One Silver Summer Read online

  While the dress was being wrapped in silver tissue, Sass chose a few other things. In five minutes, the pile by the register had grown to a pair of blue skinny jeans from like way back in the 1980s; a floral kimono; a pair of cropped overalls; a tan shoulder bag; and a pair of Chelsea boots that secretly Sass knew she could ride in. She glanced up at the clock. Still no Jessie; where was she?

  Sass found her own way to the hair salon. It was the sort of place where even the hair dryers were hushed. Her hairstylist, Giacomo, was dressed in head-to-toe black like an Italian samurai with scissors. He had stubble and a scowly smile, and a voice that made her flush. He shampooed her at the basin with firm hands, leaning in to growl: “L’acqua troppo calda?” Sass got the word for hot and hoped it didn’t look weird if she closed her eyes.

  At the mirror, Giacomo toweled her hair and teased the tangles with his fingers until he’d tamed it around her shoulders. Then he pressed her head forward, and with one hand on her neck and the other on what looked like a cutthroat razor, he began snipping and zipping as he layered her hair. Occasionally he’d bend forward and blow the hair from her neck, and Sass watched it curl on the ground, trying to imagine what Alex would say when he saw her. Would he tease her? Would he notice her at all? She was telling herself off for even thinking of him when a face in the mirror made her heart stop.

  The woman opposite had a magazine open: its front cover was held up in the glass. Ignoring Giacomo’s restraining hand, Sass edged forward to the front of her seat. A boy who looked a lot like Alex glowered back, although the headline couldn’t possibly be true. She stared again with a stinging recognition as if the razor had nicked her, the color draining from her cheeks.

  PRINCE ALEXANDER, THE FACE OF THE FUTURE.

  It couldn’t be? And yet it was. Unless the Alex she knew was some sort of double? A prince. No way. That was totally nuts. She stood up, pulling at the silky, black gown, tight at her throat.

  “Cosa stai facendo, bella?”

  With trembling hands, Sass rushed up to the woman. She had to check. “Excuse me, but please … may I see your magazine?”

  “But I’m reading it!” the woman spluttered, the towel on her head unravelling.

  “I’m sorry, but I just want to … I need to take a look.”

  The woman must have seen her face because she sucked her teeth and handed it over.

  It was him.

  The unmistakable, guarded dark eyes. Only more handsome and kind of photo-smoothed out. An expertly lit shadow ran down his jaw. Sass gripped the picture so hard that the center section of the magazine came away and fell to the floor, leaving her clutching the empty cover. With the full disapproval of a salon of shocked eyes, her hair still dripping down her back, Sass gathered it up and ran out the door. The wind would blow-dry her hair, but nothing, nothing, could hush the rush of blood in her ears.

  In her bedroom at home, Plum pored over her iPad mini. Cressida had used one of the pictures taken a few months back by Mario Testosterone, or whatever his name was, to mark Alex’s sixteenth birthday. It was after the photos came out that the girls at school began rushing down to the riverbank whenever he was rowing. She’d put a stop to that. As head girl, she got first dibs. The uglies could get in line. She read the accompanying article. It didn’t say much about her, and no picture, but just enough. A perfect mention like a teeny-tiny hint. A frisson ran though her like a sugar rush.

  The prince is currently linked to Plum Benoist, the beautiful and talented youngest daughter of fruit and vegetable billionaire Vincent Benoist.

  Daddy would be pleased. It wasn’t often that she got in the news. Usually it was all business takeovers, her stepmother’s interiors, or snaps of Cee-ce and Bosie coming out of restaurants pretending to hide their faces. She stroked the words, pausing over the last line of the article.

  The prince is spending the summer at Trist, the ancestral home of his maternal grandmother, the Countess of Tremayne, in Cornwall, where he awaits official confirmation of the divorce of his parents, the Prince and Princess of Wales.

  Poor Alex; he really needed her with him. She’d said as much to Cressida, who had absolutely agreed. Plum could see the next photo shoot already: the one with her in it. They’d have puppies, golden ones, scampering around. Alex liked dogs. She didn’t especially, but wouldn’t mind this once. They’d have a picnic laid out on a huge tartan rug, nothing messy so her dress didn’t get marked. Her hair would blow about … unless she wore a hat? One of those fantastic floppy ones that cost loads but looked hippie chic. Hmm … it might drown her, or get in the way if he ever kissed her properly. Plum glanced down at her phone. She’d switched it to silent to avoid further humiliation, which wasn’t a word she understood. Once Alex saw this article, he’d remember why he needed her. She could shelter him from the attention that he so detested because she didn’t mind it at all. She was born to shine in the limelight, not be stuck in the shadow of her sisters. She was like … Cinderella. Okay, she’d dozens of shoes, but she also had the stepmother, the sisters, the dozy prince, and now she wanted that glass slipper, more than a Versace handbag in the Harrods Summer Sale.

  Outside the salon, Sass bent forward with her hands on her knees. Breathe, Sass, breathe! Too many thoughts raced in her head, hiding what had to be a simple explanation. He wasn’t a prince. Was he, was he, was he? The words went fuzzy. She lifted her head and saw that Giacomo and the salon manager had loomed up in front of her.

  Thankfully, so had Jessie.

  “Sass! What’s happened?” She rushed up. “Why are you standing out here with your hair all wet?”

  Over the hubbub of the street, Sass heard the rapid Italian of Giacomo’s answer. Her eyes slid from their faces. “I … I had a bad moment, that’s all.” She scrunched the magazine behind her back, as if hiding it from sight meant it had gone away, like a game of peekaboo with herself. Except she wasn’t a baby; she was all grown up.

  Somehow Jessie persuaded the others back inside while Sass watched through the glass as she clearly explained about Mom, because Giacomo’s body language visibly softened and he kissed her on both cheeks, flapping away all payment.

  A free haircut and a prince. Any girl’s dream. So why wasn’t she feeling it?

  Because Alex had taken her for a fool.

  Deep down, she knew it had to be him on the front of that magazine. She even recognized him now. The only reason she hadn’t before was because no girl met a prince in the middle of a field. Definitely not a girl with bad hair, a long way from Brooklyn.

  A new, dumber version of herself, seen through Alex’s eyes, was forming in her head, as anger replaced amazement. Sass was mad at herself, and even madder at him. How could he not have told her? Was she supposed to have guessed? Oh god! She was the one who’d trespassed, climbed a wall and down a cliff to spy on him; who’d messed with his stuff; ridden his horse in cutoff shorts and dared him to take her galloping. Her shoulders slumped, her hair sopping wet. Did he think she was desperate, or just some ditz from the States that it’d be fun to fool around with? That American girls were easy and stupid …

  The journey back was horrible; only the rattling of the car filled the silence. The rolled-up magazine was a smoking gun inside the shopping bag by her feet.

  “Honestly, Sass, it looks lovely,” Jess kept repeating.

  Like this was about hair.

  That night, Alex sat on the roof at Trist listening to the silence, his feet dangling and the slate solid at his back. Whenever it was hot and he couldn’t sleep, he’d climb out of his attic bedroom onto the narrow ledge that ran along the length of the house like a piecrust. It helped him to think. He could walk right around and balance on the edge. He wasn’t the first. During the Second World War, the air force had stayed here, most of them young officers not much older than he was. He’d found their names and dates scratched on the wall behind him. He wondered how many of them had come back.

  Tonight there were no stars in the sky, just a half moo
n and the winking lights of a passenger plane overhead toward London. It reminded him of her. Sass had come three thousand miles across the Atlantic and stumbled into his world. He still didn’t know that much about her; she was always so vague about herself and he didn’t like to push it because it could only lead back to him. He’d tell her when he was sure that she liked him, not just some twit she’d read about.

  He knew that she came from Brooklyn, New York, and was staying with her uncle in the village. Sass had told him a bit about her life. The usual stuff that he couldn’t do. One day he’d get to go where he wanted, hang out with friends. Maybe he’d find it easier with girls. But which girl? Sass seemed to get him, but would she see past who he was? Plum just saw what she wanted.

  Alex drummed his heels. He hadn’t even asked her how long she was staying. It might not be the whole summer and the thought bothered him. He looked down on the world from his eagle’s nest. Made out where the slope of the South Lawn, fussed over every day by old Roberts, gave up to a crooked slash of black, where the creek, hidden from sight, threaded its way down from the ridge that curved around the estate, past the meadow, to the sea. On a bright day, if he scrambled up the roof tiles and leaned right over the weather vane, he could see where the stream ended, fingers of water in an open palm reaching across pale shingle and sand.

  He had a plan for the dare. He wanted her to be safe, but that wasn’t the point. If they galloped across that line of sand, then he would dare her to go out with him. He picked up a gleaming chip of granite, put his shoulder back, and threw it. It curved through the air like a shooting star. She made him feel stronger. Different. He’d tear up the rule book that said she shouldn’t. That she wasn’t good enough for him. Not the right sort of girl.

  Sleepless in the early hours, Sass crept around Harry, who was rolled in a furry ball, making twitchy sounds while he dreamed. She pulled on her mother’s old top and snuck down from the boat loft to watch the ocean. Every day it changed, its moods as complicated as her own.

  “It’s a falling tide,” a voice said behind her.

  David was skipping pebbles in the darkness.

  “That’s a good name for it. You’re up early?” Seeing David made her feel a little better.

  “I was worrying about you. Jessie said something happened yesterday? You didn’t come in and just rushed up to the studio. What was it? I’d like to help if I can.”

  Sass regarded his steady eyes. Mom’s eyes again. And so much welled up inside her that deciding if a boy liked her didn’t seem like the hardest thing in the world. Losing Mom was that. Meeting Alex? Well, that was a chance in a million. But it had happened to her. Fate could go both ways, couldn’t it? Good luck and bad, unless this was some kind of double slam. Mom used to say that the most important thing was that she believed in herself, which right now was really hard.

  “David …” She stumbled a little. “A long time ago, you said I was like my mom. What did you mean?”

  A frown crossed her uncle’s face. He studied his feet, stubbing one toe against the other.

  “Laura”—he paused, saying her mother’s name as if he was out of practice—“was strong; much stronger than me. She was my big sister. She took care of things …”

  Sass cut in. “But she never talked about family, or any of this? Or”—she hesitated, putting it on the line—“said anything about you. I don’t understand. I mean, why not?”

  “I doubt she wanted to. I was out of her life. I don’t blame her; there wasn’t much she could say, other than I was a stupid, beyond selfish kid who took off. I hurt her badly when I came here.”

  He straightened up and looked Sass in the face.

  “Just because you don’t talk to someone, or the truth is unclear, doesn’t mean you don’t care, or think about them, or love them any less. Saying it isn’t meaning it. It just helps. A lot. And I’m telling you, Sass, that I’m here for you now. Whatever it takes, I’ll make up for the rest.”

  Sass let the words steep like hot tea in a pot. So much was kept in everyone’s heads. All the secret-feelings stuff. The stuff that didn’t come easily. Maybe Alex had wanted to tell her who he was but couldn’t find the right time; too tongue-tied, too awkward; too many animals in the way. It was that, or maybe he didn’t care as much as she’d hoped. She shuffled her feet in the shingle. There were so many things she’d go back and tell Mom if she only could.

  They stood side by side on the shore, and David reached out and drew her into a rough hug. She leaned against him; the wool of his navy sweater felt scratchy on her cheek as the tide pulled back to give them space.

  It was the day before she was supposed to see him again. What should she do, or say? How could she think of anything else right now? Where were the answers? Sentences split apart until the words seemed to be bobbing in the sea.

  Forgive.

  Forget.

  Mistake.

  Lies.

  Sense.

  Stupidity.

  Truth.

  Trust.

  Used.

  Liked.

  Love.

  Lost.

  He said.

  She said.

  Yes.

  No.

  Maybe.

  Never.

  Ever?

  It was the perfect Friday: fine, bright, and clear. Perfect for a gallop. And a dare. Alex dressed quickly in slightly smarter khaki breeches and his favorite rowing top. He never usually bothered about what he wore, but knowing he was seeing Sass made him give everything a second glance. He was down on the yard before seven; the anticipation was killing him already.

  The radio was on and the horses were stamping for their feeds. Amy peered sleepily from around a tower of buckets.

  “Morning, Alex. What are you doing down already?”

  “Just thought I’d give you an extra hand, as it’s Figgy’s half day.”

  “Aw, thank you. That’s nice but you really didn’t have to.”

  “I know”—he took the buckets from her, remembering his manners—“but I wanted to.”

  Amy seemed to uncurl and gave him a soft, pleased look that made him wonder, a little uncomfortably, if she might have misinterpreted his comment.

  “I’ll do the feeds,” he said quickly, “then I’ll sort out Dancer.”

  Figgy looked up from poulticing a foot. One of the broodmares had trodden on a flint last week. Figgy had worked for Gran for years, her late father the estate manager back in the day when there’d been a whole string of horses on the yard. As schoolgirls, she and Mum had been friends, as opposite as a shire and an Arab, but while Mum had left, Figgy had stayed. Couldn’t leave the horses, Gran said. Alex knew that if his parents divorced, his mother would never come back. Trist was too weather-bound, too remote and perfect, and soon it would probably be gone.

  The older woman was glaring at him. No standing on ceremony there; Figgy knew him too well. The thought of her guessing what he was up to made him almost want to bottle it.

  “Dancer’s had his hay, but you can to do the rest. Don’t make a mess. And don’t distract Amy from her work; she has plenty to be getting on with. I’m off later, remember?”

  He’d planned on it.

  Figgy straightened up and stretched her back. All the staff were worried about the sale rumors. Father could stop them if he wanted to. He knew what Trist meant to him, his son; the whole village, for that matter. Alex took out his penknife and slashed at the baler twine twisted tight around a stack of hay. As the pale sections fell away, he smelled sweet, green meadow grass and clover, and felt a little calmer.

  Sass had gotten up late on purpose. She frowned at her reflection and got mad at her hair for sticking out. It had dried wonkily, like the twist of uncertainty in her chest. She was wearing a shirt of Jessie’s, the new-old skinny jeans, but not the boots in case they jinxed her; wearing those in case she rode was hoping for way too much. Last night she’d wanted the dream horses to come and show her what to do. She’d even
gone to bed with the painting propped where she could see it, even from behind her eyelids.

  But they hadn’t.

  Feeling more alone than she had in a long time, Sass touched the brown freckle over her lip in the mirror. It wasn’t a freckle, she decided. It was a mole. An ugly mole that she hated. Pressing her palm to the cold glass, she made up her mind. Forget galloping, but she’d go see Alex and tell him to explain himself. The thought made her hands shake.

  It was midafternoon when she left the cottage. If she was early, she’d wait by the rocks. If she was late, she wouldn’t care. She marched down the cliff path with the late afternoon sun hot on her back, the sea below her swelling and falling on the shore, the flowering gorse that fringed the path mustard against a royal-blue sky.

  But nothing, nothing, prepared her for the moment when she looked down on the beach and saw Alex was already there holding a steaming Dancer. Where was Bo? She’d been longing to see her, especially if it was for the last time. Why had he brought Dancer? Had the dare ever been real? Or was it a stupid idea and she was the stupid American who’d suggested it?

  “Well,” she whispered, the wind snatching her words. She’d go down there and call him out. She wasn’t famous. Wasn’t rich, or even that good looking. But he didn’t have the right to treat her any differently than the girls he knew.

  Alex’s plan for the dare had come to him in the middle of the night. Now as he stood on the beach to give Dancer a breather, it seemed mad. Cracked. Insane. Sass had barely sat on a horse. He’d spent the entire afternoon trying to tire Dancer out, but at the jangle of tack, his brilliant horse had swung his head over his stable door with his neat ears pricked.

  “Alex?”

  Sass was early too. He turned and gulped. She’d had her hair done or something? It fell just past her jaw, soft flicks of hazel skimming her freckled shoulders. He’d be counting freckles when he shut his eyes. She had the sort of face, Alex decided, that didn’t know if it was beautiful, but he knew. To him, she was …