Summer's End (2 page)

“Stuff happened before I left.” Before she’d packed her bags in a hurry—in a frenzied daze, a state of emotional distress leading to tunnel vision until all she wanted to do was leave.

“I can’t do it,” she’d said to Jasper’s flabbergasted face. “I can’t marry you and have your perfect Holland Park children, one boy and one girl. One with your dark hair and one with my blonde curls. I can’t see it, Jasper. It’s not what I want.”

“But…” Jasper, usually not stumped for words, had no recourse. “The wedding’s next month.”

By the time she was expected to walk down the aisle, Emily was drinking cheap beer in Hanoi, too busy avoiding the crazy traffic attacking her from all sides to think much about the significance of the day.

“It usually does.” Marianne shot her a smile and ducked away from her. It didn’t look as if she was going to press Emily on the subject. Emily couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. She’d have to start talking about it some time. First, though, she had a few more lazy days in the sun to enjoy. She scanned the horizon—blue on blue—and understood why Marianne would choose to live here.

Marianne was making good progress against the waves. Emily watched her body transform into a small dot in the distance. Impressive, she thought, because despite loving the water, and having had the privilege of being taught by the best swimming instructors money could buy, she knew she just didn’t have it in her. She didn’t possess a swimmer’s physique or mindset.

Emily let her body drift in the water for a while, squinting against the sun. To empty her mind of the looming journey home, she tried to recite all the titles of the books she’d read since she left. It was an ever-growing list that helped her fall asleep in noisy hostels. Not that she stayed in too many of those. It had been the initial plan—low-budget, back-to-basics living—but when push had come to shove, Emily didn’t have it in her and she knew full well that, no matter what happened, her father would, in the end, always pick up her credit card bill. It’s hard to live dangerously with an ever-present safety net.

After cooling off her body, Emily padded back to shore. When she looked back, she spotted Marianne swimming in her direction with swift freestyle strokes. Perhaps she had guessed wrong when she’d placed her in the same age bracket as her mother, because her mother surely couldn’t do that. She had other qualities though, like looking down her nose at people. And judging by appearances.
 

Emily made her way back to the Lodge’s garden. There was just enough room for a small pool and a patio with some lounge and regular chairs. Every single piece of furniture looked expensive, as if belonging in a five-star hotel instead of a modest guesthouse.

Marianne had been adamant about not being in the hotel service industry for the money, and by the look of things at the Red Lodge, she was hardly strapped for cash.
 

Before sitting down in one of the chairs under the beige sun shield, Emily grabbed a towel from a small stack next to the pool and wrapped it around her dripping body. She’d only just sat down when she heard Marianne’s footsteps slap against the flat stones of the garden path. Marianne had put her t-shirt back on and it clung to her sun-bronzed flesh in wet patches. Not for the first time on this three-month trip, Emily felt a glowing heat flare somewhere in an undefinable spot beneath her skin.
 

First she had wanted to get away from everything, and she had, the only further place she could have gone was Australia.

“Would you like a drink?” Marianne asked, and Emily had to consciously lift her gaze from Marianne’s body to her face.

“I could murder a beer.” She looked up into Marianne’s face. When it was backlit by the sun she could clearly make out the small wrinkles around her sparkling brown eyes.

“Coming right up.” Marianne shot her a wink and Emily felt it again. It’s not that she couldn’t explain it—she hadn’t lived that sheltered a life—it was more that she was afraid what it might do to her if she gave in.

She straightened her back and pushed the sensation away—she’d become really good at that.

MARIANNE

“If you don’t mind me asking…” Marianne sat opposite Emily on the patio. “How old are you?” She’d brought an ice bucket from the kitchen holding a six-pack of Singha. They each sipped one from the bottle.
 

“Still young enough not to mind the question.” Despite them sitting under the sun shield, a shiny glimmer caught Emily’s hair. “I’m twenty-four and, as of recently, officially the black sheep of the Kane family.” Emily opened her palms to the sky as if presenting herself.

“Plenty of time to turn that around then.” Marianne took a swig from her beer, but kept her eyes on Emily.

Emily chuckled. “Maybe I don’t want to turn it around. Maybe I’ve just had enough.”

Marianne arched up her eyebrows in response.

“How very dramatic of me.” Emily pulled one leg up onto her chair. “But people do say it’s easier to talk to a stranger.”

“We’ve seen each other in bikinis. We’re hardly strangers anymore.” Marianne was taken aback by the words exiting her mouth. She looked away for an instant before facing Emily again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s quite all right.” Emily brushed a stray strand of hair away from her forehead. “If I could look like you when I’m your age—” Emily brought her hand to her mouth. “Gosh, now it’s my turn to apologise, I mean, I don’t even know how old you are,” she stuttered.

Marianne wondered if the blush creeping up her cheeks was visible. She hoped not. “Forty-one on Saturday.”

“Saturday?” Emily’s eyes grew a little wider. “Really?” She seemed to have recovered from her earlier slip-up. “Are you having a party?”

Marianne relaxed back into her chair. “I’m not really one for celebrating anymore.”

“Oh.” Emily looked at her through squinted eyes.

“Besides, I’m working.”

“Are you always working?” Emily placed her empty bottle on the table. “Is it just you here?”

“I employ two people to clean the rooms and do the dishes, but I manage all the rest.” Not that there was so much to manage. Marianne didn’t feel as if she was running a business. She considered the people who came to stay at the lodge more houseguests than customers. Sometimes, a few days went by without visitors, and that was fine by her as well. She didn’t advertise The Red Lodge on the internet. Everyone who stayed here, arrived either by chance, by word-of-mouth, or because of the flyers she had delivered to a few choice establishments in Bangkok and Chiang Mai.

“What if someone has a special request?” Emily reached for another
 
bottle of beer, uncapped it with the beer opener tied to the bucket and handed it to Marianne.

“Like what?” Marianne accepted the beer.

“A birthday cake delivery.” Emily grinned at her and only now did Marianne notice how her smile dimpled her cheeks.

“I’m always very upfront with my guests about what’s possible and what’s not.” She placed the cool bottom of the bottle on her thigh. “But if someone wants to celebrate their birthday here, they’re very welcome and I will make some calls.”

“God, you really are British, aren’t you?” Emily mock-sighed.

“How can you possibly tell?” Marianne made an extra effort to sound as stiff and posh as possible.

Emily burst out in a little giggle before a silence fell between them.

“You must be hungry?” Marianne’s caring instinct kicked in. “Shall I fix us some dinner?”

“You do the cooking as well?” Emily had drawn up both her legs and slung her arms around them, her chin resting on her knees. She looked ten years younger than her age in that position.

“You make it sound like a chore.” Marianne stood up. “A full house means six guests, and that’s a rarity. It’s really no trouble.”

“Do you have a menu?”

“No.” Marianne was surprised at the sudden harshness that had crept into her voice—it rarely happened that guests had that effect on her. She quickly corrected herself. “Do you have any allergies I should know about?” She recognised her reaction, though. But she knew how to be careful.

“None. Thanks.” Emily was still looking up at her.

“Dinner in about an hour?”

“Sounds great.”
 

“There’s no dress code by the way.” She only mentioned it because Emily—even when wet from swimming in the ocean and relaxed with a beer in her hand—looked like the kind of girl who was used to dressing up for dinner.

“Do you need help?”

Marianne wasn’t expecting that question.

“Can you cook?” She felt a smile tug at her lips.
The girl is
full of surprises.

“A little. I took some classes back home and a chef with a name so long I can’t possibly remember it taught me how to make a mean curry when I was up north.”

“If you can chop a vegetable without losing a finger, you’re very welcome in my kitchen.” Cooking was always such a solitary, meditative time for Marianne, but she didn’t mind the intrusion. “I’m just going to freshen up first. Get out of this bikini.”

“If you must.” Emily winked at her and Marianne felt the blush rise again. She quickly made her way inside and pretended she hadn’t heard.

Maybe Emily wasn’t the spoiled little brat she had—admittedly—first taken her for. Even so, Marianne made a mental note to make it absolutely clear that her birthday was not an event to be celebrated.

EMILY

Had she been flirting with the Lodge owner? What on earth had possessed her? Emily looked at herself in the mirror in her room. She hardly still resembled the girl who had boarded a plane for Singapore three months ago. Her hair was so long and light in colour. The blue of her eyes popped out against the brown of her skin. She’d always believed that, just like her mother, she had no talent for tanning, but look at her now. Persistence really did help. Not always though. She’d tried long enough with Jasper. She had persisted. It still hadn’t worked.
 

She looked skinnier as well. Maybe even too skinny, although her mother would certainly not agree with that. What would she do when she got back? Take the position at her father’s company that had been reserved for her since she was born? She hadn’t excelled academically like her two brothers, hadn’t breezed through university like everyone else in the family—even her mother in her day, if she was to be believed.

Here she stood, three months older but none the wiser. Maybe a real conversation with a non-judgmental stranger was exactly what she needed. Someone far removed from the situation, but with enough knowledge of social pressure and family ties to understand. Marianne seemed to fit that bill quite perfectly.

And she was younger than her mother—by ten years even. The confirmation hadn’t just come from Marianne announcing the number. It was as if Emily had seen her grow younger before her very eyes. Obviously, something had happened in the woman’s life. Something devastating enough to chase her out of her home country and make her hate her birthday, but Emily had seen her perk up. She had noticed the laughter lines crinkle around her temples, and she’d been amazed at how Marianne’s biceps curved from under the wet sleeve of her t-shirt when she brought the bottle of beer to her mouth.

By god. She had been flirting.
What should she wear for dinner? She tore herself away from the mirror and rummaged through her backpack. Every single item of her clothing was either severely wrinkled or plain dirty. She fished out a white tank top that had seen brighter days, but at this stage of her trip, it was the best she could come up with. She finished her casual outfit with a pair of skimpy jean shorts. Not that she was trying to dress to impress. The utter foolishness of it.

Emily found Marianne in the kitchen downstairs. She inadvertently blinked when she walked in. Should women over forty not always wear a bra? Even merely to counter the laws of gravity? Marianne obviously didn’t think so. Maybe she was one of those wild chicks her mother sometimes talked about with a wrinkle of disgust curling under her nose. The ones who burned their bra and regarded them as a symbol of female oppression.
 

“Hey,” Marianne greeted her.
 

She’d been so absorbed with stealing glances at Marianne’s chest that she hadn’t even taken in the kitchen yet. It looked as if it had been designed by Nigella Lawson herself.

Emily whistled between her teeth. A cat call the old her would never have dared to utter. Then again, this wolf whistle was only aimed at the stainless steel of the kitchen and the pots and pans suspended from hooks along the walls. “Jesus. I’m not a psychologist, but could there be some overcompensation going on here? You know, like middle-aged men with flashy sports cars?”

Marianne looked her over. It was hard for Emily to keep her gaze fixed on her face because the chef’s nipples clearly had a life of their own and poked pointedly through the flimsy fabric of the faded The Cure t-shirt she now had on.

“But no chef’s whites, huh?” Emily couldn’t help herself.

Marianne flushed bright red. A typical British complexion. Emily knew all about that herself and she instantly felt sorry for her host.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be untoward.” The conservatively raised girl in her—the one she’d been trying to escape the grips of on this trip—bubbled to the surface.

“My fault entirely,” Marianne said with slightly bowed head. “They’re not usually so… disobedient.”

They both burst out laughing at the same time. Not just giggles, but loud cackles that served more to release the tension than to mark the comic quality of the situation.

“What’s cooking?” Emily asked after the waves of laughter had subsided.

“Pad Thai all right? It’s not very original, but I make my own version and it’s not too shabby.”

“Sounds wonderful. What can I do?”

“If you could chop those, that would be wonderful.” Marianne pointed at a bunch of green onions.
 

They seemed to have been left there for the sole purpose of audience participation as Marianne visibly had everything else under control. She worked quickly and methodically—like the chefs in professional kitchens on TV—and by the time Emily had sliced the onions the kitchen smelled like the essence of Thai food: fiery peppers, garlic and a delicious mix of spices. Emily suddenly felt quite hungry.