Page 49 of All Summer Long

‘Better not. Need to get back and keep an eye on that ruddy bird. Bloody Scarlet Pimpernel he is at the moment. Turned up at the post office of all places last week.’

‘At least he came home in the end,’ Alice said, smoothing Hazel’s feathers as they left the yurt and headed through the woods towards the Airstream.

‘He didn’t. Davina locked him in the post office and came down the high street shrieking at me to fetch him.’ Hazel rolled her eyes. ‘By the time I got to him he was alarmed and had pecked a hole in Davina’s poster of George Clooney in the buff.’ She leaned in and spoke behind her hand for effect. ‘I won’t tell you which bit of George was missing, but let’s just say that Davina was furious.’

Parting shot delivered, Hazel wandered away towards the manor, an ethereal vision of strappy tie-dye and long, knotted strings of jangling beads. The women of Borne had each tailored their individual looks to accommodate the continuing heat wave; Niamh rocked a white denim mini and scarlet Minnie Mouse t-shirt, while Alice stuck with her beloved denim, this time in the form of dungaree shorts layered over a white vest.

Alice dipped inside the caravan, deposited her ever present camera and opened a bottle of white, knowing it wasn’t anywhere near enough reward for Niamh for all of her help with the glampsite, and knowing also that Niamh was a true enough friend not to want any reward at all. Between the yurt, the tree house and the Airstream they’d amassed three super pretty places for people to stay, and now that the compost loos and a matching rustic shower block had been installed she was getting close to the point where she could think about renting out at least some of the accommodation. There was more to come too; she cherished the hope of a romantic renovation of the boathouse, and she had one eye constantly on the net looking out for other quirky abodes to add to her collection. She couldn’t quite believe it was all actually happening, but it was, thanks largely to the support and love of her weird and wonderful crew of neighbours and friends.

‘So how are things going with the naked cowboy?’

Alice settled into the deckchair beside Niamh, kicking off her Converse and stretching out her bare legs to catch the glorious warmth of the summer sunshine. As English summers went, this one was shaping up to be a record breaker; the weather forecaster had practically swooned over the high pressure charts on breakfast TV that morning and the shops were stockpiling factor 50 sun cream. The newspapers were happily forecasting hosepipe bans and offering water-saving tips, and people old enough to remember the summer of ’76 were reminiscing wildly about bouts of sunstroke caused by drunken space-hopper races.

‘He’s …’ Alice closed her eyes, the smallest of smiles on her face as she considered how to answer Niamh’s question. She and Robinson had the strangest of arrangements, really, doing their own thing sometimes, dropping in and out of each other’s lives and beds, although never in the room she’d shared with Brad.

‘We’re just enjoying each other’s company,’ she said in the end, even though it was a poor summary. ‘No pressures, just …’

‘Pleasures?’ Niamh supplied, arching her brows and then slumping back in her chair with a dramatic sigh. ‘Some girls get all the luck.’

‘It’s only a holiday romance, Niamh. He’s got a life to go home to, and I’ve got a home to claim back.’ Alice looked over towards the manor wistfully.

‘Even better, I say. Great sex with no strings attached.’ Niamh slugged her wine. ‘They played one of his songs on the radio this morning. If the man shags as sexily as he sings you must be having the time of your bloody life, Alice.’

Alice laughed into her wine glass, not willing or ready to share the juicy details of quite how eye-wateringly good Robinson Duff was in bed.

‘Shut up and enjoy the sunshine,’ she said instead, laughing as she put her glass down on the grass to braid her hair around her head.

Movement over by the manor caught her eye, and Niamh’s too judging by the way she sat up and lifted her sunglasses to squint in the direction of the house.

‘What’s going on over there?’

Alice shielded her eyes from the sun and leaned forward in her chair.

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ she said slowly. ‘Is that Stewie?’

It was always difficult to know for certain from a distance with Stewie, because one day he might be Elvis and the next he was more Boris Johnson.

‘Think so. Well, it’s either Stewie or Donald Trump,’ Niamh giggled, wine-silly. ‘Maybe he’s helicoptered in to persuade Robinson to join his election campaign.’

‘And is that Dessy and Jase with him?’

Niamh nodded. ‘Who else would risk hot pants like that in Borne?’

Alice slouched back in her chair, perplexed. ‘How very odd.’

‘He’s not expecting them?’

‘Don’t think so.’ Alice picked up her wine. ‘Was Dessy carrying pizza boxes?’

‘And beer,’ Niamh confirmed, sliding her glasses into her hair and turning her face up to the sunshine.

Alice reached for the wine bottle and topped up their glasses. Funny, Robinson hadn’t mentioned anything about expecting visitors. She shrugged the thought away, along with the tingle of disappointment that glittered down her spine at the realisation that her plans to give him the grand tour of the yurt might need to go on ice for the evening.

‘Robster!’

Robinson looked up in surprise at the voice outside the kitchen door, his knife poised over some nameless ready meal he planned to bang in the microwave for his dinner. He knew before he even opened the door that Stewie would be on the other side of it. No one else in his life had ever called him Robster, and no one else would get away with it in the future. Would it be wrong to hide underneath the kitchen table until Stewie gave up and went away?

‘Come on, Robbie, don’t keep an old man waiting on the doorstep!’

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