Our Last Summer by Jennifer Joyce
Chapter 32
Waking up next to Tomasz is heaven. I didn’t think I would ever do this again and I have to pinch myself when my alarm chirps at me from the bedside table and I feel his arm sprawled across me.
I’m rooted to the spot, and not just because Tomasz’s arm is heavy with sleep and pinning me down. I’m too scared to move in case I wake Tomasz and we have to get up. Which is ridiculous because my alarm is beeping and cheeping away and is far more likely to wake him.
‘You have the most annoying alarm in the world.’ Tomasz’s words are slurred with drowsiness but there’s more affection in them than annoyance. ‘You do know that “for better, for worse” doesn’t include irritating alarms, right?’
‘I think you’ll find that if it includes your terrible singing in the shower, it definitely includes my awful alarm.’ I wriggle my arm free so I can snooze the alarm before snuggling right up to Tomasz.
‘My what singing in the shower? Did you just say … terrible?’ Tomasz’s voice is laced with mock disbelief, because we both know he is no Sam Smith. There was a loose tile above the showerhead that I used to joke about, claiming it was working its way from the wall to make a bid for escape from the terrible noise that assaulted it every time Tomasz showered.
‘Let’s just say you should be thankful the ability to hold a tune isn’t on my husband-to-be checklist.’
‘Unlike breathtakingly handsome? Because if that’s on there, you’ve hit the jackpot.’
‘I’m not going to argue with that.’ I snuggle in even closer to Tomasz and squeeze my eyes shut. I want to drift off back to sleep just so I can wake up next to him all over again.
‘We need to get up.’ Tomasz sounds as reluctant as I am to break this spell and when he attempts to sit up it doesn’t take much for him to crumple back down under the covers again.
‘Five more minutes. Ten, tops.’
‘How about forever?’
I smile, my eyes still clamped shut. ‘That sounds good to me.’
Unfortunately, my alarm barging back into our blissful cocoon with its incessant bleeps and chirps doesn’t sound nearly as good, and this time Tomasz is adamant we need to drag ourselves from the covers.
‘You can’t get sacked now when you’re so close to your promotion in LA.’
He has a point, but my emergence from the bed is lacklustre, my feet dragging as I move from our bedroom to the bathroom. We moved into the flat above the charity shop three months ago. It had been quite early on in our relationship the first-time round, when I’d waited for Tomasz to make the first move, but it had felt right. Most people had been pleased for us, and Heather had been super-pleased (‘Does this mean we can take down the wall between our bedrooms so I get the whole space?’) but Gran had been cynical about the move.
‘Isn’t it a bit soon? You’re only young – there’s no need to rush these things.’
I’d pointed out that she’d been married with three kids by the time she was my age – younger, in fact – and she’d said that times were different now, which just goes to show that you can’t win with some people, no matter what you do.
The flat is small, but not California-apartment small. There’s a tiny hallway that leads to the living areas, the bedroom, and the bathroom with the wonky tile. I shower quickly and head back to the bedroom to get dressed, leaving Tomasz to slaughter David Bowie’s ‘Heroes’. I change into a pair of trousers and a floral print pussy bow blouse before reaching into the bedside drawer and slipping out the vintage ring box. The ring doesn’t quite fit. It’s a little loose but Tomasz promises that we’ll take it into town as soon as possible to get it resized and I slip it onto my finger now, tilting my hand so that the light catches the diamonds.
‘You like it then?’ Tomasz is in the doorway, leaning against the frame. ‘Because you can choose your own if you want to. I won’t mind.’
I shake my head, still watching the sparkle of the diamonds. ‘I love it. It’s beautiful and it means a lot to you and your family.’ I drag my eyes from the hypnotic shimmer. ‘And now to me.’
I hate to return the ring to the box and confine it to the drawer but I can’t risk losing it and I really do have to go to work. My mind remains on the ring, however, and I’m imagining our wedding day when Mel drags me away from my fantasy Big Day.
‘Dreaming about life in LA?’ His voice is dripping with revulsion, and I think he’s actually going to heave as he says ‘LA’. ‘Because you’ve still got work to do here until you go. Did you finish that report?’ He looks pointedly at my blank screen. ‘Or even start it?’
There’s a couple of weeks to go until the life-changing move, but I’m still too fidgety with nerves to relax and enjoy the anticipation. There are no butterflies yet, just a feeling of dread about the life I chose the last time around, about the huge mistake I made.
‘Do you mind if I take an early lunch?’ I’m already rising out of my seat and grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair.
‘But it isn’t even eleven.’
‘Thanks.’ I shove my arms into the sleeves of my jacket as I scurry across the room, leaving Mel wide-eyed and slack-jawed. I hear him muttering as I close the door behind me (‘Gillian chose her to fast-track to management?’) but I let it wash over me. I can feel the panic rising as I rush through the hotel, my pulse racing as I clatter down the stone steps and my breaths are shallow and unproductive as I scuttle down the hill. I head for the pub but I don’t go inside. Instead, I find myself edging down the side to the drive, fear making my footsteps sluggish. There’s a strange impulse to see the motorbike even though I know that events have changed and Ed is safe, but the garage is locked.
‘Elodie? What are you up to?’
I snatch my hand away from the garage door, which I’ve been trying to yank up, and stand up straight. Yvonne’s on the pavement at the end of the drive, a look of amusement on her face.
‘Nothing.’ I step away from the garage. ‘I’m not doing anything. There was a squirrel.’
‘In the garage?’ Yvonne arches an eyebrow. ‘The locked garage?’
I take another step away. ‘It ran down here. It looked like it went inside and it was trapped. But clearly not.’
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘It isn’t even eleven o’ clock.’ Yvonne shrugs so I try a different tack. ‘Are you free to get some lunch?’ Food is always a good distraction.
‘Only if we can call it brunch. And I have a client due in twenty minutes so we’ll have to be quick.’
I hurry to Yvonne’s side, threading my arm through hers as we head across the road to the café.
‘You bought the salon.’ I look at the sign: Berkely’s Hair & Beauty.
The amusement’s back on Yvonne’s face, because this isn’t news. ‘Have you been drinking? Should I be staging an intervention?’
‘I just think it’s great. I’m proud of you.’
Yvonne beams. ‘I’m proud of myself.’
‘You always said there was potential for a wider client base.’ We pass the window of the salon. It’s busy inside, with clients sipping from charcoal-grey mugs in the waiting area by the window. I don’t recognise any of them, which is a bit weird in a place as small as Little Heaton. ‘Where have they come from?’
Yvonne gives me an odd look. ‘Seriously, Elodie, have you been hitting the voddie for breakfast? You’re acting really weird.’
‘I promise I haven’t been drinking.’ We stop in front of the café and Yvonne opens the door. We’re hit by a wall of heat and the delicious smell of sizzling bacon as we step inside. We order sandwiches and tea before sitting by the window. I can see the pub from here and my eyes are drawn to the side, where the bike is kept.
‘So. The salon. The clients.’ I smile my thanks as a mug of tea is placed in front of me. ‘You never said where they’ve come from.’
Yvonne takes her tea, setting it down in front of her. ‘There is something seriously wrong with you. Either you need an AA meeting or you’ve hit your head.’
‘I’m just showing an interest in my best friend’s business.’ I blow on my tea. Take a sip. It’s too hot and scorches my tongue.
‘Which is great, but you already know the answer.’
I pick up the laminated menu from behind the condiments. One corner of the plastic is curling away and I try to smooth it back down. ‘Do you remember the story of how the Nowaks met? At the castle?’
‘Yes.’ It’s a tiny word but Yvonne manages to stretch it out.
‘And do you remember how many times we’ve heard it?’
Yvonne smiles. ‘Too many to count.’
‘Well, this is like that. I’m proud of you and I want to hear the story of how Yvonne Berkely became a successful businesswoman.’
Yvonne eyes me from across the table. I take another sip of my tea. It’s still way too hot. I place my tea down, meet Yvonne’s eye again. Raise my eyebrows to prompt the story. Yvonne sighs, but there’s a hint of a smile on her face. Despite the hesitation, she’ll enjoy telling the story.
‘It started just over a year ago. Do you remember that night Craig Radcliffe was in the pub, being a dick? It was a couple of months before he was sent down for assaulting his girlfriend.’ She winces. The image from the newspaper has probably flashed up in her mind. I know it has in mine. ‘And Sacha told him to get lost?’
I nod. I remember. It was only a matter of days ago for me.
‘We got talking that night and I was moaning about the salon and how management was holding it back. How much more it could be. And I told him how I’d do things differently. “Why don’t you?” he asked. I didn’t know what he meant at first, but he meant why didn’t I run my own salon. Put my ideas into practice. I thought he was a loon. How could I run my own salon?’
‘Because you’re amazing?’
Yvonne nods. ‘Fair point. But being amazing doesn’t mean you can afford to buy and run a business.’
‘So what happened next?’
Yvonne rolls her eyes, but she plays along. ‘I saw your boss at the summer food festival thing last year, and I’d had a bit to drink and was feeling brave so I went up to her and put forward one of my – quite frankly – genius ideas, and she liked it. Said we could talk some more about it during the week. Which we did and she liked it even more because you helped me to put together a little presentation.’
‘I did?’ I clear my throat. ‘Yes, I did. Because I, too, am amazing.’ I lean forward across the table. ‘So what was the idea?’
Yvonne tuts, but I can tell she’s enjoying herself. ‘The idea was to work with the hotel to offer guests hair and beauty packages, whether they were at the hotel for a break or for weddings and other events. There are no spa facilities at the hotel – though I think they sometimes hired beauty therapists for special occasions – but we could offer manicures and pedicures, massages and mud wraps, hair and make-up for weddings and parties, or just a bit of pampering. Once we’d taken on trained professionals, obviously.’
‘That is a good idea.’
Yvonne stares at me for a moment. ‘I know.’ Then she sighs. ‘But the stupid salon manager wouldn’t go for it, even after I’d put so much work into the presentation and getting Gillian on board. He didn’t even have to do much – just fix the place up a bit so it didn’t look like a time-warp salon. Something a bit more than a lick of paint.’
‘So then what happened?’
Yvonne doesn’t fight the storytelling this time with an eyeroll or a tut. She’s too into it, leaning towards me now, eager to continue. ‘So the salon limped along with its pensioner specials until the stupid manager had had enough and put the place on the market.’
‘So you made an offer?’
Now Yvonne does roll her eyes. ‘As if. Where would I get the money?’
‘A business loan?’
There’s the eyeroll again. ‘You say that like it’s obvious, but I didn’t think anyone would lend me any money. Sacha had to practically drag me to the bank.’
‘Sacha did?’
Yvonne smiles, her lips stretching so wide it must hurt. ‘He was amazing. I couldn’t have done this without him. Or you. I never would have gone for it if I hadn’t seen how much you were pushing yourself at work, reaching for all those goals and getting them. And now you’re going to be an assistant manager at a hotel in LA.’
‘Trainee assistant manager.’
‘Which is huge.’
And it is. I know it is, and I’ll keep climbing the career ladder, reaching even more goals. But for some reason, when my sandwich arrives, I’m not hungry anymore.