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.
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,
