Page 53 of All Summer Long

‘Frankly, no. You’re making absolutely zilch in the way of sense and haven’t been for two months or longer, Robinson,’ Marsh shot back, sweeping his silvery grey hair back over his head. ‘Why do you think Mohammed has been forced to come to the mountain? Let me clue you in here, sunshine; it sure ain’t to eat testicles and play nursemaid! You are a man with responsibilities, and you’re just gonna have to cowboy up. First thing tomorrow you’re on a bird back to Nashville, an’ that’s that.’

Robinson watched his manager make his speech and wondered if he was going to have a seizure. He was certainly mad enough.

‘Marsh, you know I respect you more than pretty much anyone else in this world, and the fact that you’ve come here means something to me,’ he said, enunciating as clearly as he could. ‘Now, as you may or may not have noticed, I’m kind of soaked, and I’m real tired, and hell will freeze over before I get on a plane tomorrow. So here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m going to bed. You can stay here. Pick a room, any room, there’s hundreds of the things, and I’ll see you later when my brain doesn’t hurt.’ He yanked the kitchen door open. ‘G’night, Marsh. Sleep tight.’

Marsh followed him to the door and watched him weave his way across the grass.

‘Robinson,’ he called sharply. ‘Where in God’s name are you going?’

‘See my girl,’ Robinson called back through the darkness, still walking, thoughts of Alice making him happy.

‘What is she, a goddamn sheep?’ Marsh yelled. ‘You better make some serious sense come daylight, Robinson Duff, or I’ll be ripping up your contracts and wiping my bony white ass on them!’

Robinson laughed as Marsh’s insults rattled through the air, and seconds later he heard the door bang closed as his manager gave up on him for the night.

Alice woke up as the door of the Airstream opened and Robinson filled the doorway.

‘You okay?’ she said, because he didn’t look it. He looked three sheets to the wind and mildly manic as he veered inside and banged the door shut again behind him hard enough to rock the caravan.

‘S’not good, Goldilocks,’ he murmured, shucking out of his clothes and leaving them in a heap in the middle of the floor.

‘What’s not?’ she said softly, smiling as he lifted the bottom of the quilt and crawled underneath it. He surfaced near her pillow, close enough for her to taste the whisky on his breath when he spoke again.

‘He thinks I’m leaving on a jet plane,’ Robinson said, all of his words running into one as he rested his head on her shoulder.

‘Who does?’ Alice stroked his cheek as he snaked his arm across her waist and pulled her against him.

‘You’re not wearing any clothes,’ he said, groggy, already half asleep.

‘No,’ she said, pressing her lips to his forehead. ‘I’m not. Go to sleep, Robinson.’

Alice couldn’t be certain, but as she wrapped her arms around him and closed her eyes, it sounded very much as if Robinson muttered something along the lines of ‘Stayin’ right here with my sheep.’

Alice rose a little after six the next morning and put the kettle on, finding Robinson a far less enjoyable bedfellow than usual. If the state he’d been in last night and the way he was fidgeting and grumbling in his sleep was anything to go on, he was going to need more than a cup of coffee and a smile to get him going when he finally surfaced.

Jeez, it was warm already. Gorgeous as these endless summer days were, the Airstream had a tendency to become sauna-like in the sunshine. Cranking open the skylight and a couple of windows to get some air circulating, Alice curled up on the banquette at the opposite end of the Airstream and slid the SD card from her camera into the slot of her laptop. She sipped her coffee, soaking up the peace as she enjoyed the anticipation of seeing the latest batch of photographs she’d taken in the last day or two around the site.

Bright, jewelled images of the yurt popped up one by one, flashes of turquoise, hot pink and gold as they downloaded. Pictures of Niamh screwing the bed together, and of Hazel positioning the batik wall hanging, plus lots and lots of images of Robinson. Shots of him cooking bacon at the Aga, and of him sunbathing with his shirt off outside the Airstream, of him sleeping in front of a romantic movie she’d chosen because she’d won the toss, and of him taking a bath with his Stetson on because she’d insisted she wanted to see him like that. Looking at the shot, she was glad she had, and her brain raced with editing options to make the image even more eye popping, if that was possible. Robinson really was a photographer’s dream, all sweeping dark lashes and glittering green eyes, not to mention that sinful, ‘oh my god it hurts my eyes to look at you’ body. If this was to be a holiday romance, then Alice was going to take enough pictures of him to last the lifetime after they’d said their tearful goodbyes at the airport, never to see each other again.

She closed her laptop with a sigh and reached for her mug again, curling her hands around it as she leaned back and looked at Robinson, still deeply asleep. Life was odd, really. When Brad left, she’d never have imagined that she could ever feel whole or happy again, yet distilling her life down to this twenty-one-foot space had actually expanded it in so many other ways so that in an abstract way she now had more space than ever. And it wasn’t just Robinson, although of course he’d played a major part in it. It was Alice herself. She felt older, and wiser, as if she’d grown so much on the inside that it was a wonder she hadn’t gone up a dress size on the outside. Since moving to Borne she’d got to know so many new and brilliant people, but the person she’d learned more about than anyone else was herself. She was becoming her own close friend and trusted confidante, which was a strange but kind of brilliant and comforting thought.

As moments went, this quiet, warm one with just the birdsong and her reflective thoughts felt altogether lovely, which made it all the more shocking when ear-splittingly loud music suddenly blasted out across the still morning from the direction of the mansion.

She bolted to the Airstream door and threw it open.

If Robinson was here in bed, who the heck was in her house?

CHAPTER TWENTY

‘Hello? Dessy?’ Alice called out, banging on the back kitchen door and then turning the handle and letting herself in. Robinson must have left his own party early last night; she fully expected to find Dessy, Jase and Stewie still going strong in the lounge. Please don’t let them have trashed the place, she thought, and found herself alone in the kitchen, a congealed bowl of something dark brown and revolting half covered in silver foil left uneaten on the table.

If she’d thought the music sounded loud from the Airstream, it was nothing to the decibel level in the mansion. If it had been anything other than Robinson’s voice blaring around the house Alice would have found it unbearable, but as it was she found it plain unsettling. Hearing his voice – so accomplished and confident and vibrant – was a window into the world he really belonged in, the world he’d ultimately go home to. It irritated her that Dessy would be so insensitive as to play Robinson’s music so loudly when the whole point to him being here was to have space to breathe and re-evaluate.

Alice screwed up her nose as she lifted the foil on the suspicious-looking bowl of brownness, then looked up as movement in the hallway caught her attention.

It wasn’t Dessy, or Jase, or Stewie. To give him his dues, the small man in the doorway looked as scandalised to find a blonde woman in her dressing gown in the kitchen as Alice looked to find a compact little man with skin tanned the colour of tree bark, naked aside from a pair of glowing white budgie smugglers that left little to the imagination, in front of her.

‘Who are you?’ he bristled, shouting over the music.

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