, sitting forward on the rather saggy sofa in their shared house. ‘Let me get this straight. You have decided, after four months and a romantic trip to Paris, that you are going to dump Tom Gardner?’

‘I guess I have,’ Sophie said, shrugging, taking a sip of her water.

‘ Tom Gardner . The boy that pretty much every girl at Cambridge is lusting over? The boy whom you told me was the best sex you’d ever had?’

‘To be fair, he’s only my second, so…’

‘Still.’ Libby shook her head, incredulous. ‘Well, I did not see this coming.’

‘I know.’ Sophie gave a little half-smile. ‘I know, he’s great. Good-looking. Kind.’

‘So, you’re dumping him because…?’

‘It’s not really dumping. We’re only dating.’

‘Sounds like dumping to me.’

‘OK. Well,’ Sophie shifted, slightly annoyed. ‘I’m just not sure we fit, that’s all.’

‘In what way?’

She shrugged. ‘Just a feeling. He’s great. But I’m pretty sure he’s not that into me. Take Paris for example.’

‘What about it?’

‘You know. In the Louvre. He clearly didn’t want to come.’

‘So you’re dumping him because he doesn’t like fine art?’ Libby arched an eyebrow, but her tone was light, teasing.

Sophie laughed. ‘No, of course not!’

‘Because he did go with you, didn’t he? Even though he’s not a fan. That means something, surely.’

Sophie looked at her friend who seemed to be a great believer in love and fate and romance – provided she wasn’t the recipient of it herself. ‘Yeah, but he whined the whole time. I felt like his mother.’

‘Oh. Not a great turn-on.’

‘Exactly. Oh, Libby!’ Sophie flung herself back against the worn material of the decades-old sofa. ‘I don’t know. I just – we’re never going to maintain things, are we? Summer, then we’re off doing different things. And it’s Tom. You borrow him, remember? He’s not for keeps!’

Libby laughed. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Not sure. Some random idiot in a bar. It might even have been you!’

‘Oh, God. Don’t listen to her ,’ Libby joked. ‘She’ll say anything.’

‘I’m going to miss you, you know,’ Sophie said quietly now. ‘Living with you. This…’

‘Me too,’ she said. ‘Loads.’ For once, her friend didn’t make a joke. ‘Do you want me to talk to him for you instead?’ Libby said then, looking at the envelope in Sophie’s hand. ‘Or you could call him? Send a text?’

‘Come on, nobody dumps anyone by text, Libby?’

‘True.’

‘And, yes, the letter’s a bit… lame. But I wanted to explain it properly and I know if I talk to him…’

‘You’ll end up in bed?’

‘Something like that.’

She’d written the note the night before – it had taken ages even though the final letter was only three paragraphs long. Thanking him for the time together, for the trip. Asking whether they could still be friends. Breaking up with Tom Gardner, while things were still OK between them.

‘And it’s not, you know… eighteen pages – front and back?’ Libby grinned, referring to the Friends episodes they’d been bingeing over the last month.

Sophie laughed. ‘No. He’ll get through this one without falling asleep, I think.’

‘Well, I still think you’re borderline insane. But if that’s what you want, I’ll help.’

‘Thank you.’

It wasn’t that the trip hadn’t been wonderful – it had. Almost too wonderful. She’d adored Paris, loved everything about it, in fact. It was just that… the more she’d fallen in love with the city, the more she’d realised how different she and Tom were. He wanted to go to restaurants and for the odd walk but otherwise, spend all day in bed together. She – although she’d enjoyed herself – couldn’t waste the opportunity like that. She wanted to look at the art; wanted to admire the buildings. Wanted to soak it all in.

‘Are you sure that it’s not just that he’d been there before, so he’d seen it all?’ Libby said, voicing one of Sophie’s own fears. ‘Most people would be bored going round the same gallery for the twentieth time. Maybe you didn’t give him a proper chance?’

Sophie turned the envelope over in her hands, studying it. ‘The thing is, it’s not just Paris. It’s not just that we’re different. Obviously, I knew we were different when he asked me out. That can be nice sometimes, can’t it? It just seems silly to try to keep something going when everything is going to change.’

Libby nodded. ‘I suppose.’

‘Can you actually imagine Tom waiting for me? Having a long-distance relationship with me? With anyone?’

Libby laughed. ‘OK, I admit he’s not the type. But there’s a first time for everything. And you know, people find ways. Can’t one of you change your plans or something?’

‘Well, he’s off to London for that internship – and for the record, I’ve no idea how he managed to land that.’

‘Knowing people in the right places?’ Libby suggested.

‘More than likely. Anyway. Good for him. But,’ she shrugged. ‘I’ve got my teacher-training course. It’s a good one and it’s near Mum and Dad. I can’t afford to live out again ’til I get a job.’

‘Even with that massive bursary you’re getting?’

‘It’s a few grand, Libby.’

Libby nodded. ‘True.’

‘Anyway,’ Sophie said decisively. ‘There’s no future in it.’

‘Teaching?’

‘Tom and me,’ she said firmly.

‘You’re probably right.’ Libby pursed her lips together.

They were silent for a moment, then Sophie said: ‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’

‘Tom? Yeah, pretty sure he’ll find a way to move on.’

‘Don’t sound quite so confident about it.’

‘This is Tom we’re talking about. He’s basically got a huge reputation as a slag.’

‘Libby!’

‘Well, he does. You know that.’

Sophie remembered the lingering kiss they’d had on the bridge, the second night of their trip. How something had shifted inside of her; how Tom had seemed different in Paris – more attentive, somehow more grown-up. But Libby was right. He’d soon move on to the next girl in any case.

‘So really, it’s sensible,’ she said, running her finger along the seal of the envelope to make sure it was properly stuck.

‘Yep. Sensible Soph.’

‘Hey!’ she laughed. It was an ongoing joke in their group that if anyone did all the recommended reading, it would be Sophie. And she was the only one who would be up and ready for every early class, every lecture. But she didn’t think that made her boring, just driven. Sometimes all she could think about at night was the amount of debt she was accruing simply by being here. She had to make it count somehow. She didn’t have an allowance or friends in industry who could give her a job, her parents earned modestly in their little kitchen-table bookkeeping business, but they couldn’t support her and she wouldn’t want them to. Besides, there was her sister Sam, too, at home, still ploughing through her A levels.

She had her place on a teacher-training course and there would be a bursary to keep her going through that. But she was under no illusion that it would be easy. For her, there would be no gap year, no travel, no internship on astronomical pay. She wanted to squeeze every bit of value out of her degree as she could – and if that made her boring, so be it.

The conversation moved on, Libby not realising how momentous the decision was to write Tom a letter, pop it through the door of his shared digs and run, half terrified, half giggling around the corner before anyone opened the door. It was juvenile. People were meant to talk about this stuff, at least make a phone call. But whenever Sophie was with him, she couldn’t find the words. Something about his easy smile – those eyes – defeated her every time.

Tom, at least, wouldn’t be too bothered. He’d roll his eyes and shake his head. Maybe he’d feel sad for a day or two. But he wasn’t an idiot. He must know as she did that this wasn’t a love story for the ages. Just a little fling between two bored students making the most of the last weeks in student accommodation before they were spat out into the world.

The cocktail bar was buzzing with life – not the affluent customers it was probably used to, but with groups of snickering students poring over its sticky menus and laughing at the names of some of the drinks on offer. On Mondays, they did a buy-one-get-one-free hour and it never failed to attract the crowd from the ex-polytechnic.

The barmen duly pretended to smile every time a giggling eighteen-year-old requested a ‘Sex on the Beach’ with barely suppressed amusement, or nodded as if impressed when a second-year necked a couple of shots, slamming the glasses down on the counter in triumph. Only a few noticed the glazed expression in the eyes of most of the staff as they tolerated this lucrative – but extremely taxing – time each week.

The moment the hour was up, the bar would clear and the staff would quickly make the rounds with cloths and trays, gathering discarded drinks and wiping sticky surfaces. A sense of calm would return and only those who could afford the usual prices would remain.

Sophie had treated herself to a Brandy Alexander – usually a bit too calorific for her to enjoy without residual guilt. ‘Drowning your sorrows?’ Libby had said, cocking an eyebrow. Sophie had laughed as if it were a joke but in reality, she supposed she was – a bit.

This summer was going to be full of goodbyes and lasts, and scary new horizons. Nothing that had seemed fixed in her life for the past three years was going to stay in place. Friends would scatter home and they’d all be ejected into adult life, like baby birds nudged from a nest. She took another sip and felt the creamy, decadent liquid with its reassuring afterburn slide down her throat. There were a lot of sorrows to drown.

Libby had started talking to a boy at the table next to them when the hand grabbed Sophie’s. She started at the unexpected touch and looked up to see Tom, clutching at her wrist, his face serious.

‘Hi, Tom,’ she said, trying to stay neutral. She raised her glass. ‘Can’t beat happy hour!’

He took the glass from her hand and set it on a table, his expression unreadable.

‘Hey, I was drinking that!’ she said, half laughing, half annoyed.

‘I’ll get you another one,’ he said, gently tugging at her arm and pulling her towards the exit. ‘Just come. Please.’

‘What are you doing?’

She allowed herself to be led.

It wasn’t aggressive, more insistent, and as usual her skin responded to his touch with a series of tingles that shivered over her body. By the doorway, he paused. ‘Just hear me out,’ he said, as if she hadn’t already let herself be dragged out of the bar, leaving her expensive drink, to do just that.

‘Sure,’ she said.

It was still light outside. After the gloomy, electric-lit atmosphere of the bar, it was a shock. She became aware that her make-up, now no doubt punctured by beads of sweat, would look horrendous in the daylight. The day had been warm, but had cooled in readiness for evening; her shoulders, in a thin vest top, felt somehow vulnerable.

He led her opposite, out of the way of the queue of people waiting to be granted entrance. ‘I got your letter,’ he said.

She nodded, feeling herself flush.

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Oh, come on, Tom,’ she said lightly. ‘It was never going to be a long-term thing. It makes sense.’

His eyebrows furrowed. ‘What do you mean? How do you know if you never gave it a chance, Soph?’

He must be joking. This attractive, self-assured young man with a choice of bright futures ahead of him, no matter which way he turned. ‘Well, we’re leaving in a couple of weeks,’ she said. ‘Everything’s going to change.’

He raked a hand through his hair. ‘But you said…’

‘Tom. Come on. Is this just about being dumped?’

He flinched slightly at the word. She wondered whether she was the first woman ever to break up with him. That might be it. A pride thing. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I just thought… Well, things were going OK, weren’t they? Did I miss something?’

She shook her head. ‘No… I just… it’s going to be impossible. Seriously, I’m going to be teacher-training in Bedfordshire, you’ll be in the city swaggering around in a suit. What are we going to do? Meet up at weekends?’

He looked down. ‘We could,’ he said.

She touched his arm. ‘Tom, you’re a great guy. But come on. This was fun, but we’re not compatible long-term.’

‘How can you say that? You don’t know that!’

‘I can say that because it’s true. Take Paris for starters.’

‘You loved Paris!’

‘Yes, I did. And thank you so much. But we wanted different things even then. I suppose it made me realise that we are different. Different worlds, different ambitions…’ she trailed off.

‘Is this about the fucking Mona Lisa ?’ he said.

She snorted – a loud, single burst of laughter. ‘Tom. Of course not!’

‘Soph… you’re the only one I can… talk to, you know. Properly.’

‘You can talk to anyone! You barely draw breath.’

He stepped back, hurt. ‘Not like that. You know what I mean. I thought we meant something.’

Her head spun slightly as the drink began to fully hit her bloodstream. Was he being facetious? It just felt so… odd. To have someone fight for her. And he was so far above her league. It was as if it was all an elaborate joke.

‘We can still talk,’ she said. ‘We’re still friends, aren’t we?’

He nodded. ‘So that’s still a no then?’

‘No to what?’

‘Me. As your boyfriend.’

She laughed. ‘Seriously? You really want to be a couple like that? With me?’

He misread her incredulity. ‘Forget it.’

‘Oh, Tom. Don’t take it like that! I mean…’

‘No. You’re right. Incompatible,’ he said, turning.

‘Oh, come on. I just meant…’

But he was too far now, his long pace carrying him quickly along the chequered pavement.

Moments later, a breathless Libby appeared at her side. ‘Was that Tom?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You all right?’

‘Been better.’

‘You didn’t finish your drink.’ Libby handed her a plastic beaker with a light brown liquid. ‘I got a plastic glass for you.’

They looked at the rather unappetising contents. ‘Thanks,’ Sophie said, taking a tiny sip.

‘Come on, let’s go to Ballare. It’s nineties night. We can dance it off.’ Libby linked an arm through hers and Sophie pushed any thoughts about Tom to the back of her mind. He’d get over it, and so would she. Life was only just starting, unfolding before them like a treasure map, and she wanted the chance to explore it fully.