One Silver Summer Page 6

  Sass couldn’t see Bo. She staggered to her feet in the puddle, losing one shoe, then the other, only to slither in the sludge and plonk down again. Her hands and seat were covered in it. Then she made the mistake of pushing her hair out of her face, and a fat glob of ooze dribbled down her cheek. Glaring up at the sun, she shaded her eyes across an empty hillside. Oh god, where had Bo galloped off to? Sass made a desperate wish.

  A wet-nosed panting and a raspy tongue wasn’t what she had in mind. She squinted: a chocolate-brown Lab with meaty breath had just licked her knee, and standing behind the dog was Alex holding Bo. Her heart leapt.

  “Lost something?” He grinned.

  “You found her. Thank you! I’m so sorry. A stupid cat ran out and I fell off.”

  “Ah. So I see. Did you have to pick a puddle?”

  “I didn’t get to choose.”

  “You could have waited before getting on?”

  “I know, I know, please don’t be mad, but you were late and I couldn’t …”

  “I should’ve guessed.”

  He helped her up and Sass brushed against him with a slight squelch. He held Bo steady while she got back on from the wonky gate, reins bunched in one hand.

  “I’m sorry that I didn’t wait. I should have.”

  He didn’t say anything, but leaned over instead to correct her hands.

  “This is England, Sass, not the Wild West. It’s a rein in each hand … like this, with your thumbs on top. Stretch your legs down and move your ankles about.”

  Sass looked down at her filthy shoes turned out Charlie Chaplin style against Bo’s warm sides. She needed riding boots. She needed dry pants, but she was forgiven.

  “How does that feel?”

  “Better, thanks.”

  “Riding bareback is good for your seat.”

  “My what?” Sass asked, face on fire.

  “Your balance,” he said quickly. “You’ve got to get the feel of her again.”

  “It wasn’t Bo’s fault that I fell off.” Sass leaned forward to stroke the horse’s neck.

  “I guessed that. Real riders never blame their horses.”

  “You think I could be?”

  “What? A rider. Course, why ever not?”

  “We’ve trotted already.” She pulled herself taller, her confidence returning.

  “Show me, then. Bet you didn’t go rising?”

  “Go what?”

  “When Bo starts trotting, hold on to her mane and try to feel the rhythm of her movement. Her legs will move in diagonal pairs and all you’ve got to do is go with it. Up, down. Up, down. Try not to bounce too much. I should warn you, though …” He grinned. “It’s almost impossible without a saddle and stirrups.”

  “But if it’s impossible …” she began.

  “Give it a try,” he said firmly. He clicked with his tongue and Bo set off down the creek path with Alex’s hand on Sass’s ankle to keep it in place.

  They didn’t get as far as the sea, but by the time they stopped, both were hot and breathless. Alex watched Sass lead Bo down to the creek to drink.

  “It’s annoying, you’re a natural-born rider, you know?” He wiped his face on his arm.

  “Yeah. I’ll be giving you lessons soon.” Her eyes danced slightly as she took him in, her fingers twisted in Bo’s mane.

  “Bo’s a good teacher,” he carried on, feeling bolder. “She taught me too.”

  “Did she? I knew she was important to you the first time we met.”

  Alex didn’t answer at first, although the way she was with Bo made him want to trust her, to tell her things. Things nobody knew.

  “It was after she had Dancer. I was ten and ready to move up to horses.”

  “Were you hanging out at the stables or something?”

  Alex swallowed. He’d gone too far and yet not far enough. It would be so good to have someone to talk to, share stuff with. He lingered on her face, but knew that the moment he set the record straight, everything would change. Who he was shaped his life. Why would a girl with freedom want to be tangled up with all that?

  “Yes … sort of. Just a kid, you know, helping out in the holidays.”

  “But you’re Welsh, right, not Cornish. Not from around here?”

  He paused. His heart hammered hard. “What makes you say that?” She’d blindsided him again.

  Sass read his face with a slight frown. “I don’t know … you’re a Wales fan, then? At cricket, or soccer, or whatever you Brits play. I just thought that maybe you were because the sweatshirt you’re wearing has ‘WALES’ on the back.”

  “What … this?” His head was whirring. He twisted around, tugging at his favorite rowing shirt. “Can’t remember where I got this. School, maybe.”

  “Oh … okay,” she said, as if she believed him, when Alex knew she couldn’t because he was confused enough himself. He cast around for the nearest thing to distract her, anything but talking about himself. His eyes landed on the tangled green hedge that bordered the creek for as long as he could remember. A shelter for sheep and horses, but also foxes, badgers, hedgehogs, and deer. Once he’d even seen an otter scoot humpbacked to the water’s edge.

  He took Sass by the hand, she was so close, he could smell her damp skin.

  Was he lying? He was showing her everything he loved best. Wasn’t that better than the truth?

  When Alex took her hand, Sass felt her pulse quicken, but just as she thought he might kiss her, he crouched down, pulling her with him as he pointed to something near the ground. Sass knelt and looked. Nestling between mossy stones and bright green leaves was a cluster of strawberries. Wild ones. Tiny, dimpled fruit like rubies in a velvet glove. He let go of her hand to pick one, hesitant as he held it to her lips. A sharp burst of juice touched her tongue and trickled stickily down her chin.

  He picked a whole handful and they sat down on the grass.

  “So tell me what Brooklyn is like?”

  Sass startled, shocked to hear her home said aloud. A lump rose in her throat. When would she walk again down that dirty, honking street where she’d spent her whole life? A life that was over. Yesterday was gone and today … today she was here in this Cornish place, where even the smallest berry was suddenly strangely precious. A treasure she hadn’t even known existed before. It was all so perfectly … confusing.

  “… and what do you do there?”

  “What do I do?” Sass stalled to buy herself more time. She scrunched her toes in her canvas shoes. “Y’know …” She shrugged, keeping it light and fake. “School, hanging out with friends, shopping, the usual things.” She pushed the ache away. It was too soon to tell him. “And you?” she asked, desperate to switch the subject.

  “Same. Sort of. Hate school, except PE and history; they’re okay. Loathe Latin.”

  “Me too.” She agreed; it was easier. School was a safe, neutral subject, like saying her favorite color was beige.

  He looked at her like they’d just shared something that he couldn’t figure out. A hatred of Latin in common. Sass had never done Latin in her life. What sort of school still taught it? Not one that she knew of.

  Alex carried on. “The horses, of course, they come with the job. And the dog.”

  “The dog comes with your job?”

  “She’s a type of working dog. She retrieves things …” He frowned slightly and reached down to fiddle with Susan’s collar. “So are you still up for the dare?”

  “I am, if you are?” She kept her voice airy. Happy-go-unlucky. “But if I’m going to die with you galloping, I’d like to know your full name. I’m Sass. Short for Saskia Emerson.”

  He stepped forward. “I’m Alex. Alexander …” He struggled with his words before scrabbling in his pocket. “I forgot … I brought you this.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a key. Don’t they have those in the States?”

  “I mean, what lock does it fit?” She smothered a small smile and turned it over in her hand like it was made of gol
d.

  “It’s so you don’t have to keep climbing the wall.”

  “You figured out my secret way in, huh? You won’t get in trouble, will you? I wouldn’t want you to lose your job.”

  Eyes the color of burnt sugar met hers and the last part of her melted.

  “Lose my job?” he said slowly. “Don’t worry, there’s no chance of that.”

  And they went their separate ways, with only a mile of white lies between them.

  Plum Benoist was cross. She’d finished doing her nails, which was hard if you were angry. She waggled them dry with a small scowl. She’d get them sorted at the nail bar tomorrow. Her hair, newly highlighted, was smoothed in place and held back by a band that pulled at her skin with a satisfying sting. She got up and put the Topshop nail polish back in its place; it slotted between Prim and Proper and Bee’s Knees.

  So boring at home. Thank god she had the gym. Pilates, or spinning, perhaps both. She stood in front of the double doors of her mirrored wardrobe. Marta, their horse-faced housekeeper, was singing as she vacuumed the house in the background. God, it was a dump. The thing about minimalist—open plan, all white, and glass—that her “interior designer” and stepmother, Brooke, should have known, was that it only worked if everything was spotless. Perhaps Brooke had banked on the girls not being there, having Daddy all to herself? That was never going to happen, like ever.

  She heard her sister Cerise come in the front door and drop her shopping. Wasn’t there a limit on her card? If not, it wasn’t fair. Cee-ce would step out of her shoes in the hallway and just leave her bags as if she was bored already. Plum was aware that at sixteen, she was unusual in being quite so specific, but detail was important. She was a girl with ambition, stuck with a ridiculous name. She’d change it one day. Named after a fruit, so … icky. She fluttered her hands as if a wasp was buzzing near. So yawningly dull waiting for nail gloss to dry.

  If Cee was on her own, then where was Bosie? Had Framboise actually gotten up? Her eldest sister was nocturnal. She’d be out again clubbing tonight. Her dress sense was about as subtle as a bash to the head. She was dating a footballer: Chelsea or Fulham, perhaps one of each.

  With a small sigh, Plum thought back to the Summer Ball, the highlight of her school term. She was good at most things, especially the things that mattered. And what mattered most was being the best. A+ at everything and nothing less would do. Take Alex. It wasn’t that she liked him, or rather, she didn’t fancy him, but it was important for her to know that she had a chance with him. Daddy had taught her that, when he remembered who she was. His youngest daughter stabbed at a red pinch mark on the inside of her wrist. His Sugar Plum.

  Her phone tinkled: silver calfskin, studded with Swarovski crystals. Text message. Plum sighed, glancing down at the screen because it wasn’t Alex; it was Millie, bored in Tuscany.

  Hi babes, how’s it going? Found this! Soz. Love ya :)

  Careful not to catch a nail, Plum opened the accompanying image. Blinking back at her was Alex, her Royal Disappointment. She opened the image to its max. He appeared to be flinching from her kiss at the ball. No! That hadn’t been right; she’d have known. He hadn’t liked the camera flashes in his face afterward, that’s all. She squeezed the image down like a spot needing attention. It stung that he’d not called, or even replied to her texts. She’d looked amazing in that last one. No boy had ever ignored her. A failure? No, a setback. Like Boxercise, you just had to keep dancing and punching low. Maybe he needed a nudge? Bosie knew someone on the Daily Sun. Some nosy journalist called Cressida Slater. Perhaps she should call her, just for a chat? They could help each other. A photo for a favor. Plum didn’t expect to find fame all by herself.

  Sass got back to the cottage aching, grass-stained, caked in mud, sunburned, sticky, and not a little sweaty. Even David had looked up from the sketch he was working on and raised an eyebrow, while Harry simply stuck his nose in like she was the smelliest, best girl in the world.

  “What have you been up to?” her uncle asked.

  Sass felt herself go pink. “I slipped and fell …”

  And it was then that Jessie, who had been looking at her sideways, jumped in to save her.

  “I’m going shopping, want to come?”

  “Shopping?” Sass repeated. Had Jessie noticed that she needed new clothes, or was she just plain psychic? Not that she had much money. She frowned. If any—did she? She hadn’t really thought about all that. Maybe David understood because he reached in his back pocket and, with a glance at Jessie, pulled out some folded bills from his wallet.

  “Get yourself something nice,” he said gruffly.

  Soon they were bouncing their way to Bloomingdale’s—okay, maybe not, but the nearest thing—in the Land Rover, which creaked and groaned over every pothole and hill.

  “Don’t worry … we should get there.” Jessie crunched the stick shift and risked a glance across at Sass. “You should have said if you needed things.”

  “I didn’t want to be a nuisance. You guys have done so much for me already.”

  “Please, you mustn’t worry about that. David’s not one for saying much, but I know how much he wants it to work out between us all.”

  “He does?”

  “Yes!” Jessie swung the wheel over and tugged the hand brake on. “And I do too. It was a change, of course, having you here, and I can’t imagine how hard it’s been for you, but …” She squeezed Sass’s hand. “You’re with us now. You’re part of our life.”

  Sass didn’t know how to reply, but she squeezed Jess’s hand right back.

  “So what do you need?”

  “Almost everything. I packed the wrong stuff. I need boots … I think.”

  “Boots! It’s summer.” Jess stuck her arm out the window to signal that she was pulling out again.

  “I know … Maybe some new jeans too?”

  “Yes, I saw what happened to your old ones.” Jessie glanced at her and smiled. “We could also pop into the hairdresser’s for a trim, if you wanted.”

  Sass brought her hand to her ponytail self-consciously. “I don’t think I could.”

  “Why not? I mean, it’s lovely, but you could add some layers, or shape.”

  Sass paused, imagining it gone. “I don’t know … Mom, she likes … liked, it longer.”

  “I know, but you’re what now, sixteen?”

  “Nearly.”

  “Well, then. It’s your choice. I know a good salon that might just be able to fit you in.”

  “This afternoon?” Sass looked out at the blur of green and blue rushing past the window.

  “Yes. Shall I give them a ring?”

  “Okay, why not! It’s just hair, right? It’ll grow.”

  “Good! First, I want to take you to my favorite shop. It’s vintage, mind. Do you like vintage? Not everyone does.”

  “I love vintage.”

  “Then we’re going to have fun!”

  The cathedral town of Truro was stuffed with people, most of them tourists. As there was nowhere to park, Jessie had to point the way to the shop, Retro-ve, while she drove off to find a place. Worse case, they’d meet at the salon where Jess had begged her an appointment. Jess’s only request was that Sass find something to wear to the wedding of her and David’s friends on Saturday. Sass, it seemed, was tagging along too. Not that Jessie had put it that way.

  Sass headed down a crooked side street. The shop front had a retro neon sign outside that said ENJOY! and was all lit up. She pushed the door open, and inside was exactly how she imagined the backstage dressing room of a really old theater, the room soft-lit by lightbulbs arranged around long, dusty mirrors. An old jukebox pumped out some sort of jazzy hip-hop, and in the corner, a purple velvet couch lounged beside racks and racks of clothes that smelled of exotic and slightly stale perfume. The shop assistant came over, a scary-amazing Marilyn Monroe in biker boots and gold lamé. Better than being styled by wolves, Sass reminded herself.

  “Can I help you?” Sh
e asked in a low voice and an accent that Sass hadn’t heard before in Cornwall. Maybe Irish or Scottish?

  After assessing Sass with a kohl-black eye, Marilyn went off and found her an armful of things that she hung in a small fitting room, her bracelets jangling as she closed the drapes.

  “Just shout if you need anything.” Her voice had a definite lilt that sang out across the shop floor. Was she Welsh? Sass thought of Alex’s sweatshirt. On the back, it had definitely said WALES, the letters embroidered in white on black. On his chest had been a smaller crest with a pair of crossed … paddles? That had to tell her something about him. Maybe his school was there, or he once kayaked for a Welsh school team?

  Sass picked out a tea dress from the 1930s. It said so in a handwritten swirl on the label hanging from its padded hanger. She swooshed the dress around her in the mirror and imagined it on a girl named Daphne drinking Lapsang souchong tea from a china cup. She touched the fabric. It was made of air: an ivory silk printed with tiny birds and entwined with flowers that had faded in places. She slipped it on; the short sleeves gathered at the cuff, and the high cinched-in waistband was edged in lace. Daphne wasn’t as tall as she was, so the waist was higher and the hem a lot shorter. Sass’s knees stuck out. Brown from the sun and, she wet her thumb, still dirty. She shrugged her hips left and right, and the fabric lifted and spun. It was beautiful. She could float out of the shop and over the sea like the paper lantern David had lit the first night that she came.