Page 27

THE DAY BEFORE THE SOLSTICE

IT’S NOT YET NOON BUT I’m drinking a Manor Margarita as I sit on a green-and-white-striped sunlounger beside the pool, planning my next move.

From here I can see the bay and the beach just below. In the intense midsummer light the sea has turned aquamarine, navy where it meets the horizon and the cloudless blue of the sky. The steps down to the beach ten meters below are accessorized with a little painted sign and a rope handrail. Lackeys stand ready to carry down striped-green umbrellas and matching plush towels for the guests, coolers full of drinks and gourmet snacks.

The infinity pool is a piece of Owen Dacre architectural wizardry, giving the illusion of a steep drop from the cliffs into the open sea. The tiling is a muted grayish green. I remember, from many summers ago, the old mildewed flagstones, lichen-covered water nymph statues, and a pool house crammed with random odds and sods. The past shimmers like a mirage on the water.

I recall scrabbling about for a handful of pound coins. Her shout from the sunlounger: “If you find them, you can keep them!” Then lying to dry on the warm rough stones that snagged my bikini bottoms, feeling the heat of the sun caress, then begin to bite. The scent of chlorine a sting in the nostrils.

My sunlounger’s near the “infinity” end of the pool, nearest the sea. Nearly all the beds are already taken. The ones that aren’t strewn with Instagram-flawless bodies (mainly the women) and client-account paunches (mainly the men) have been marked out by towels: no matter how rich you are, no one’s above staking out their territory like package holidaymakers.

I get up and move in the direction of the pool. I won’t put my head under. Blonde takes care, the hairdresser warned me: chlorine turns it green. That wouldn’t really work with the whole vibe I’m going for here. I climb down the steps, sink into the water. It actually feels expensive; the texture like silk. My toes touch the bottom. No slimy skin underfoot in this pool.

Afterwards, I clamber back onto the hot canvas of my sunbed. Sultry Euro house seeps from the speakers. Snippets of conversation drift over from the sunbed next to me.

“Jesus, look at the rack on that.”

“More of a leg man, personally. That foxy little receptionist—now you’re talking.”

“So you’re invested in this place, too?”

“Yeah. Put some cash into it when I sold the company. Thought I’d help sis out. We spent whole summers by the pool. Strange to be back at the scene of the crime. Of course, it was a hideous kidney-shaped monstrosity back then, nothing like this. But we thought it was the shit at the time.”

Suddenly, all my senses are on high alert.

“You’ve got to give Fran credit: she’s spruced the place up all right.”

I hardly dare to turn my head. But behind my sunglasses I glance to the right. Enough to glimpse pink swim shorts, an unfortunate match for a developing sunburn. Soft puff of stomach above the band. My gaze climbs to the expensive haircut, receding a little at the front—but not enough to disguise that distinctive shock of white hair at the crown.

Hugo.

“Shit!” Margarita slops down my chest. I dab with the corner of my towel. I’m aware of the two guys turning to look, no doubt exchanging a glance at the crazy loner drinking cocktails at this hour.

I want very much to get up and leave. But I’m suddenly so light-headed with unease I’m not sure I can manage the walk. Instead I bow my head, letting my hair fall over my face, and sit with my heart thundering in my ears. Then, with clumsy fingers, I reach into my bag and pull out my poolside reading. The decrepit old notebook stands out a little next to the finance bro tomes and Booker Prize winners everyone else is “reading” (they’re not, the books are just strewn about like sunlounger window-dressing).

I take a long slug of my drink. Turn the pages until I find the spot I’m looking for.

“Yeah, Francesca’s done a great job,” I hear Hugo Meadows’s companion say.

Thank God: they’re chatting again. I sense the spotlight of their attention receding.

“Yeah,” Hugo says. “Had to laugh at those manicured little paths going into the woods, though. When I think how we used to run about in them like total reprobates!”

“Sounds fantastic.”

“Yeah. Plenty of good outdoorsy fun in those woods.”

That last line hits like a punch in the gut.