Long Time No Sea, page 2
‘So, here I am, on a small private island off the southern coast of Italia, staying in this humongo villa, very kindly lent to me by someone you absolutely will have heard of, but whose name I couldn’t possibly drop,’ she explains. ‘Have a look.’
Maxi removes her big hat. As she spins around, her long, wavy honey-blonde locks swish around, but remain absolutely perfect. Her waves are so neat, so perfectly formed, like the pattern the tide leaves on the sand as it dances in and out.
Behind her there’s a large arched floor-to-ceiling window revealing an inviting-looking infinity pool outside.
‘This is the pool,’ she explains. ‘That, there, next to it, is the Jacuzzi.’
The pool looks so inviting. I can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy that this is how she is spending her days when my own are going to be spent watching The Chase with my parents while I job-hunt.
The villa is a truly stunning building with arched doorways and a red-tiled roof. The gardens surrounding it are perfectly manicured, with colourful flowers and lush greenery.
‘And let’s not forget the view,’ Maxi continues as she pans the camera.
The view of the sparkling blue sea is nothing short of breathtaking. I didn’t think I could feel more envious of Maxi’s current surroundings, but here we are. I always try to tell myself, when looking at her posts on Insta, that what I’m seeing is what she is showing me, a carefully curated selection of pictures and videos, and not necessarily a reflection of reality.
But this video isn’t for Insta, it’s her Rope, a seemingly one-shot video of her floating around the villa, unedited, showing us what a masterpiece it is.
Maxi approaches an outdoor dining area where an empty glass of wine and clear plates are laid out.
‘This is where I could’ve shown you all the delicious seafood I’ve been eating, and the incredible pasta I had to start, but I couldn’t resist polishing them off before I started making the videos,’ she informs me.
Videos? Wow, I don’t think I can stomach more of them. I’m already sick with jealousy.
I can tell from the excitement in her voice that she’s loving every moment of it. As jealous as I am, I’m happy for her. She looks really, genuinely happy. What more can you ask for?
‘The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and there’s a gentle breeze blowing through the trees. It’s the perfect weather for lounging by the pool or taking a dip in the sea,’ she continues as she heads back inside, plonking herself down on a large, inviting-looking sofa in a room with an impossibly high ceiling. ‘Jas…’
Maxi saying my name makes me jump. It freaks me out, like she’s breaking the fourth wall, looking into my eyes somehow, a look on her face as though she knows I’m looking back at her. Although, I suppose she does know, because if I can see her, it’s obviously because I’m watching the video.
‘…it’s over to you,’ she says. She’s really got my attention now – I feel myself literally shift to the edge of my seat. ‘To all of you, my oldest friends. Remember how we always said we’d take a summer holiday like this together when we grew up?’
I find myself nodding, even though she can’t see me.
‘Well, here’s what I’m proposing: why don’t you all come and join me here? All expenses paid, of course. We can finally have that holiday we never had – when did we say we’d do it? After the first year of uni? I hate to break it to you, I don’t want to send anyone existential, but it’s been fifteen years since we were all together last – that’s almost the age we were when we decided to take the trip in the first place. I’ve got this villa all to myself – it’s like it’s meant to be. We have to fix this. So, here’s the details.’
Maxi holds up a piece of paper – the first thing that grabs me is the date. It’s next week!
‘If you want to come, you have my number, if you can’t come because you’re all old, boring adults then I’ll be disappointed, but I promise I won’t say another word about it. I would love to see you all, though. Let’s get the gang back together!’
I can’t help but smile, even though my jaw is still hanging at the shock, at Maxi’s invitation. It’s so like her, to spontaneously invite all of us to come join her on a luxurious Italian holiday. I know it’s last-minute but I’m seriously considering it. Who wouldn’t want to spend a week in such a gorgeous place with their closest friends?
I mean, it’s not like I have anything else going on at the moment, is it? Is there ever going to be a better time for me to just take off on holiday? I doubt it. Well, I don’t plan on losing my next job out of the blue.
I should do it. I should go.
My jealousy morphs into excitement. I start to imagine us lounging by the pool, sipping delicious drinks and enjoying the beautiful sunshine. We could take long walks along the beach, we could go for a swim in the sea – I’ll bet there’s so much to explore on an island like that. I’m imagining the breakfasts, the leisurely dinners, reconnecting around the table with…
I wonder who else will come? It’s not like we ever fell out, but I wouldn’t say we all drifted apart on the best of terms. We all planned to go to university together – all of us, to the same uni – but through things out of our control, that never happened. It’s the reason why we all grew apart.
I’ll worry about that later because all that matters right now is that I’m in, I’m coming, I’m going to call Maxi and RSVP ASAP.
It’s funny how things work out for the best sometimes. This has certainly turned my bad day around.
3
I’m standing outside my parents’ house with my two suitcases by my side. Funnily enough, when I took the live-in job with Evan and Cerys, I had to leave most of my things here in my old room, so it’s like I never moved out, rather than me moving back in.
I imagine I would feel more bothered by this apparent step backwards were it not for the spontaneous holiday I am soon to embark on. Which reminds me.
I take a seat on the front garden wall and take my phone from my bag to call Maxi. It goes straight to voicemail.
‘Hello, you’ve reached Maxine Beaumont’s phone,’ she says in a voice that doesn’t quite sound like hers. ‘Leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I can.’
I’m a millennial, so leaving a voicemail is up there with getting a root canal. I hang up but before I have a chance to put my phone back in my bag, Maxi calls me back.
‘Hello?’ I answer.
‘Jas, lovely, hello, hello,’ she says brightly. ‘Sorry about that, Rupe has this new call-screening software, he put it on all our phones. It’s divine, I don’t have to talk to anyone. Of course, it’s lovely to hear from you, though. I almost thought you weren’t going to call…’
‘I know, I’m sorry, my parcel got held at the post office,’ I explain. ‘I’ve only just opened it now.’
‘Well, that’s okay, so long as it’s good news,’ she replies.
Maxi sounds awfully well-to-do these days. Her North Yorkshire accent has been replaced by something sort of neutral, but something that suggests she’s doing well. That’s down to Rupert, her husband, the tech genius behind various communication software and hardware. I remember, not too long ago, there was a scandal around whether or not he was spying on people through the video-calling devices he sold millions of in 2020 – a scandal which just seemed to disappear. It’s so strange how even people who work in tech or own businesses have this sort of celebrity status these days. Everyone loves to hate Rupert Beaumont.
Maxi and Rupert met the summer before Maxi was supposed to start uni in Manchester (we had planned to go to York St John together but she didn’t get the grades she needed) and I guess they fell head over heels in love because she decided not to go to uni and instead support her man while he worked on his business – not something you would ever encourage a young woman to do but, in hindsight, a solid idea because they have the most amazing life together now.
‘I would love to come,’ I tell her excitedly, leaving no room for interpretation. ‘So long as it’s not too late.’
‘Of course not,’ Maxi replies. ‘The villa is all ready and waiting for us and there’s plenty of room on the private jet. Oh, and, of course, this whole trip is on me. I want to treat my oldest friends.’
My eyebrows raise at the words ‘private’ and ‘jet’ because I’ve never been on a private jet – obviously I’ve never been on a private jet, what am I saying?
‘Oh, lovely,’ I reply, trying not to show how out of my comfort zone and price range this is. ‘Are you not already there?’
‘I was there with Rupe, but we had some business in London we had to pop back and take care of, so I figured I may as well fly back with you guys next week.’
‘Who else is coming?’ I can’t help but ask, wondering about everyone else, where they are now, what they’re doing with their lives. Boys being boys, none of them are big on social media, whereas Maxi gives everyone a blow-by-blow of her day, no matter what she’s doing – I once saw her live-stream a cold, but I think that was some kind of sponsored post for dodgy vitamin drinks, so potentially not genuine (like everything else online then).
‘I think I’ll leave that as a surprise,’ she teases. ‘But let’s just say it’s a good turnout.’
‘Wow, Maxi, this is so generous of you,’ I tell her sincerely.
‘Well, we always said we’d do it,’ she replies. ‘And it’s only gotten harder as time goes on so, if I can force it, then why not?’
She laughs. I don’t remember her laugh sounding like that either; in fact, she used to snort. I wonder how she’s managed to upgrade her laugh.
I hear a voice in the background – probably Rupert.
‘Listen, I need to dash, but I’ll buzz you the deets, yeah?’ she says quickly. ‘All you need to bring to the airport is your case and yourself.’
‘That I can handle,’ I joke. ‘Okay, well, I’ll see you next week.’
‘See you next week, lovely,’ she replies. ‘Ciao.’
I smile to myself for a moment. An all-expenses-paid trip to a fancy villa, on a private island, via a private jet, with my oldest friends.
Dad knocks on the window, jolting me to my feet with a scare. He’s mouthing something at me. I’m clearly no lip-reader because it looks like he’s saying ‘lasagne’.
‘I’m coming,’ I mouth back at him.
There’s just something about visiting the house that you grew up in, something that hits you with a double dose of comfort and nostalgia. From the familiar surroundings to the trademark smell of my mum’s cooking – everything here feels like home.
Something about being here just feels so… timeless, and it isn’t just because this house seemingly defies the decades, instead presenting as a mishmash of different eras. Some of the furniture in the lounge – the ‘formal’ lounge that no one ever uses – has been here longer than I have. There’s an old-fashioned (although potentially classic) velvet sofa that could do with reupholstering (if not replacing altogether) and clunky dark wooden furniture that could do with a glow-up too. Of course, my dad always tells me that I’m wrong, that I wouldn’t know an antique table if one landed on me, but this isn’t a stately home, it’s one of several detached houses of this size in this village. Potentially, the most modern things in the lounge are some of the photos. The papered walls are adorned with family photos from over the years, chronologically hung, creating a strange, framed timeline of our family’s life so far. There is a suspiciously large gap towards the end – Mum always reassures me that it’s for their retirement photos, but I do wonder if she’s optimistically saving space for the husband and kids that are sadly not on the agenda for me anytime soon. She might want to take a few holidays or buy some art to fill the space.
Mum is on me like a shot.
‘Here she is,’ she sings. ‘Just in time for dinner.’
‘Great, I am starving,’ I reply as we hug. ‘It smells amazing.’
‘Lasagne,’ Dad says in place of a ‘hello’.
‘We’re not having lasagne tonight, Simon,’ Mum corrects him as she messes with my hair, tucking my long blonde strands behind my ear on one side, probably so she can ‘get a good look at my face’ – one of those cute, mumsy things she has always done.
‘What?’ he asks, with all the shock and horror you would expect had she told him he wasn’t my real dad. To be honest, I think he might find that slightly less upsetting.
‘But… but I saw the mince,’ he says.
I purse my lips, trying not to laugh.
‘Well, when Jasmine said she was coming over, I thought I’d make her favourite instead, to cheer her up,’ Mum explains, almost embarrassed at my dad’s extreme response.
‘But we always have lasagne on a…’
‘Simon, bloody hell, you sound like Garfield,’ my mum claps back. ‘You can survive without lasagne this evening – we’re having tacos, which is sort of like lasagne, in a way, just with different flavours and textures. Now can you please welcome your daughter home?’
Dad sighs heavily.
‘Good to see you, love,’ he says.
Just not as good as it would be to see a lasagne, hey? I can’t help but laugh. Dad has always led with his stomach.
‘I’ll serve, if you want to take your cases up to your old room,’ Mum says. ‘Simon, give me a hand.’
My dad, a broken man, follows my mum back into the kitchen.
Sure enough, my Raggy Dolls duvet cover is on my bed and it does have the desired effect when I see it, I can’t stop smiling. My walls are a soft shade of pink – I hate to be one of those girls, but I was obsessed with all things girly. I suppose I still am quite a girly girl, although I’m not sure I would paint my bedroom – if I had a bedroom – pink, it’s a bit much. I actually, for a brief time (and, in my defence, when I was a single-digit age), wanted to be a Barbie. Of course, I grew out of it, either because I figured out I was never going to have the perfect hair, perfect proportions, perfect teeth… or because wanting to be a Barbie is incredibly silly. It’s definitely the second one.
I always wanted to be a smart Barbie, at least. I was a total bookworm when I was a kid, a teen, an adult – when you find a love of reading you never give it up, do you? My bedroom bookshelves are still stacked. From the set of classic fairy tales my mum bought me when I was a baby to the likes of Funnybones, Thirteen O’Clock and Other Stories by Enid Blyton, Room 13 by Robert Swindells… You know, for a girly girl, I never realised how spooky I was – it looks like I had the full set of Goosebumps books too. But at some point, things shifted. I remember, around the time I was sitting my GCSEs, I started borrowing my mum’s romance books to try to de-stress. I would grab one of the brightly coloured romcoms from her shelf, run myself a bath, and let myself get lost in heart-warming, life-affirming tales, one after the other. I always wonder if that’s what made me so rubbish with boys when I was at school. I think it raised my expectations beyond what was reasonable to ask of a sixteen-year-old boy. I always hoped for something more special.
But while I might not be much better with boys, my love of romance has evolved, at least. I run a hand lovingly over the unfinished set of Betty Neels Mills & Boon collection my great-auntie left me in her will. You really can’t put a price on good memories and nostalgia, can you? Any problems I may be having aside, it’s so good to be home.
By the time I’m back downstairs, the dining table is laid with one of my favourite dinners – tacos. My mum would always do this for me, to cheer me up when I was little. I think half the fun was in putting together my own creations, so Mum would lay out the shells, and all sorts of wonderful things to layer inside, from mince to beans to peppers, guacamole, sour cream, salsa – and lots and lots of cheese. My hunger is well and truly awakened.
‘Mum, this looks so, so good,’ I tell her as I take a seat.
‘Well, dig in,’ she insists. ‘Don’t let it go cold. Your father certainly isn’t wasting any time.’
We both glance over at Dad, who is snapping taco shells in half, layering ingredients on his plate, making himself a sort of Mexican lasagne. Why are dads always creatures of habit? You can set your watch by my dad. His life reminds me of The Truman Show, everything happening on cue, always the same jokes, the same rituals. That’s Yorkshire men too. They know what they like and they like what they know.
‘I was thinking, I know you’re a bit down in the dumps, so for the next week’s dinners I thought I would make you your favourite foods each night,’ Mum very kindly suggests.
Dad inadvertently crushes a taco in his hands.
