She paused where she was, her fingers gripping the handle of the bucket.
He was here.
She looked down at her outfit and thought, Why do I have to be wearing a boilersuit?
‘Miles!’ she said, standing tall, the water in the bucket sloshing slightly.
He looked exactly the same but completely different, standing there in a white linen shirt, top button undone, khakis, and navy espadrilles. His black hair was scruffy but in a way that suggested it wasn’t usually like that; as though he’d had a long journey and no mirror to check it in. His cheekbones were less visible, less sunken, like he probably ate better than he did but, from the fit of the shirt, he clearly worked out rather than lay on his bed for hours with his guitar scribbling down lyrics.
Her brain tried to superimpose the old Miles over this version. The black skinny jeans, the black t-shirt, the cigarettes, the dirty hair, and the sneer, but it was almost impossible.
‘You all right?’ he said, running a hand through his hair.
‘Yeah, fine. You?’ she said.
When Jessica had thought about seeing Miles again she had envisioned it for some reason at her office, where she was immaculate, groomed, sleek, successful, and emotionally untouchable.
Now she stood in a bright blue boilersuit, the arms tied around her waist, wearing a black vest, pale skin untouched by sun, hair curling of its own accord. And she found she had nothing to say. No casual chitchat. Just an overriding desire to back away.
Rescue came in the form of Jimmy, who loped up the garden, rake over his shoulder, and shouted, ‘Miles, mate! How are you? Christ I haven’t seen you since New York.’
‘Hey, Jimmy! Good to see you.’
Jessica watched them for a second, but the mention of New York left her wanting to escape even more, so, with a back step and a small wave of her hand, she walked quickly to the shelter of the pool.
She took the few steps down past the olive trees, and came out in a courtyard pool area that looked like it had been bottom of the list of priorities for some years. The crumbling patio floor was filthy, sticky with sap and lichen, with tiles missing like pieces of a jigsaw. The rusted table and chairs were strewn with olive leaves and spiders’ webs that looped from the metal to the olive tree branches like Christmas lights. The sailcloth shades that cast a triangle of relief from the sun were green at the edges from mould and mildew. And the tiny pool looked as if no one had swum in it for decades, probably preferring the wide expanse of lake just a stroll away.
Jessica stood for a moment, letting her heart rate get back to normal, her hand resting on the rusted table. She could feel the sun beating down on her bare arms, singeing the skin. She needed a hat but it was inside and she couldn’t go back while Miles was still talking to Jimmy on the terrace.
She crept over to the row of rangy, unkempt olive trees in an attempt to peer through the gaps to see what was going on.
She could see Miles’s khaki clad legs. They made her think of all the unsuccessful dates she’d had over the years, no candidate matching up to her vision of him.
She could hear Jimmy as she peered through the leaves, unable to get a very good look, the branches all overgrown. Then Miles’s deep laugh.
She reached up and moved an olive branch out the way as surreptitiously as she could. Then she caught Jimmy say something about Flo, and Miles saying, ‘Yeah, it’s better.’ And she immediately let go of the branch and stepped away.
Flo.
Flo Hamilton was a friend of a girl who’d been on Jimmy’s university course and had taken Jimmy’s room in the boys’ flat when he’d left. She’d bounded in, all white teeth and American confidence. Jessica had made the mistake of not taking much notice.
Jessica heard Dex come out onto the terrace, and the sound of more back-slapping and guffawing. Then obviously Miles must have been shown inside and it all fell silent.
She rubbed her face with her hand and stood for a second before retying her hair and taking a proper look at the pool area.
It was an unloved little hideaway, enclosed on every side by olive trees whose branches snaked out in search of one another. Taking her bucket, Jessica went and sat in a big wicker chair in the one shady corner and stared across at the pool. It was just about long enough for two strokes of front crawl and was tiled in pearlescent black stones that made the water green and dark. It would be like swimming in twilight as the sun blazed overhead. Olive leaves scattered the surface like little boats.
She wondered if she could hide there forever.
It was the dirt that made her get up in the end. The desire to make this little area shine to its full potential.
She got to work with the scrubbing brush, the hard bristles scratching over the lichen-coated tiles. And the more she scrubbed, the more she fell into the monotony of the noise. It made her think of her parents’ house where she’d lived with sweeping and scrubbing as a background noise for years. Polishing and hoovering. Constant tidying. The dull thumping sound of the living room doors as their glass panels were dusted; the smell of white vinegar on surfaces and the sight of cloths soaking in bleach.
It was almost impossible to believe it had once been her life. Every time she thought about growing up in that house, which was as little as possible, she’d be astonished by her younger self, by her resourcefulness. Shut up in her room, every second of her life was accounted for. She was confined by the overwhelming fear her parents had of the world and the people in it. The mistrust of society. Straight back from school, straight back from work. Jessica had waited years to squirrel away the cash to leave.
As the sun blistered down, the sound of her scrubbing was interrupted by a familiar voice saying, ‘Ah, you have been put to work.’
She stopped to look up and saw the guy from the bar standing with his arms crossed over his chest, dressed in leather motorbike trousers and a bright purple t-shirt, a smirk on his lips. ‘This outfit, it is very flattering,’ he said, pointing to her boilersuit.
Jessica raised her brows. ‘Are you stalking me?’
‘Ha, no.’ He shook his head, then took the couple of steps down to the patio. ‘I am looking for Ms Libby. I help her out a bit last week and I am free today so I thought …?’ He shrugged. ‘She might need more help. I am Bruno by the way.’
‘Libby’s inside,’ Jessica said, starting to scrub again.
He cocked his head, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. ‘You know in most cultures it is polite to return a greeting. A person might even say their name.’
She paused, wiped her brow, and then leant her hands on the edge of the bucket. ‘I’m sure they might,’ she said, one eyebrow arched. ‘But I think it would also depend on whether that person wanted the other person to know their name or not, wouldn’t it?’
Bruno held his hands up to object. ‘I don’t know what that person’s problem would be with just wanting to know someone’s name.’
‘Jessica?’ Miles’s voice called from the terrace and he jogged down the steps to see if she was still by the pool. ‘Jimmy said you had the bucket. Oh …’ He paused when he saw Bruno. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise you were with someone. Hi.’ Miles held out a hand. ‘Miles.’
‘Bruno.’
Jessica stiffened and she could see Bruno notice.
‘You are all friends?’ Bruno said as he looked between them.
‘Kind of,’ said Jessica.
‘In a fashion,’ said Miles at the same time.
Bruno