A Summer to Remember. Victoria Cooke
a little, and she takes a sip of her cocktail in what I assume is an attempt to disguise it. ‘I guess I thought you were just saying you wanted to be single because it was easier than admitting you wanted a partner but couldn’t find one, but now I realise that you really are fine on your own. Look at what you’ve achieved. You’re going on a new adventure, and we know you’ll be fine. Sam, we love you so much.’ She raises her glass. ‘To Sam.’
‘To Sam,’ Viv and Sarah chorus.
‘Thank you.’ I look at each of them one by one. ‘I’m going to miss you, ladies,’ I say, suddenly overwhelmed by a stab of emotion. ‘I love you three.’ Friendships haven’t always come easy to me, so the emotion probably chokes me a little more than it would someone else.
‘Group hug!’ Sarah shouts, wrapping her arms around us all, and we collapse into fits of laughter.
The sky is the most intense blue I’ve ever seen. Shimmering light bounces off the windows of passing boats and hits the top of the water as I sit looking out across Boston Harbor. The horn of a departing ferry blasts. This place is insane, and I’ve only been here a few hours. I’m alone, outside a bar watching the boats come and go. The other four members of the team went straight to the company apartment we’re staying in, saying they wanted to go to bed, but they’ve all been here before. It’s my first visit, so I’m determined to take everything in and enjoy each second that I’m not in the office. I flick through the pictures I’ve taken on my phone since I arrived. There’s one of the Cheers bar. My dad used to watch the TV show religiously when I was a kid, and before I can talk myself out of it, I send the picture to him and my mum with a brief message.
Arrived safely
I feel guilty that I can’t write any more but hope they’ll see it as me reaching out.
Once I’ve finished my drink, I walk to the harbour wall and hold my phone up high to try and take a decent selfie to send to the girls. The sun is starting to sink close to the horizon, casting beautiful swaths of pink and orange across the sky which are reflected in the water. It’s no use; I’d need Inspector Gadget’s arms to be able to capture the beauty and not just a close-up mugshot of myself. As I stretch and twist, I notice a man a few feet away, staring out across the water. ‘Excuse me,’ I say, flashing my most charming smile. He turns to me with a look of disdain, as though I’d just insulted his dear granny’s baking or something. He doesn’t reply but he stands there, continuing to look at me with increased impatience.
‘I …’ His thunderous face causes me to falter. ‘I wondered if you wouldn’t mind taking a quick picture of me, please?’
His eyes flick over me then he turns back to the water. I pause, momentarily unsure of what to do next. I could walk on and pretend I’d not asked, but then I wouldn’t get the picture and I’m sure he probably just hadn’t heard me. Perhaps he thought I was talking on my phone or something.
‘Sorry, I was wondering if you’d mind taking a picture of me with the harbour in the background? It’s so beautiful.’
‘No,’ he says, turning away.
‘No?’ I blurt. I mean, he’s well within his rights to say no but it’s just a two-second snap and click. Why won’t he just do it? ‘No, you don’t mind?’ I ask, hoping some English charm works on him.
‘Yes, I mind, and no, I’m not taking the picture.’ His words are made harsher by his Boston twang.
He starts to walk away. I stand there embarrassed and dumbfounded for a moment, but his rudeness rubs at me like sandpaper in the seconds that pass and I can’t let it go. I call after him before I’ve taken time to think it through. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Go away!’ He doesn’t even turn to look at me.
‘No! I shan’t. Where I’m from, we don’t speak to people like that.’ That isn’t strictly true, you only have to be out of change when you’re passing a panhandler or caught standing on the left-hand side of an escalator at any tube station to encounter much worse in London. Perhaps I’m jet-lagged or something but I’m so flabbergasted by his attitude over something so small that I can’t let it go.
‘I don’t care.’ He makes a flappy shooing gesture with his hand.
Heat intensifies in my chest. I jog after him until I’m beside him, matching his pace. ‘There’s no need to be so rude. I’m a visitor to the States. Do you know how much money tourism brings in to your country each year?’ I really am clutching at straws, but I’m in such complete disbelief, it’s lucky I can construct a sentence at all. Why are my legs still moving?
‘Go away, lady.’ He continues to walk. I’m incensed.
‘What exactly is your problem?’ I prod his shoulder – I don’t mean to, it just sort of happens, but finally, he stops walking. He turns to face me, and I’m knocked sideways. I hadn’t noticed before because I was so taken aback by his attitude but he has the most compelling sapphire eyes I’ve ever seen and I’m not prepared for them when they bore into me.
‘It’s not really any of your business.’ He clenches his jaw and the muscles twitch beneath his skin. ‘And you won’t leave me alone.’ He runs his fingers through his brown hair, and I try to ignore the fact he’s incredibly attractive, because beauty comes from within, and there’s a gargoyle residing inside him.
‘I … I just wanted you to take a quick photo of me, I’m here alone and … Do you know what? You’re not a nice person.’
‘And do you know what? I don’t really care. I’m sure with your pretty doe-eyed routine you’re used to guys running around after you, but today, you picked the wrong guy.’
My eyes feel hot and damp. That hurt because he couldn’t be further from the truth. I take a breath to steady my voice. He will not see me cry. ‘You have no idea how wrong you are. I’m sorry I asked you.’ He shakes his head and walks off.
‘I hope you’re the only arsehole in Boston,’ I yell after him. He flips me the middle finger without so much as a backwards glance, and I’m left to simmer. I drag myself back to the idyllic photo spot, but the sun has dipped below the horizon and the sky has gone all murky grey. I’ve missed my chance, so instead, I key a message to the girls’ WhatsApp group telling them about my first encounter with a local. Despite the fact it’s midnight at home, they all reply within minutes.
Viv: Americans are just more direct than us. Don’t let him get to you hon xx
Sarah: Viv is right. You’re in Boston, baby! Enjoy xxx
Bridget: Get a lobster dinner and move on, my love xx
I smile. They’re right. I’m tired. Things will look better after a good night’s sleep.
***
The next morning, I hit the ground running. Yesterday’s arsehole is today’s motivation to be professional and great at my job. Oh, who am I kidding? Ninety-nine per cent of my confidence was bought from Hobbs in the form of the smart black skirt and burgundy blouse I’m currently wearing. For added oomph, I’m carrying my ‘special occasion only’ black Marc Jacobs handbag in an attempt to feel every bit the city girl.
As I negotiate the revolving door to the office, my insides are jelly. The receptionist takes me up to the boardroom where I’ll meet the team. Four of them are my English colleagues, who left the apartment earlier than me because they wanted to go to Starbucks, and I wasn’t ready. They, being mostly bald men, had considerably less hair to dry than I did.
As we approach the glass-walled boardroom, I glance at them all sat around the table. My inner fire dies a little when it registers that