Our Last Summer by Jennifer Joyce
Chapter 23
Is it classed as stalking if you keep refreshing the social media of your ex simply to check that they’re doing okay after your break-up? Otis hasn’t posted much over the past few days – he posted about the new Premier League and Mo Farah at the World Athletics Championships over the weekend, nothing really to give a clue about his mental state – and though I know he will be okay, I can’t rid myself of the squirm of guilt. I’m so distracted by Otis and the niggling shame, I don’t notice the buzz of apprehension about the office until the tapping of Mel’s foot grows to such a crescendo that he’s in danger of wearing a hole in the carpet.
‘Sorry.’ Mel runs his hands over his face, his foot now still after I’ve jokingly threatened to chuck him out of the window if he doesn’t stop with the jiggling.
‘Do you need a hand with anything?’ There’s a spreadsheet up on Mel’s computer screen but I don’t think he’s made any changes to it and he’s been staring at it for at least twenty minutes.
He shakes his head. It shakes far longer than necessary and I’m under the impression he isn’t going to speak when he finally opens his mouth. ‘No. Thanks. Everything’s fine. Thank you.’
Mel doesn’t look or sound fine, but I don’t push it. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’
Mel smiles, but it’s tight, fleeting. ‘That’d be lovely. Thank you.’
His foot’s jiggling again before I’ve even stood up.
The staff kitchen is along the corridor. It’s quite a small space, with basic features – a sink, kettle, microwave and a tiny under-counter fridge – and it’s crammed with people right now: office staff, housekeeping, restaurant and kitchen staff, all huddled together with the hum of several conversations competing to be heard. There’s no way I can edge my way through the small crowd to the kettle.
‘What’s going on?’ There’s a waitress closest to the door and it’s her I aim my question at, but it’s the head of housekeeping who answers, shuffling around in the tight space so she can face me.
‘The castle’s being sold.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ There was a rumour recently about this, which explained the weird atmosphere on the day Gillian offered me the chance to work on the Christmas Food and Drink Festival. Heather told me about the gossip doing the rounds later that day but it wasn’t true then and it isn’t true now.
Linda tilts her chin in the air and observes me through narrowed eyes. ‘How would you know better than any of us?’ The head of housekeeping didn’t like me when I was a chambermaid. She’s liked me even less since I moved to more administerial roles. Obviously I can’t tell her how I know – for a fact – that Durban Castle is not being sold and that none of our jobs are at risk.
‘Gillian assured me.’ It sounds weak. Naïve. And Linda chuckles accordingly, shaking her head in a pitying way.
‘Of course she did. She doesn’t want speculation or mass panic. But where is she? Where’s she been this past week? Jetting off to meetings, that’s where. She’s barely been here. Though, obviously, she was here just long enough to assure you that the rumours are false.’ She gives me a long look, her head tilted to one side and a small smile on her face, before she turns her back to me.
I try to battle my way through to the kettle but everyone is too tightly packed in and I give up, heading back to the office empty-handed. I explain the situation to Mel, whose nervy foot-tapping is now understandable. I tell him what I told Linda but he’s as convinced as the head housekeeper and his foot continues to drum against the carpet for the rest of the day. Maybe it’s the drumming sending me up the wall or maybe it’s Linda’s absolute certainty that I’m wrong, but by the time I leave the hotel that evening, I’m starting to doubt myself too. What if I’ve meddled too much in the past and the castle is being sold due to the ripples of the butterfly effect? It would mean everyone would lose their jobs and I’d miss my opportunity to fly off to a new life in LA.
I walk the long way home, heading across the footbridge and along the lane alongside the woods until I reach the cul-de-sac of new-builds that have popped up since last summer. A new horseshoe-shaped road has been built, with four- and five-bedroom houses lining the outer edge and smaller two- and three-bedroom houses opposite on the inner edge. All of the houses are detached, built from red bricks with pitch-roofed porches above the doors and garages attached to the side. Once they’re finished, neat little squares of lawns will finish them off and trees will be planted along grass verges between the pavement and road. Four years ago – or two years from this point in time – Tomasz and I had been standing on the pavement, him looking wistfully at the house with the cherry-red door. It was one of the smaller houses on the inner side of the curved road, because even our fantasyland was hampered a little bit by reality. There was no way we could afford one of these places – the deposit alone would gobble up our savings.
‘This would be the ideal place to bring up a family.’
‘I thought we were going to America.’ I’d rested my head on his shoulder, still looking across at the houses. They were uniform, with only the gardens marking them apart, showing off the personality of the occupier. The house with the cherry-red door had an overgrown lawn, which could have looked messy compared with the manicured lawn of the neighbouring gardens, but it was bursting with wild flowers, giving off a tousled, bohemian look. It was chaotic but natural and I liked it.
‘We are. But you never know – you might miss Little Heaton so much you want to come home.’
I’d laughed. An unattractive spluttery snort because I couldn’t ever imagine wanting to come back here. Even with this beautiful, wild flowered house, with this beautiful man and our beautiful children. It seems a bit silly now, but I really couldn’t imagine escaping this dull little village and wanting to return.
‘Not long now. Two weeks.’ He’d kissed the top of my head and we’d started to wander back along the horseshoe-shaped path. Back to reality, where we rented a one-bedroom flat above the charity shop.
I stand on the pavement of the house with the cherry-red door now. There are no wild flowers in the garden yet and it makes me a bit sad. The two weeks between Tomasz’s daydream and our move to America didn’t feel like a very long time but a lot would happen in those couple of weeks. I’d lose Ed and when I did move to America it would be on my own.
Dad’s tending to his salad crops out in the garden and Gran’s watching The One Show when I get in. Mum, Gran tells me with a face so scrunched up in distaste it’s in danger of turning itself inside out, is out ‘getting squiffed on mother’s ruin’ with ‘that friend of hers’ (who should know better, being the daughter of a vicar, apparently). I leave Gran in the company of Matt Baker, Alex Jones and their guests, and head upstairs to shower. By the time I’m out, Heather is home and lounging on my bed, reading the postcard Ed sent me from France. She holds it up, her eyebrow quirking in question as I toe the bedroom door shut behind me.
‘When are you two going to get it on?’
‘Never.’ Making sure the towel is tucked in securely, I pick up the postcard and prop it against the America jar, which is more of a symbol than an actual saving device by this point. There isn’t much in there – a few quid in loose change – but my savings account is starting to look quite healthy. Changing my mind, I pick up the postcard and slip it under my mattress. It feels safer there with Ed’s words tucked away.
‘But you’re single now. Why dump Otis – who was fine, by the way – for nothing? And has Ed ever had a proper girlfriend?’
‘No offence, Heather, but I’d quite like to get dressed, so can you bog off?’
Heather ignores my request and tucks her feet under her calves so she’s sitting cross-legged on the bed. ‘Have you heard?’
‘Have I heard what?’
She gives me a withering look, like she can’t believe I don’t know what she’s talking about. ‘The hotel. The castle. It’s being sold and turned into a casino.’
‘I hadn’t heard that one.’ Though I’ve heard everything else that the castle is apparently being developed into today, including flats, a cinema and my favourite of all, an immersive ‘haunted castle’ theatre, which sounds amazing and I sort of wish the castle was being sold for that purpose.
‘I think I’d make a good croupier.’ Heather straightens her spine and adopts a serious expression. ‘I just need to learn how to play poker and stuff. Do croupiers do poker?’ Her serious expression slides, her brow furrowing.
‘I have no idea but you’d be wasting your time learning to play either way.’ I sit down on the bed, my hand holding my towel in place. I don’t think either of us wants me to flash a boob. ‘The castle isn’t being sold.’
‘That’s not what Aggie said. She said Marv had told her that Gillian Quinn had told Gio that the castle is being sold but he has to keep it a secret.’
‘Well, Gio’s done a fantastic job with that.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Trust me, Heather. The castle isn’t being sold.’
‘We’ll see.’ Heather uses a sing-song tone. I don’t tell her that I have seen, and that the castle isn’t being sold and turned into a casino. It will still be a hotel six years from now. In fact, it’ll be the venue for Heather’s wedding. The voice inside my head is confident on this. I wish I felt as sure that I hadn’t stuffed it all up with my time-hopping.
‘What does it matter to you anyway? It’s only a summer job. You’ll be out of here at the first chance you get once you’ve qualified.’
Heather shrugs. She uncrosses her legs and pulls her knees up towards her chin. ‘I don’t think I’ll go that far, actually.’
‘Why wouldn’t you?’ I frown, confused by my sister’s U-turn. I thought we were on the same page on this, at least back then, before Heather found the love of her life and decided to stay. I’d thought returning to Little Heaton had been a compromise, not a desire.
She shrugs again. ‘I guess I just miss it when I’m away at uni, and once you’ve lived in a mouldy flat next door to a squat, being back in Little Heaton isn’t so bad. It feels cleaner, for a start. And quieter.’
‘You don’t strike me as the kind of person who likes a quiet life.’
Heather gives me a hard stare. ‘Our neighbours played happy house music at top volume, night and day. I’d take silence over that any day. And I’m not saying I’ll stay right here in the village but I’d like to be close enough to Mum and Dad. And even Gran.’ Heather grins at me. ‘Nobody slags off the contestants of Love Island like Gran. She’s pure comedy gold when she gets going.’
‘What about me?’
She nods at the America fund jar. ‘You’re out of here. Off to live your best life in the States.’
‘Yeah.’ I try to push a smile on my face, ignoring the gnaw of loneliness that’s still fresh in my mind, reminding myself it will be different this time. ‘I am.’
Heather isn’t the only one in the village convinced the castle is being sold. There’s a buzz as I step into the pub that evening, and it isn’t the usual beer-induced merriment. The air is thick with tension and chatter, surging out from the group huddled around one of the larger tables at the back of the pub. The group is headed by Irene Nowak, who’s standing up, facing the crowd with her fist lifted in the air as she gives a rousing speech.
‘What’s going on?’
Tomasz is behind the bar, one of only three people – myself included – not gathered in front of his grandmother. He’s still wearing a plaster-flecked T-shirt so I’m assuming he’s been roped in to help after work while the others are assembling around Irene.
‘They’re selling the castle. Knocking it down, apparently, and building more houses. Gran’s not happy about it.’
We both turn towards the group, where Irene is red-faced as she delivers her passionate sermon. I hear the words ‘legacy’, ‘immoral’ and ‘utter bastards’.
‘She’s organising a revolt, starting with a protest tomorrow.’
I remember the protest. Half the village set up camp outside the castle gates with placards and flasks of tea, and Irene chained herself to the iron rail. It made the front page of the local paper, something Irene was fiercely proud of even when it turned out there had never been any plans to sell the castle, never mind flatten it to the ground.
Tomasz pulls a face. ‘Should I have told you that? What with you working at the hotel?’ He waves the worry away. ‘Never mind. You should be at the front of the protest with the biggest banner. It’s you who’ll be out of a job if it goes ahead.’
I’m about to assure him that it won’t be going ahead, but keep my gob shut this time. Irene had been in her element during the protest and she’d revelled in rallying everyone’s support. The photo from the newspaper had been used on the order of service at her funeral and I can’t take that away from her.
‘You could be in a job if it goes ahead.’ I point at Tomasz’s work shirt. ‘New houses need plastering. Maybe it’s you we need to keep out of the loop.’ I narrow my eyes, trying to keep the rest of my face neutral as I tease him. ‘The enemy within.’
‘Damn it, my cover’s blown.’ Tomasz leans his elbows on the bar and presses his palms together. ‘Please don’t rat me out to Gran though. She’ll have me strung upside down by my nuts from the castle’s turret if she finds out I’m a traitor to the cause.’
‘Your secret is safe with me.’ I mime zipping up my lips.
‘What secret’s that then?’
I hadn’t sensed Sacha’s arrival but his hand appears on the bar beside me. He lounges against the bar, looking between his brother and me, a lazy smile on his face that could quickly turn into a sneer.
‘A secret that is absolutely none of your business.’ My tone is sharp and Sacha’s eyebrows rise above the sunglasses he’s wearing.
‘Ooh, touchy.’ He snorts and looks at Tomasz. ‘Who put fifty pence in the bitch meter?’
‘Don’t be a dick.’ Tomasz shakes his head at his brother. While a moment ago we were playing around and having a bit of fun, the corners of his mouth are turned down now and his brow is furrowed.
‘It’s all right. We can tell Sacha your secret.’ I look Sacha in what I hope is the eye, but it’s hard to tell with the shades. ‘But he can go first. Do you have any secrets?’
Sacha’s face remains passive, but he takes a step back. ‘Whatever. I don’t have time for this.’ He turns to Tomasz as he continues to back away. ‘Tell Mum I won’t be back tonight.’
‘Off to Nottingham?’
It could be an innocent question, but I see Sacha’s jaw tighten, ever so slightly. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even answer the question, he simply raises his hand in farewell as he turns and saunters from the pub.
‘What was that about?’
I sometimes wondered if Tomasz had been aware of Sacha and his jaunts to Nottingham, about Ronnie and everything, and I’d asked him outright after the accident. Despite his denial, there had always been the tiniest niggle that he’d kept Sacha’s secret, but he looks utterly perplexed as the door swings shut behind his brother. I’m in no doubt that he knew nothing before everyone else, and it’s a comfort.
‘Dunno.’ I shrug, acting none the wiser. ‘I was just messing around, but it sounds like he’s up to something in Nottingham. He got very touchy, didn’t he? Maybe you should ask him about it?’
It would solve the conundrum of how to keep Yvonne and Sacha apart, if she could see him for what he is before it’s too late, and it’d also prevent the accident. Because Sacha wouldn’t be in any great rush to get away that day if his secret was unveiled beforehand, and he wouldn’t take Ed with him. The accident wouldn’t happen and Ed would be saved. Tomasz could be the answer to everything.