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Storms. Chris Vick
Читать онлайн.Название Storms
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780008158361
Автор произведения Chris Vick
Издательство HarperCollins
*
She sent him a text one morning:
Jake, Yr turn to see my home. As yr not wkng 2nite, wld u lk 2 come over for dinner?
Hx
PS M and D away. Will have place 2 Rselves
*
At a café in town, she showed Phoebe and Bess the text.
‘Well,’ said Phoebe. ‘I think we know what “place to ourselves” means, don’t we?’
‘It means more than frottage on the beach, Hannah Lancaster. Right?’ said Bess.
‘What does frottage even mean?’ said Hannah.
Her parents would be away. Hannah and Jake would be together. Not fumbling on a beach blanket, in some den between the rocks.
Jake would be in her bed.
HANNAH’S FAMILY LIVED in one of the old merchant houses on the cliffs near Whitesands Bay.
Jake got a good look at it as he walked down the drive in the evening sun. It was huge. Three storeys high, a covered porch, freshly painted white walls and a tall hedge surrounding the gardens. You’d need a sit-down mower for a lawn that size.
Amazing, the money you could make, owning boats and renting out cottages.
Jake knew there was no one there apart from Hannah, but he still felt on show. Watched somehow.
The security camera over the porch door didn’t help.
He rang the bell, and waited.
He was wearing jeans, but they’d been ironed. Mum had cleaned his shoes with a damp cloth. His shirt was crisp and white. He’d even trimmed his beard into trendy stubble. He had a bottle of wine in his hand, notes for a cab home in one pocket and condoms in another. Just in case. He didn’t expect it. But …
They hadn’t shagged yet. Almost, but not quite. The beach was no-go. His place was a dead end; even if Mum was cool, Sean would listen through the walls.
Tonight they were alone. It might be different.
He rang the doorbell, again.
‘Hellooooooo!’ It was Hannah’s voice, through an intercom. ‘I’ve been watching you.’ He looked up, smiled at the camera.
The door opened. She was wearing a green Roxy summer dress, light and clinging. She had smoky eye make-up on. And lippy.
‘Wow. You look proper … I mean … Amazing. You look amazing.’
‘A change from shorts and a T-shirt, right?’ she said, curtseying. ‘You dressed smart.’
‘Um, yeah.’ He felt like an arse. Like he’d tried too hard.
‘You look great, Jake. Handsome. I’m glad you made the effort.’ She smiled, kissed him and took the wine. ‘Sancerre, niiice. Come on,’ she said, and led him into the house.
He’d known the family had money, but this? Bloody hell. Just the hallway was massive. In a corner was a large bronze statue of a nude girl. On the walls framed photos of the family sailing, a huge modern-art painting of the nearby cliffs, an ancient drawing of a girl selling fish at the quayside.
It wasn’t just money. It was taste.
His shoes thunked on the chequered marble floor as he followed Hannah. The kitchen was huge too, with black granite surfaces, a wooden work station and a breakfast bar. At the far end of the kitchen was an old oak table, set for two.
Nu-folk music drifted out of unseen speakers. He smelt herbs and candles. Good smells. Hannah’s dog, Beano, was sitting, strangely quiet in a basket in the corner, as though even he had to behave himself in this place.
‘The house is fantastic,’ said Jake.
‘Um, yeah. I guess. I’m making you steak.’
‘But you’re a pesky whatsit.’
‘Pescatarian. I’m having swordfish.’ She smiled and waved her hand over the table, like a magician’s assistant showing the final part of a trick.
‘This is all a bit grown-up,’ he joked. He felt out of place. Weirdly wrong about being there.
Hannah came up and stroked his cheek, then laughed.
‘Don’t worry, Jake. The folks aren’t here,’ she said. ‘No grown-ups. Just us.’
‘Yeah.’ He relaxed. This was just him, and Hannah. They could do what they wanted.
He opened the wine.
‘My dad collects it,’ she said as he poured. ‘That and boats. It’s like an obsession with him. He’s got loads. A cellar, full.’
‘Can I see?’ he said.
‘If you like. Follow me.’
She led him back to the hall, then into another hall, down curving stone steps and through a smoked-glass door into a cellar.
Three walls were covered floor to head-high with racks. Hundreds of bottles.
‘Holy shit,’ said Jake.
‘We can have some if you like. I’m not bothered, but if you want?’
‘Maybe later.’
‘Dad won’t mind us taking one, as long as it’s not one of those.’ She pointed at the top row of the rack that was furthest from the door. ‘The pricey ones.’
They all looked expensive to Jake. Everything about this place looked expensive.
*
They ate salmon pâté she’d made herself, on tiny squares of toast.
They drank the wine, with the steak and swordfish.
They talked, a lot. About surf, dolphins, the sea. His mates. Hers. The usual stuff.
But all the time Jake was working up the courage to ask about Hawaii. They’d never planned anything beyond the next day’s picnic.
He knew they needed to talk about it – she was headed off in September.
He took off his shoes and stroked her leg under the table.
‘So,’ he said. ‘You got your ticket yet? A date for going?’
‘I told you. September.’
‘You never said the date.’
‘Why? Are you planning a leaving party?’
Hannah stared at Jake, looking a little scared. He stared back.
The words leaving party had cut through their evening like a knife.
Neither of them spoke for a while. No one filled the heavy silence.
They hadn’t talked about ‘goodbye’. Or a future. Jake downed his wine and poured himself another.
‘Jake.’
‘What?’
‘This is difficult. You don’t know … look. Do you even know what I’ll be doing there?’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘Going on boats looking for whales?’
Hannah sighed. ‘Dr Rocca takes four interns a year. Hundreds apply. You spend five hours on the boat, every two weeks. The rest of the time you sit on a cliff watching for whales to dive so you can take photos of their tail flukes, to ID them. You listen to hours of whale song and make notes. You