The Lemon Grove (6 page)

Nathan looks out to sea, distancing himself – clearly he had not anticipated his sounding board becoming a conduit for his polemic.

Emma looks at her father, precarious; defiant. ‘Whatever … Look.
Observer, Guardian, New Statesman
, all those papers you swear by, right? The supposed voices of the left? None of their coverage is unvarnished fact, is it? It’s just
their
interpretation of events, preaching to the converted. Our media establishment is basically made up of Oxbridge white boys from wealthy families.’

‘I really don’t think that’s the case these days, darling. If I’m not mistaken, the editor of the
Observer
hails from—’

‘
That’s
not the point, though, is it?’ She talks over him again. Greg remains patient but he’s no longer amused. The glimmer in his eye has gone. ‘Look, if you want the truth, if you want the facts before they’re fed through the propaganda mangle, there are plenty of unbiased sources out there, these days.’

Jenn is still blindsided by
unvarnished
. She’s pleased that Emma is putting her father through his paces and yet she can’t help but flinch at an image of her daughter nodding in docile agreement with every thought Nathan spouts at
her. Still, she can’t help but be impressed by the boy’s broadside. Gregory cocks his head; the game smile replaced by mild exasperation.

‘Emma, this isn’t the Cold War, you know.’

Once again, he shoots Nathan a look. Jenn leans across the table, stretching her arm out to Greg to let him know she’s not taking sides against him.

‘Emma does have a point, though; things have changed massively since you were a student, Greg. Look at the Arab Spring. We watched history as it happened, live, and we witnessed it through the films and blogs of those who were living it. The newspapers basically just editorialised what we already knew.’

Nathan nods in agreement, and smiles when she catches his eyes; she feels a pulse of excitement beating beneath her skin. Gregory draws himself up.

‘So in that respect, at least, Gil Scott-Heron was wrong. The revolution was, after all, televised.’

He seems pleased with himself, she thinks – as though he’s won some monumental debate. The beers arrive, and Jenn seizes the opportunity to steer the group back into safer seas.

‘You know, though, I was thinking, we might head up to Sóller tomorrow. There’s a train—’

Emma cuts right across her.

‘You know Nathan is a blogger.’ She blurts it out as
though she’s been restraining herself all this time. ‘All the local bands want him on their guest list.’

Nathan seems to wince at the tell-tale ‘local’. Gregory sits back and takes a sip of his beer, eyeing Nathan with a sneer.

‘How does that work, then, Nate? How does one blog about a local gig? Or do you just present the unvarnished facts: band arrived, band played, band left?’

He chortles at his own witticism. Nathan smiles back.

‘I think you might be getting confused with all this modern stuff. I’m allowed more than a hundred and forty characters.’

Emma smiles and hugs him, then, without any announcement or apology, jumps up and takes herself off. Jenn watches her all the way to the queue for the restaurant’s sole toilet. Maybe she is on her period, after all.

A basket of bread arrives, along with fat green olives, balsamic and oil. At the same time, Greg’s phone starts to vibrate. It dances along the table. Greg holds up the screen, looks vexed, puts it down. He twirls the handset round on the table-top, then sighs and slips it in his shirt pocket. It’s the fourth time this afternoon his phone has rung; the fourth time he’s ignored it. He can sense her looking at him, and he makes a face as though to say, ‘What? We’re on holiday!’ He leans across and grabs a
crust of bread, tears off a shred and dips it in oil. He nods, makes loud appreciative noises, the discussion – and the phone call – forgotten, for now. Nathan, for his part, seems happy enough for peace to descend. He eyes the bread hungrily but restrains himself until Jenn offers him the basket. Greg is craning around and behind, trying to get the waiter’s attention again. He gets up and smiles down on them, as though to acknowledge and atone for his testiness.

‘I need wine!’ He smiles. ‘Ice cold, dry, white wine – and lots of it.’

He strides off to the bar. Alone with Nathan, Jenn feels the weight of the silence. She goes to initiate conversation but pulls up short, imagining how she’ll sound. Nervous. Unnatural. Eager to impress. If this were twenty years ago and they were in the bar of her local, rolling cigarettes and sinking pints, waiting for the next band to take the stage, there’d be no such lull in conversation. She’d be inclined to disagree with everything he said, but she’d wish that she’d said it first. Somehow, it’s strange seeing Emma so completely in thrall to this kid. The way she hangs on his every word – his world, really – it’s not healthy. It’s not her. Jenn should tell her; she wouldn’t listen to her, though.

Nathan drums his fingers on the table.

‘Did Gil Scott-Heron really say that?’

She wants to grab the opportunity by the throat; chant out the rap at him, word for word. But again, her better self overrules her.

‘I think so,’ she shrugs; ‘bit before my time.’

Another drawn-out silence. Breathe. Sit back, sip your beer, she tells herself. But her ego chips away at her. Tell him! Tell him about the time you hitched down to Bristol to see Nirvana play; only a handful of people were into them, back then.

‘So. You’re a blogger? That must be cool.’

Cool. How very uncool she must sound. He sits forward.

‘Probably be passé this time next year, like. Still.’

His eyes are looking directly into hers. She can’t hold the look; takes a slug of San Miguel to deflect attention.

‘I may be interviewing Nigel Godrich.’

‘Wow!’

‘Radiohead’s producer.’

‘I know who Nigel Godrich is.’

‘Waiting for it to be confirmed, like. But I may have to go back home a few days early if it comes off, like. He’s only going to be in Manchester for the day. Well – Media City.’

Jenn processes her disappointment quickly, steadies herself, sweeps her eye line across the crowded beach below.

‘Emma said that Gregory writes.’

His eyes are narrowed like he’s testing her. ‘Yes,’ is the honest answer, but it comes with a sense of regret. She wonders how much Emma has told him about Greg’s novel. Did she mention the string of rejections? Perhaps she should warn him not to bring it up.

‘Romantic poets – is that it?’

Jenn smiles her relief; he means the academic tomes, and she relaxes just a little. She is always cautious talking about Greg’s work. For one thing, she doesn’t know enough about it to proffer an opinion. She wonders if other lecturers’ wives are like that – she has never known any to ask. But somehow, she feels at ease with Nathan. She settles deep in the chair, reaches for her beer.

‘Third generation, mainly. Beddoes, George Darley. The ones only academics are interested in. Are you a fan – of the Romantics?’

‘Don’t mind the band, like.’

He squints, shields his eyes with his hand like a salute. Jenn laughs, leans forward to tap the table playfully.

‘
Talking In My Sleep
? You weren’t even born then.’

‘
Glee
has a lot to answer for.’

‘Yes. The ironic appreciation of shite.’

He smiles at their in-joke but turns away, looks out to the cliffs. She loses him for a moment, then he comes back and eyes her very directly.

‘Are you into your music, then?’

Yes
, she wants to say.
Yes!
Try me.

She fiddles with the frame of her sunglasses then puts them back in their case and takes another slug of her beer.

‘Course – but Emma is the real music nut.’ She smiles. She draws the subject to a close by pointing down to the cove. ‘Tomorrow, we’ll take the cliff walk and find a cove of our own.’

A gang of kids with dirty blond hair charge in and out of the surf, the only movement on the docile beach. Everyone else is sleeping or reading, or suffering the sun. Nathan shifts in his seat to watch them and, as he turns, his leg touches hers. It’s no more than a graze, like the scratch of unruly grass along a narrow path, but she feels it like a sting. She pulls her leg away, then overcompensates, swatting at an imaginary fly; drains the last of her beer, focusing on a high-gliding gull. When finally she is able to look again, Nathan is still staring out to sea. He hasn’t noticed a thing.

The waiter sets down a carafe of white wine, the big glass jug misty-cold and dappled in condensation. Gregory and Emma are weaving their way back through the restaurant, smiling about something, arms around one another. As the waiter wipes down the carafe, his gaze trails off across the cove. He shakes his head,
mutters the word
locos
, encouraging them to follow his gaze. Two of the hippy kids – a girl, and the boy who bared his penis – are scaling the promontory, naked. The girl seems to know all the grooves in the rock formation; she runs up the cliff face like a spider, never once looking up or down. She reaches the top long before the boy. Jenn puts on her sunglasses and observes. The girl’s hair is plaited with brightly coloured beads. She has full, firm breasts but the rest of her body is as hard as a boy’s. She is perfect – and Nathan is transfixed. She’s perched on a ledge, high above the sea, now. Diners, picnickers, passers-by are craning round to watch her and, cognisant of her audience, she stretches to tie back her plaits, the motion lifting her breasts, exposing their shape and heft. Jenn grabs for her bottle, realises it’s empty. Reaches across for the wine, hoping Nathan will realise; apologise; pour. But he is mesmerised by the girl. The ledge is narrow, with barely room to turn, and below is just jagged rock and sea – yet she fixes her hair and turns, nonchalant, as though she’s about to step off a slowing bus. She pauses for a second, picks her spot, crouches, shoots out her arms and dives. There is a collective gasp from the restaurant as she plummets through the air and rips pertly into the sea with a minimal plop. As she bobs back to the surface, there’s relieved applause from her onlookers. She makes no acknowledgement, cuts back
to the shore with efficient strokes, and hauls herself back onto the rock, just in time to see her boyfriend make an altogether noisier plunge. He, too, emerges effortlessly, but swims out and away from the beach with ease.

‘Who are those kids?’

Nathan stares until the girl disappears back into their cave, an awe in his voice that Jenn wants to stub out.

‘Euro trash, them. BMW heirs – or IKEA. Can’t you tell? White dreads hanging out at Deià? Don’t think so. Trustafarians, slumming it, that lot. Their yacht’ll be anchored round the other side of the cliff.’

He nods; looks ill at ease as he glances back towards the cave. Emma and Greg arrive back at the table. Emma’s all smiles, now.

‘Who’s for a swim after lunch?’

Jenn trains her mouth into a smile and pours out two large glasses of wine.

5

They pick a spot at the furthest end of the rocky cove. A few huge boulders, stacked backwards against the cliff face, offer some relief from the sun. The sky is clear. There is still no breeze. Out of some girlhood habit, Jenn sits down on the shingle and wriggles out of her jeans, but, for now, leaves her cotton shirt on. Greg rolls his towel into a pillow of sorts, flexes his shoulders, shifts positions until he can get comfortable on his pebble berth. He closes his eyes, squeezes Jenn’s hand, and lets out a slow sigh of satisfaction.

Jenn sits with her back to the rock, scanning the cove for Emma and Nathan, sweeping left to right and back again. Big women with layers of loose, brown skin hanging from their arms swing children through the shallows; they seem totally at ease with their ravaged
bodies. A couple of middle-aged guys in microscopic trunks squat among them and one of the women lies down on the shingle right in front of them, and self-consciously removes her bikini top. She throws her head back, pushing out her breasts which are slack and massive. Jenn snorts, twists her head to say something to Greg, sees his eyes shut and leaves him to it.

She spots Emma out beyond the families, gently ladling seawater over her knees and shins. Her hair is salt-tangled and corn-yellow in the sun’s dazzle. Even with her pale, pink skin, she could be a supermodel, winding down from a swimwear shoot. Her bikini sequins catch the sun, spraying glitter sparks out across the water. Jenn hides behind her sunglasses, holding up her thriller, its spine completely ruptured now – without taking in a word. The sun-glare off the page is too dazzling. Her head is too hot.

He is right across the bay, in the place where the hippy chick dived in. He appears to be heading for the rocks, below the hippy cave, where kids with nets and buckets now patrol the rock pools. He moves through the water in slow, strong strokes. Jenn takes off her sunglasses, wipes them on her shirt and puts them back on. He pulls himself up onto a little plateau with an effortless grace. He has his back to her. He smooths his wet hair back. Seawater trickles down his neck and shoulders. He stands
and plunges back into the water, cutting through the waves with an easy prowess. There’s no performance – he’s exhilarated, out there. She follows his rhythmic strokes across the bay, back to the flat diving rocks. He drags himself out again, and shambles across the rocks. Jenn’s eyes go with him – only to find herself staring at Emma, sitting in the shallows. She is being watched, watching him. Sheepish, found out, Jenn waves over; an embarrassed splaying of the fingers. Emma grins and cups her hands around her mouth.

‘Come on in!’ she shouts. She beckons her over with a scoop of her arm. Gregory, drowsy from the wine, smiles and pokes her.

‘Go
on
.’

Emma swings the arm again. ‘Come on! It’s lovely!’

Another dilatory prod.

‘You should be flattered. I don’t hear them calling for me.’

Jenn twists her upper body round, pokes him back.