A Summer to Remember

‘Okay.’ I sigh.

‘I know it’s hard.’ She softens her tone. ‘Why don’t you escape the apartment for the weekend and have some you time? You’re near the coast – pick a beach and stay a night or two in a hotel.’

Being near the coast hadn’t really registered with me. Apart from seeing Boston Harbor on my first day and that wasn’t exactly enjoyable. I’ve not thought about anything other than work since but there isn’t really anything to stop me. ‘Do you know, that’s actually a great idea.’

‘I know.’ She laughs.

We say our goodbyes and the idea of going away and having some ‘me’ time makes me feel lighter. Not having to see the four, okay three, buffoons (if I exonerate Tony for being half-alright) from work over the weekend is an added bonus too. When I first arrived, I saw an advertisement for ferries to Provincetown down at the harbour. I don’t really know anything about the place, but if there are enough people wanting to go to justify a big ferry, it must be alright. A quick Google search confirms that it’s perfect. A beachy little town at the tip of Cape Cod, renowned for its artists, tourism and for being a popular holiday spot for the LGBTQ community, which I’m hoping means there’s less room for the Carl, Dave and Steve community. It sounds like the perfect getaway.

I book the ferry for Friday evening.

Chapter 7

Boston looks stunning as we sail away from it. The sun glints off the skyscrapers, making the whole city twinkle. There’s no sign of the ugliness that lurks there, crawling the streets and seeping into the offices.

Ninety minutes later, we pull into the little harbour of Provincetown, framed by low-rise, wooden-cladded buildings and tree-lined hills beyond. Golden sandy beaches run either side of the pier, and the Pilgrim Monument stands tall and proud above everything else. Perhaps I should take a leaf out of its book and on Monday, march into the office tall and proud and demand to be acknowledged. Or something to that effect.

We disembark onto the pier. A small souvenir shop with a colourful wooden pirate outside catches my eye. Huh, just when I thought I’d escaped all the dreadful blokes of Boston. I drag my case down the pier, which throws me straight into the small yet busy heart of the town. The atmosphere is light and airy; people aren’t walking at fifty miles per hour and nobody is grimacing like in the city. My stomach dances a little with excitement. I already know coming here was a great decision.

The no-frills hotel I’d booked is a pleasant surprise. I’d suspected they were over-egging the listing a little when they said all rooms had beach views as standard, but the double doors onto my balcony do, in actual fact, overlook a beautiful sandy beach. I dump my overnight bag on the floral bedspread and step outside, taking a deep breath of the deliciously salty air. This is what makes it all worthwhile.

The air is starting to cool, and my stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since lunchtime, so I take a quick shower and change into a fresh pair of jeans and a strappy vest top before heading back into the town. There’s a festival feel to the place which I hadn’t expected. Rainbow flags billow outside many of the buildings, and a cacophony of laughter spills from the numerous bars and restaurants. A man ambles past in a gorgeous sarong. He flashes me a smile and it gives me a warm buzz. I feel like I’ve found the home I never knew I wanted. My eye is caught by two men who are offering body painting by a beautiful church. One of the men, a dark-haired, rotund, cheerful-looking fellow in a crazy patterned linen shirt, beckons me over.

‘Come on over and choose a design.’ He gestures to a photo board of colourful tattoos in such an animated way it’s hard to refuse, even though I want to because I’m far too old for glittery body art. Though I’d estimate him to be about forty so perhaps I shouldn’t worry.

‘Oh, okay,’ I say, hopping into the chair.

I choose a sparkly butterfly that he starts to paint on my right shoulder blade. I’ve no idea how it will turn out, but I figure it will wash off, and he is just trying to earn a living.

‘So, how long have you been doing this for?’ I ask to relieve the relative awkwardness of a complete stranger touching me.

‘Oh my god, you’re English,’ he gushes. ‘Harry, listen to her. Go on, doll, say it again.’ He places both hands on my shoulders and forcibly turns me to face a slimmer, blond man in a pale blue short-sleeved shirt who seems distinctly less impressed.

‘I, er, I was just asking how long you’d been doing this for?’ I ask again. Somehow, the more I speak, the more I seem to sound like my surname should be Windsor.

‘Oh my god, your accent is just darling,’ Harry says before turning back to his client, a little curly-haired girl who makes me feel more ridiculous.

‘Oh, thank you,’ I say, forcing a smile.

‘And yes, we’ve been here seven years. We came on vacation from New York and just fell in love with this place. Gave up our big careers to paint people each evening after lying on the beach all day,’ the cuddly one says, gesticulating with his paintbrush.

Wow, I can’t imagine just walking away from a career I’d worked hard for. ‘So, you escaped the rat race?’

‘We sure did. How about you? What do you do?’ he asks.

‘I’m still fighting my way through the rat race, but I enjoy it.’ It’s currently a bit of a fib of course, but he doesn’t need to know that.

‘So, are you here alone?’ He must be working closely because I can feel his warm breath on the bare skin of my back.

‘Yes. I’m in Boston with some colleagues working for a marketing company, but I needed to get away, so I came here for a weekend of R&R.’

‘I hear ya,’ he says. ‘Actually, I’d love to pick your brain a little, if you wouldn’t mind catching up when you’re free? We have a great trade here through summer but then autumn comes and we’re twiddling our thumbs. We could quite easily do Halloween face painting and things like that but need to reach a wider audience.’

I’m not one for meeting strange men but I’m getting a good vibe from this one, and besides, you don’t really hear of many horror stories involving body-paint-slash-glitter artists. ‘Of course, I’m here until Sunday so I could come back when you’re quieter.’

‘That would be wonderful.’ He rubs a tiny section of my shoulder blade with his finger. ‘You, my dear, are almost done.’ He proceeds to spray something cool over the top of the tattoo.

‘I’m finished,’ he sings, adding vibrato on the last syllable. ‘Here, take a look.’ He angles a mirror so I can catch a glimpse. I gasp. It’s beautifully done, in hues of pink, green, purple and blue. Strategically placed silver glitter adds emphasis to the wings, and shading underneath casts a shadow, making it look like it’s floating an inch above my skin.

‘I love it. It will be a shame to wash it off,’ I say honestly.

‘Just come back tomorrow and I’ll paint you a new one.’ He winks. ‘That’ll be twenty dollars.’

Twenty dollars? No wonder he could give up the rat race to paint people. I take out a green note and hand it over, and he grasps my hand. ‘Actually, if you’re here all alone, you should come to dinner with us tonight, we can talk about all the marketing stuff then.’

That’s a bit forward, isn’t it? But I am starving, and it might be nice to speak to someone this side of the Atlantic who doesn’t just see me as the doughnut fetcher. Plus, I don’t know much about what’s available round here and some company would be nice.

‘Oh, Barney, you’re a plangonologist of living dolls.’ Harry glances up from the child’s arm he’s painting a dolphin on, the curly-haired girl from earlier has gone.

‘I am not a people collector, Harry; I’m just friendly.’ He turns to me. ‘Honestly, he learns a new word and has to toss it into every conversation.’

I smile and look down at the floor, unsure as to whether or not the invitation still applies.

‘Come with us?’ Barney asks again. ‘I could listen to that English accent all day, and Harry over here can sit wallowing in his grumpy pants.’

I look at Harry who gives a casual nod. Barney wraps his arms around Harry and kisses his head. Neither of them look like axe murderers, and I don’t think there’s an ulterior motive aside from the bit of marketing advice Barney is wanting.

‘Okay, I’d love to.’

Chapter 8

Double checking the address Barney wrote down, I hover outside what looks like someone’s house. There is no indication anywhere that this is even a restaurant, no neon sign or A-frame outside, but I do spot a few people coming and going. How odd. I decide to wait five more minutes. It’s already eight and that’s what time they said to meet.

I start to feel ridiculous standing here waiting for two strangers. There was a fish restaurant near the pier. I’ll go there. As I turn to leave, I spot Harry and Barney walking towards me. Harry takes long casual strides as Barney seems to use all his limbs for propulsion. Relief dilutes the weird cocktail of apprehension in my stomach.

‘You’re in for a treat,’ Barney says, linking my arm like an old friend and frog-marching me up the wooden steps to the veranda. He knocks on the door, and a kindly young woman opens it and gestures him in.

‘Your usual table is ready, guys.’ Her smile fades as she takes me in. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, it’s only set for two.’ She looks mortified.

‘Just pull another chair over and we’ll cosy up. We’re all friends here,’ he says in what I’m coming to realise is his actual voice and not just his ‘cheerful’ tone.

Once we’re seated, I’m handed a paper menu. I’m no expert on the Cape Cod cuisine scene, or any cuisine scene to be precise, but this is the most unusual place I’ve ever been to. ‘There’s only one choice per course here,’ I say, tapping the sheet of paper.

‘Oh, honey, this is a secret restaurant. It’s a surprise menu each day, though we come so often, we know the rotation. Tonight is Harry’s favourite.’

‘He’s right. Butter-poached lobster and wild shrimp.’ Harry pats his stomach. The food does sound amazing.

‘If it’s a secret, why did you bring me here? I’ve not come across a secret restaurant before but I bet it adds to the exclusivity.’

‘It’s the worst-kept secret in town but to some extent it keeps the tourists out. No offence.’ He pats my hand. ‘It just keeps it special for the locals. And as you can see – it’s always busy.’

‘Well, it’s utterly charming,’ I say, running a hand over the simple wooden table.

The waitress places some mismatched crockery and a platter of something deep-fried on the table. I’m so hungry I don’t care what lies beneath the batter.

‘Fried oysters.’ Barney hands me the plate. ‘Try one, they’re to die for.’

I take a bite, and he’s right. I don’t think I’ve ever had an oyster before. The thought of them has always made me a bit squeamish. Kev wasn’t an adventurous eater and he used to say they were like swallowing a ball of phlegm. The thought makes me heave.

‘You don’t like them?’ Harry says.

‘Oh, I do. They’re better than I was expecting. I was just … remembering something.’

‘Try the hot sauce,’ Barney says and I dip one dutifully. It tastes a bit like Dijon mustard and lemon.

‘Mmm, delicious,’ I say as the flavours and texture alight my senses.

‘We think everyone should come here at least once,’ says Harry.

‘Thank you for inviting me. I don’t know where I’d have ended up otherwise.’ I dunk another oyster.

‘Barney picks up all the waifs and strays,’ Harry says. I instantly feel awkward as his tone is more matter-of-fact than Barney who seems to wear his emotions on his sleeve, but when I look at him, the corner of his mouth is lifted. ‘I’m just teasing. We both love to meet new people.’

‘So, I know you’re in Boston for work, but why is a pretty girl like you in P-Town alone?’ Barney asks as he wipes the last oyster round the dip bowl.

It’s a strange feeling to want to spill all to two people you don’t know from Adam, but a compelling one, nonetheless. Perhaps it’s because they’re the first people I’ve connected with since I arrived in the US, perhaps it’s desperation but whatever the reason, I proceed to fill them in.

‘Nobody listens to me or values my opinion,’ I finish. ‘I don’t agree with the way the campaign is going and I think the company who hired us will hate it, but apparently, I should just shut up and put up. I guess I just don’t fit in with the team.’

Harry points his fork at me. ‘You will. You just need to find your place. All groups have roles for people to fill. You’ll get there. Like my Barney here is the people collector—’

‘I’m intuitive and sociable,’ Barney interrupts.

‘I’m the pragmatic one, my role in a group is the voice of reason. Martha, who owns this place, is the chef. We know most of the people in this town, and they all have their place.’

Barney laughs. ‘You are so not the voice of reason.’

‘Okay, humour me – what am I then?’ Harry shakes his head and gives me a ‘can you believe this guy?’ look.

‘The fussy one.’ Barney cocks his head to the side as if it proves his point.

Harry looks at me. ‘I just like things in order, which in my opinion makes me practical.’ He shrugs his shoulders like that proves his point.

‘Well, my place at present seems to be chief doughnut-getter,’ I say, breaking up their affectionate bickering.

‘Well, there you go – you have a place. But if you want a better one, you need to play a little game of Snakes and Ladders: work your way up without getting knocked all the way back down. You’ll figure it out.’ Harry says this so casually. If he’s fussy and still thinks it’s all just a simple game, then maybe I should too.

The waitress clears our table and I take the opportunity to sip my water then we talk a little more about Harry and Barney’s life in New York and how they met. Barney explains how he’d just arrived from New Jersey and got lost in SoHo looking for the library. Harry was passing, and Barney asked him for help. They chatted a little bit and hit it off then Harry drew him a map, only the map led to an Italian restaurant where Harry was sitting outside with champagne and a bow-tie. Barney never did get to the library, and the rest is history. I sometimes forget that my meeting Kev isn’t the only romantic story out there, and hearing someone else’s makes a surprisingly refreshing change from replaying my own story over in my head.

‘What about at home?’ Barney asks. ‘Is there a Mr or Mrs Sam?’

I knew this was coming, I was braced for it. It isn’t Barney’s fault – it’s never anyone’s fault – but I wish a single person could just be so without people questioning it. Is it really so weird to be on your own?

I suck in as much air as I can take and give him the lowdown: I married my true love, he was killed in an accident and nobody else will ever compare. I’ve made my peace and I’m happy to die alone knowing I was lucky enough to meet my soulmate. Blah, blah, blah.

‘Oh, honey.’

I hold my hand up to shush Barney. ‘I don’t need sympathy. I’ve moved on.’

‘But—’

‘Anyway, you wanted to know about marketing?’ I say, changing the subject.

‘I’ve told him to use social media but he won’t listen. I think he has grand plans of plastering billboards everywhere and going on Oprah,’ Harry says dryly.

I look at Barney. ‘For what you want, Harry is right. Get a Facebook page and start using Instagram to promote your work. A bit of hashtagging and some great photographs should work. If you still need a boost you could have some fliers printed up and do a local door drop.’

‘Consider it done,’ Barney says, raising his glass.

‘I’ve been telling him this for weeks,’ Harry says with a sigh.

The main course is equally delicious, and raspberry-meringue ice cream finishes the meal perfectly. I devour every last bit and I swear my stomach creaks at bursting point.

‘How about we go for a cocktail? Sam, you’ll come for a bit of Sex on the Beach action, won’t you?’

I splutter my water and giggle. ‘Maybe another time,’ I say before realising how presumptuous I sound. I’ve had such a good time tonight but it’s unlikely I’ll ever see these guys again.

‘Tomorrow night then? You’re still here tomorrow, aren’t you, Sam?’ Barney reminds me of an excited puppy. This has been the easiest conversation and the most comfortable I’ve felt since arriving here. Even with Kev cropping up, I’ve really enjoyed myself.

‘I’d love to.’

‘What are your plans for tomorrow during the day? We’re working until six-ish, but we can give you some pointers for things to do.’ Harry talks at a more normal speed compared to Barney’s ultrasonic waffle.

‘I thought I’d sit by the pool and read for a few hours, then maybe walk down to the beach and perhaps rent a bike in the afternoon.’

‘Ahh, we have a bike guy,’ Harry says.

‘A bike guy?’ I ask.

‘Yes, Ethan. The bike guy. Go see him, tell him Harry and Barney sent you, and he’ll give you a good deal.’ Harry is already scribbling the address on the back of the menu. Fortunately, it’s just a printed-off piece of A4 and not some leather-bound affair but I get the distinct impression it wouldn’t have mattered to him if it were.

Chapter 9

After a morning reading by the pool, I’ve actually made it down to the beach. There was a bustling little sandwich shop in the centre of town where I picked up lunch – a chicken and pastrami sandwich the size of my arm – and now I’m sitting on the sand eating it whilst watching some kayakers and trying not to ooze sauce all over myself. This is the life. It’s such a cliché even to say in my own head, but there isn’t a phrase more fitting. The sky is blue, punctuated with the odd fluffy white cloud – sky pillows, I used to call clouds like this when I was little. It’s such a far cry from my real life, my London life, where I thought lunch in the park or by the docks warranted the phrase ‘This is the life’. I think I posted an Instagram picture to that effect once, but here, I can’t even be bothered taking out my phone. I just want to enjoy the moment.

And so I realise that being here, despite the woes of work, certainly beats being in the mad rush of London. I can blow my nose and black stuff doesn’t come out, for a start. Obviously, there’s a lot I miss about London – my friends, the parks, the continuous stream of new places to eat and, of course, the shops, but Boston has plenty of those anyway. I pull the menu from last night out of my bag and look over the address that Harry wrote out. I should be able to find the place easy enough, and a friend of Harry and Barney will likely be as kind and helpful as they are. There were some fliers in the hotel showing a local bike trail which looks great.

I’m pretty sure I can still ride a bike. You never forget how, apparently.

***

The little clapboard shop is only a five-minute walk away from where I sat on the beach. It’s painted blue and white, and bikes in their abundance are racked up outside. I feel a little nervous as I walk in and see even more. What if I can’t ride? It’s been a while. I wonder if they offer incompetence discounts or stabilisers for adults. The place is shockingly quiet, and not a CCTV camera in sight. If this was central London, teenagers would have ransacked the place by now, and these bikes would be accessories to crime as yobs swarmed the city on them, snatching the Rolexes off unsuspecting rich folk. Or at least that’s what the press would have you believe. I run my hand along the smooth frame of a red and silver mountain bike.

‘Can I help you?’ A smooth, deep voice startles me, making me feel like some weird bike voyeur.

‘Er … I …’ I turn in the direction of the speaker and the familiarity of his face has the Medusa effect on me. ‘You!’ is all I manage to say.

‘I beg your pardon?’ He narrows those sapphire eyes and tilts his head ever so slightly in a cocky, arrogant way. He doesn’t recognise me, but then again, why would he?

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ But I certainly remember him, because other than Barney and Harry, a bubbly young lady in Abercrombie and, to some extent, my work colleagues, he’s the only person I’ve spoken to since arriving in the States.

‘I’m sorry, should I?’ His tone isn’t completely awful, but considering I’m a potential customer, it isn’t great. His eyes make small movements from left to right, searching mine for an answer but still, his face is blank.

‘I asked you to take a photo of me in Boston Harbor a fortnight or so ago.’ I cross my arms in front of my body defensively.

‘Oh, you’re that person.’ He allows his features to drop and begins polishing some bike part.

‘Yes. Yes, I am.’ My arms are still folded. I’m not quite sure why I’m pressing the issue, but I am, and I’m hoping the arm-folding strengthens my stance.

‘Well, are you here for a bike?’ His cocky nonchalance is infuriating.

‘Actually, yes. Harry and Barney sent me. They recommended you, but obviously you’ve hidden your arsey side from them, like some weird little anti-hero or something.’ I notice the corner of his mouth twitch a little. I can’t believe he finds this funny.

‘Are all you Brits this uptight?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Okay, admittedly, that didn’t help my cause.

‘Well, you’re on another continent, on the sleepy peninsula of Cape Cod, surrounded by beautiful beaches with whales breaching on the horizon, and you’re standing there like Mary damn Poppins wanting to correct my behaviour.’

‘I’m not uptight, I’m cross. There’s a difference.’

‘Fine. Do you want a bike or not?’

‘Well, of course I do! I didn’t hunt you down and come here for the pleasure of your company.’ God, I hope he doesn’t think that’s why I came. Now I’ve said it, he’s definitely going to think that.

‘Okay, good.’ He exhales noisily and it’s irritating. ‘Let’s get you hooked up with a bike then.’

He looks me up and down. I know it’s to size me up for a bike, but I’m still squirming with discomfort. I can feel his eyes on me, and it sends weird tingles down the back of my neck. I can’t ever remember being looked up and down before. Suddenly my fairly modest denim shorts feel shorter and my T-shirt much, much tighter.

‘I’ll get you a medium frame and put the seat up a bit.’ He doesn’t meet my eyes when he speaks, and it feels more like he’s talking to himself or thinking aloud. He disappears outside. The aircon is so cold I have to rub the goose pimples on my arms as I wait.

After a few minutes, he pops his head in. ‘You’re all set.’

I step outside, and it takes a moment for the warmth of the sun to penetrate my icy skin. He’s holding a silver mountain bike out for me, a black helmet hanging from the bars. I take the bike and thank him.

‘Do you know where you’re going?’ he asks as I fasten the clasp on the helmet.

Nope. ‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘Good.’

‘Yes, it is!’ I give him a pointed look and push the pedal hard to make my dramatic departure. I wobble a little but correct it instantly. I’m one part smug and two parts relieved.

‘If it’s the bike trail you’re heading for, you’re going the wrong way,’ he calls after me.

Great.

‘I know!’ I didn’t. ‘I need a bottle of water first. Leave me alone!’

‘Okay. There’s a map in the front basket, you know, for after you’ve got your water,’ he says. I wave him off, and away I ride.

God, I hate that guy.

I keep riding until I hit the safety of the beach where I can sit for a minute and study the map without arrogant arseface nit-picking. What are the odds of him being the bike guy? Of all the people in Boston and all the bike rental places in Cape Cod, it’s just my luck he is ‘the guy’. Bridget is going to love this story.