Page 13 of High Season
Then, an arm reaching around Hannah, the heat of a body, the feel of someone’s breath against the back of her neck as the door was pushed shut.
“You know,” a voice said. “You really shouldn’t be sneaking around like this. You might hear things you don’t want to know.”
Blake’s room was dark, the air tight and sweet-smelling. The scent of teenage boy: body spray and the earthy stench of weed. A deep blue lamp cast the room in an unearthly glow, the reflection of the molten wax patterning the ceiling. It would have been something that Blake’s father, Rocco Mae, bought for him, Hannah could tell. After spending six years in and out of the Draytons’ house, she could recognize something that a man who didn’t really know his son would buy. A thing that he might think a teenager would like.
Blake moved from behind Hannah toward the bed where another boy lay, a spliff glowing orange in one hand. As her eyes adjusted to the half gloom, Hannah recognized him as Blake’s best friend, Barnaby. She knew him, of course. She knew all the intricate networks that webbed the summer residents together. Families and step-families and friends, people who belonged to the same members’ clubs back in London, or had drank together at university. She had grown up with these kids, knew where their families wintered, the names of the boarding schools they went to back in England. Barnaby’s parents were property developers, well-known for building garish mega mansions. Their own house was an ugly monstrosity on the other side of the bay.
“I was just looking for Josie,” Hannah said. She held up the plate, as if it was evidence. “Patricia asked me to bring up some sandwiches, for the kids.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to us, H,” Blake said, with an ease that made her flush. “I would just hate for Evelyn to catch you up here when she’s on the warpath.”
“Is she…” Hannah paused. “Is she… OK? Do you think you should check on her?”
“You don’t want to get between her and Harrison when they’re like this.”
A voice from the other side of the room made Hannah jump. She hadn’t seen her, sprawled in the window alcove, her legs propped up against the wall.
Tamara Drayton.
Blake and Tamara were of course not identical, and yet it still always struck Hannah with a kind of surprise how different they were. Blake had sandy blond hair, skin that turned tan easily. He had a way of fitting in, an easy confidence that filled whatever space he occupied.
Tamara, on the other hand, had short, dark hair cut into a pixie crop. Skin pale from deliberately staying out of the sun. A habit of wearing thick, black eyeliner. She was confident, too, but in a different way. A spiky way that seemed to draw a circle around herself, a warning not to enter. She said things that other people wouldn’t, Blake often slipping in to soften her words.
The only way either twin appeared to have taken after their mother at all was Tamara’s tendency to have a cigarette perpetually hanging from one hand. She smoked roll-ups, and Patricia was constantly sweeping up dropped scraps of tobacco at the pink house, muttering that anyone with Drayton money would smoke proper cigarettes, if they had half a brain.
Yet in spite of their physical differences, Blake and Tamara had myriad similarities, things that were more difficult to put your finger on. The way they tilted their heads when they were listening carefully. The way they laughed. The slant of their noses. The specific slang they used, the way they spoke a beat more slowly than seemed necessary.
Blake had once mentioned that when they were children, they had developed a secret twin-speak and that it would drive Evelyn mad. The two of them, communicating in a language their mother was unable to access.
Tamara tilted her head then, in that specific way Hannah recognized.
“It’s like foreplay to them,” Tamara said. “All this yelling at each other, accusing each other of fucking other people. It’s their thing.”
In the half-light, Hannah could see Barnaby pulling a face. Tamara drew on the thin roll-up, exhaling a stream of damp, musky smoke into the air. It was so muggy, like nobody had opened a window in days. Was Hannah imagining that she was getting light-headed?
“So, what’s new round here?” Tamara drawled, as if they’d only been talking about the weather. “What have we missed while we’ve been rotting in London all winter?”
There was a taunt to her voice, and Hannah wondered if she was being mocked. She lifted her chin.
“Oh, you know,” Hannah said. “It’s been quiet. Always is, until summer.”
Blake sat down heavily on the bed.
“Oh, come on,” he said, kindly. “I bet you have loads of gossip. Stuff that goes on behind closed doors when we’re not here.”
“Upstairs, downstairs shit,” said Barnaby.
Tamara snorted. Blake’s leg jerked out to kick him, a movement subtle enough that Hannah almost didn’t catch it.
“I just meant… you guys who live here must have the run of the place, right? And your dad runs that restaurant, doesn’t he? Down by the beach.”
“Actually—”
“Barnaby, you’re such an idiot,” said Blake. “H’s parents run the dive shop, remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Barnaby, in a way that suggested he didn’t.
There was a pause that seemed to go on slightly too long.
