through the emails, mocked by the I’m alive!! subject header on every decline.
She didn’t want to be upset. But this was starting to happen more often: the casual cancel. All she could think was that she rarely said no to an invite. Normally she would have been scrolling through her diary right now to try and find other dates that might work, might pull the group together, write some extra jolly response to keep the momentum going. Ava was constantly rearranging, juggling, to make sure that she could see everyone, do everything, make sure everyone was happy, and she hated the part of herself that wondered why, when she most needed it, they couldn’t do the same for her. Because she knew it was fruitless. They weren’t being callous – it was just the older they got, the harder it was to mesh their lives. They weren’t at university any more, nor loafing about in their first jobs, free and easy. Her friend Louise was expecting twins, for goodness’ sake.
And she wanted Louise to have babies. It was exciting. It would be lovely. But it put paid to Ava’s secret wish that Louise and Barnaby, her husband, might realise they hated each other, divorce, and then Louise would move back in with Ava, and all the fun they used to have would commence once more. Twins made the wish a lot less practical.
Rory reappeared, chucking his phone down on the table. ‘Bloody work. They’re completely incompetent. How long have we been gone? Twelve hours max and they manage to balls it up in my absence.’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘I can literally feel the stress in my veins.’ Exhaling dramatically, he took a big swig of his drink.
Ava watched him take his seat again, barely pausing to appreciate the warm evening air, the buzz of the square, the sharp, cool sherry. It always amazed her to think of him as someone’s boss, as some bigwig revered documentary-maker, because really he was just her annoying brother who she remembered videoing himself doing embarrassing David Attenborough impressions in the back garden. Now though he was tipped for a BAFTA and was invited for dinners at No. 10. She’d never seen her father look so taken aback as the moment one Christmas when Rory announced that he had been invited to a bash at the Prime Minister’s. Their dad had absolutely no understanding of television bar the Ten O’Clock News, and seemed quite stunned that it could lead to something he would deem a serious accolade. He took himself off to his study, shaking his head with bemusement.
‘Shall we have a toast to Gran?’ Ava said, raising her glass.
‘Yes absolutely, nice idea.’ Rory clinked his glass to hers. They both took a sip.
The dry crispness of the sherry flamed her throat and nose as though she’d inhaled the scent. It tasted of Spain. Of nights sitting on her grandmother’s veranda, bare feet up on the railing, looking out over the little courtyard garden, the man in the house opposite watering the flowerpots on his wall with a tin can on a long bit of bamboo, the rustle of the palm leaves in the wind, the hoot of the gecko, the sweet ripe perfume of fat purple figs and the fresh-river tang of red geraniums.
The bar filled up around them, bodies squishing to get through, and Rory and Ava talked for a while about the ceremony, polite musings about how nice it had been, how much their grandmother would be missed. Then Rory said, ‘So . . . Gran’s house,’ fishing a small drowning fly out of his drink. ‘I’m thinking we get someone in to clear the place out, put it on the market as soon as possible.’ He looked up as he was ushering the fly off his finger on to the barrel table to check Ava was listening. ‘I could do with some cash at the moment. Our mortgage has skyrocketed and Max’s school fees just seem to completely ignore inflation. Yeah?’ He was still in work mode. Used to people doing exactly what he told them.
Ava had the fleeting thought, as he spoke, of how nice it would be to come back to Spain and sort out the Summerhouse herself. She wondered if any of her friends might want to come with her. The list of declines to a simple meal made it seem unlikely. That was the problem with getting older, there were fewer and fewer people to go on holiday with. She imagined herself in the future, resorting to coach trips for company. She didn’t actually mind a coach trip – apart from the fact that everyone watched you get up to walk to the toilet – she just wanted to go on one out of choice rather than desperation.
The alternative would be to come out here on her own. To really grasp the idea of a second chance and head off into the sunset to find herself. But the thought made her uneasy. She wasn’t sure she had the courage for so much aloneness. She had no trouble curling up on her sofa at home watching Netflix by herself all evening, but that was generally because she always knew that the next night or the next lunchtime or the next breakfast she was meeting someone, whether it was a client or a friend or even her dad. There was always someone. Always a dinner, always a drink. And if one person cancelled she invariably found another. Aside from her close friends she had a little black book of acquaintances, an intricate network of possibilities. There was always a dot on her iPhone calendar. She made sure she wasn’t lonely by rarely being alone.
Across from the bar the guitar player paused for a beer, nodding when a couple of people clapped. The mood of the playground opposite morphed as the little kids ran off for dinner and a group of loping teenagers took over the swings.
Ava’s phone buzzed with a text message.
It was from Caroline, a girl she hadn’t spoken to in ages who she’d seemingly called in desperation from the hospital. They’d done work experience together at Peregrine Fox Antiques – which predominantly meant walking Peregrine’s dog and popping out to buy espressos. Caroline had left for a job at an auction house and was now senior press officer. Ava realised she must have underestimated her concussion because she couldn’t actually believe she’d called Caroline for help, given their lack of recent contact and Caroline’s ability to always make her feel as though, while everyone else was leaning in, Ava was lying back taking a nap.
Ava! Great to hear from you! Sorry taken so long to reply – we’re in the middle of a HUGE forgery scandal. All super stressful and not something I should even mention on text. LOL. Will probably be indicted. How’s things?? Your LinkedIn says you’re still working at Peregrine’s btw – need to update.
Ava exhaled, blowing her hair up out of her face, the curl landing back in the same place. She almost laughed. The world itself was conspiring to spotlight her every failing.
Exactly as her LinkedIn profile suggested, Ava was still working at Peregrine Fox Antiques. She loved her job. She sourced antiques for rich clients at the tiny company run by the brilliant, very camp Peregrine Fox. She was good at it. People trusted her. They sold her things for nothing and bought things from her for a fortune while Peregrine drank copious espressos and did the same thing, just more flamboyantly. Ava had an eye for quality that came from trailing round after her mother, who only felt like she’d truly made it in life when the very best became her everyday default. Her eye for a bargain came from trailing round after her grandmother, who had a self-patented technique for elbowing to the front at jumble sales. Ava’s greatest success to date was unearthing a Chippendale blanket trunk in the back room of a Sussex farmhouse that was being used to store muddy boots and dog food.
But now, seen through Caroline’s eyes, it made her feel as though she was still twenty-one and doing the filing.
It felt like a sign.
Ava turned her phone over on the table, didn’t reply to the text. She watched the fly Rory had saved still making its way dozily to the edge of the table.
Rory had taken the opportunity to read his emails again. ‘Going to have to drink up so we can get to the airport,’ he said, eyes glued to his screen.
Ava checked her watch. There was acres of time. ‘You know, Rory,’ she said, swallowing, her mouth suddenly dry, talking before her brain had fully formulated a plan, ‘maybe I might
