The Lemon Grove (5 page)

‘I didn’t mean to startle you. Sorry.’

His accent is hard, at odds with his feminine face. His voice jolts her out of her holiday idyll and for one moment she’s back at work, she’s back on the streets of Rochdale, where she grew up.

‘Can I help you with that?’ he says and trains his eye line from the tea towel in her hand, down to the kitchen floor, where a line of ants is already marching towards the yellow slick. Jenn stands there, frozen in the frame as the boy steps towards her and passes round behind her, to lift the smoking pan from the stove.

‘Oh shit.
Shit!
’

He is smiling now. The air is thick with charred fumes; finally, the smarting in her eyes and lungs propels her into action. She takes the pan from him, sets it down by the sink and throws open the window. Benni is standing outside, grinning – a basket of figs and lemons in his hand. He waves cheerily; she doesn’t reciprocate. When she turns back, the boy is down on his haunches, mopping up the mess with a wet tea towel. She observes the tendons in his arms stretching as he wipes, back and forth. His shoulders are sprayed with freckles; his hair, thick and dark, cropped at the sides and weighty on top;
the haircut all the young boys have – except this is no boy, is it? He is seventeen – but he’s a man.

She reaches down and takes the towel from his hand. Her voice catches in her throat.

‘Leave it – it’s fine!’

It comes out as an imperative – not her intention – and she compensates with a smile.

‘Really, Nathan. You go and find Em. I can take care of this.’

She drops the towel in the sink, wipes her hands on her shorts. The boy gets to his feet. He’s going nowhere. Now what? Should she embrace him as she might any other guest, kissing him chastely on either cheek? He pre-empts her dilemma by holding out a hand. She shakes; his fingers are youthful and slender, the skin accustomed to holding hands with teenage girls.

‘So. How was the flight over?’

Though she tries to control her voice, she can hear the accent of nervousness in it. She moves away from him and puts on a pair of rubber gloves, if only to
do
something.

‘There were babies,’ he says. ‘And a hen party.’

Paah-eh
. The accent jars with her again. She’d had no hint of this from the couple of times she’d chatted on the phone with Nathan’s mother, in the run-up to him coming away. She was softly spoken rather than well-spoken; there
was no trace of a Manchester accent. She wonders what Emma makes of it. Is this why she kept him secret for so long? What do her school friends make of him? What about Harriet Lyons and the old gymkhana set? They’d be jealous for sure. They’d taunt her no end over his accent, if only to console themselves that even if a boy as beautiful as Nathan was within their reach, they wouldn’t be interested. And she knows Gregory. He may talk the talk of a left-leaning libertine, but he’s a snob. No wonder he’s been so reticent about the boy.

She looks up, expecting a grin. His expression is serious; his green eyes wide and his pupils huge, like he’s been running. He perches himself on the edge of the big pine table; he looks strangely at home. He reaches round behind his back to scratch his neck. Jenn’s eyes are drawn to the thatch of dark hair in his pits.

‘Any of that lemonade? Sounded good.’

Her ears are hot as she moves to the fridge and fetches the cold glass jug. She finds a glass, pours his lemonade. His eyes never leave her. He drains it in two gulps, his throat expanding like a snake’s as he swallows, mechanically.

‘So … what do you think of Deià?’ she says, dropping her eyes to the floor. Even before he answers, she’s cursing herself. How many times had she joked and bitched with Emma about parents who find chatting to
their kids so awkward, that they begin every conversation with a ‘So …?’

He smiles, as though he understands.

‘Well – there’s a lot of money,’ he says. But before she can counter, he hits her with those huge, earnest eyes. ‘I’d love to come here in the winter, though. Bet it’s wild.’

Jenn licks away a drip of sweat from her lip and eyes him.

‘It
is
! We came here once in December when Emma was only little. It’s a different island – every bit as beautiful, but frightening too.’

He is grinning – is he mocking her? She’s trying too hard. She reins in her enthusiasm, strives to keep her voice on an even keel.

‘It’s … I don’t know, you’re so much more aware that it’s an
island
.’ He’s nodding now. Closes his eyes in agreement.

‘I came here in June once,’ he says. ‘Rained the whole time.’

‘Here? To Deià?’ She can hear the surprise – the near disbelief – in her voice. She goes to redress it, but he interjects.

‘Here? Ha! My ma would love that, yeah!’ He reveals a row of very white teeth. ‘Nah, other side of the island. Ca’n Picafort, we stayed.’

‘I don’t know it. Sounds nice.’

But Jenn does know it and she feels her neck burning up. She rebuffs the urge to touch it.

‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s a dump.’

She looks away, scrutinises the bowl as she picks it up and turns it round and checks for chips or cracks. A strange, unsettling energy snaps through her, just like that empowering rush she’d felt on the beach with the hippy kids the previous morning. Yet this low, tingly strumming unsettles her. It scrapes the skin on her neck, like a shock from their old TV. She is relieved – grateful even – to hear the slap of Emma’s flip-flops across the tiles. She breezes into the kitchen, devastating in an electric blue bikini – another new addition to her holiday wardrobe. A gold chain belts her slim waist; a dazzling fake sapphire studs her navel. Yet again, Jenn finds herself irked by the question of who’s paying for all this – she can hazard a good guess; and it’s not her beau. But overriding these petty concerns is a sense of awe at her daughter’s womanly figure. Where did those legs come from? And the breasts.

Emma plants a kiss on Nathan’s lips and crosses one ankle over the other as she tugs at his wrist.

‘Come on. Beach. Last one in the sea buys lunch.’

Nathan’s earnest gaze stays on Jenn, seeking not just her consent but also her approval. Whatever burned in
his eyes before – whatever she imagined was there – has withered.

‘Think Jenn’s making lunch,’ he says.

Emma whispers in his ear, loud enough for Jenn to hear. ‘We’ve only just got here. We can eat with the Oldies tonight.’

Jenn tries not to show that she’s stung.

‘Go on – you two make a run for it before Dad kidnaps you.’

Without a hint of protest they’re out of the door, Emma’s bikini briefs barely covering her bum. Jenn sighs and gives the heavy cast-iron frying pan a shake. She sniffs at the charred vegetables and scrapes the lot into the pedal-bin. She loiters at the window and watches them pad down the path. Nathan’s arm drops down from Emma’s waist to cup her small buttocks as they disappear from view.

4

They find the lovers seated at the far end of the beach restaurant, out on the rocky precipice. They’re side by side, looking out to sea with their feet up on the low, whitewashed wall. That was me once, thinks Jenn, that was us. Wistful, she reaches down to find Greg’s hand and squeezes. Nathan’s arm is draped over the back of Emma’s chair, his thumb tracing an intimate curve from her neck to her shoulder. She wonders what Greg makes of the tender vignette as they come up the stone steps and into the restaurant. Does the same thought crash through his mind? Are they? And if so, for how long? Because the last time she looked, the last time she thought to look, Emma was still a kid. The highlights, the waist-chain, the navel stud – these are all red herrings, surely. This is a girl with a row of teddies at
the end of her bed. A girl with a full thatch of pubic hair.

They skirt the line of diners waiting to be seated and, ignoring their stares, pick their way across the floor. A large matron, sweat popping from her brown forehead, comes flaring towards them, wagging her finger. Gregory doesn’t break his stride but Jenn drops back to explain. She points out the teenagers and the waitress softens at once. She smiles and guides Jenn to the table, reeling off some platitude about
amor
and
jóvenes
.

The table is fashioned from a hunk of driftwood and set on two stone pillars. Gregory wedges himself in at the far end of a wooden bench, his back to the sea. Jenn hovers, waiting for Emma to budge up, but she’s in a world of her own. She clocks Nathan’s hand drop down from Emma’s neck. He slugs his beer from the bottle and, once Gregory is settled, slides his hand over to her bare thigh where it rests, a finger’s width from her crotch. Jenn feels a clenching of the stomach; a quickening of the pulse. If they’re not doing
it
, then they are doing everything but. She strides to a nearby table and brings back a white, plastic chair. Seated, but still irritable, she puts on her reading glasses, picks up a menu.

‘You guys ordered yet?’

The teenagers shake their heads. She has to lean backwards to avoid the sear of the sun. As Nathan scans the
menu, she sneaks another look: his muscular, slender frame; the pale green eyes spaced too widely apart, perched on the side of his face like a horse’s; the big wide mouth, and his little white teeth, whenever he smiles. And his hair – masses of it. A beautiful boy, she concludes. Emma was right not to leave him behind. As though reading her mind, Emma links her arm through his and rests her head on his shoulder.

‘Shall we just get a cheese sandwich? Maybe some fries to share?’

Greg gives a snort. ‘Really? What happened to
gambas a la planchas
?’ He turns to Nathan. ‘She won’t thank me for telling you this but it’s all she’s talked about for months. She dreams about the seafood in this place, don’t you, Em?’

Emma shoots him a withering look. Nathan turns to Emma, pecks her on the cheek.

‘You go ahead, honest. Order what you want.’

He lifts his head, a little too slowly and self-consciously, Jenn thinks, and smiles apologetically. ‘I’m vegetarian.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Greg says. ‘No worries.’

‘I’m not.’ He smiles. ‘Worried, I mean …’

She feels a brief, protective frisson shoot through her – it’s not often she sees Greg floundering like that.

‘The stuffed peppers are good,’ she says without looking up.

Greg tries to catch the plump señora’s eye. Jenn runs her finger down the menu.

‘The salads are okay here, too. They pad it out with onion, though.’ She smiles. ‘Never a good sign.’ She pauses to let each of them in on the joke. Greg has his arm in the air now, as though he’s hailing a taxi. Jenn ploughs on, compelled to keep talking. ‘Oh! Tell you what, though – they have a wood-burning oven, don’t they, Greg? I had an artichoke-heart pizza the day we came out. One minute you’re in Manchester, the next you’re sitting here, eating the most amazing food.’

Nathan’s smiling at her. A young waiter arrives at the table, scowling. Greg leans right back, stretches his arms behind his head and claps his hands.

‘Yes. Know what I fancy? A nice crisp bottle of rosé. Any takers? Goes with everything, rosé!’

‘Can I get another beer please?’ Nathan says. His ‘can I get’ grates on Jenn and tells her that these two are mere children. She and Greg should head off. They’re cramping their style.

‘Actually, that’s a great idea.’ Greg smiles. She knows he doesn’t mean it.

‘
Cuatro cervezas, por favor!
’

Emma smiles her thanks. Her father has only this year started to allow her a small glass of wine with her evening meal, so she appreciates the efforts he’s making not to
show her up. A dog circles the table hopefully, then lies down on the floor to lick its balls. On autopilot, Jenn turns out her bag for an inhaler. She locates it, puts it to her mouth and squirts, all in one go.

‘Don’t suppose you brought any spare?’ Nathan says.

‘No. Sorry. Do you need one?’

‘I should be okay.’

‘We could get you an appointment at the village doctor’s? Couldn’t we, Greg?’

She can feel Greg tensing, see the thought bubble forming as his lips purse and his mouth disappears in his beard for one moment: who will pay? Does Nathan have insurance?

‘It’s not that serious,’ Nathan says. ‘Not really. Not even sure if it
is
asthma. Had a bad bout of bronchitis last year; lungs have never been the same since.’

Emma straightens up, ready to seize her chance.

‘Global warming is what’s done that. Seriously.’

‘I don’t know, Em,’ Jenn says.

Greg booms across them. ‘Nonsense! What does global warming have to do with asthma?’

Nathan speaks quietly but with calm authority. ‘Well, obviously no one knows for sure, but anyone can see the changes in the weather patterns over the last few years. Like all the rapeseed we’ve been seeing. That mad cycle of torrential rain, sunshine, wind and rain. It’s got to be
a factor in the amount of pollens, right? And it’s not just seasonal any more, is it?’

‘I read a very interesting piece in the
New Statesman
suggesting it’s more to do with our total reliance on motor vehicles,’ Greg says.

Emma has already forgotten her dad’s indulgence of her drinking. She’s bristling at him, now – her eyes glinting.

‘What is?’

‘The proliferation of new asthma sufferers.’

She shakes her head and tuts. ‘Well they
would
say that.’

All eyes are upon her at once; Nathan shoots her a nervous, sidelong glance, but Gregory is enjoying himself.

‘Who would, darling? Who’d say that?’

‘The Bullingdon Club elitists of the London media.’

Nathan seems to be squirming in his seat. Are these his opinions? Emma is growing up, yes, but these are improbable words for her daughter. The dog gets up, pads round to Nathan, who reaches down behind Emma’s back to pat it and scratch its head.

‘Do you really think that?’ Gregory says. ‘
Really?
’ The question is aimed at his daughter, but his eye line is trained on her young suitor. ‘Aren’t you getting your media mafias a bit mixed up? I thought the Bullingdon
Club was a Tory haunt, the stomping ground of the old boys’ network?’