Forget Me Not (The Ceruleans: Book 2) (10 page)

She closed her eyes once more, and I went back to my task.
Carefully, over the next five minutes I worked my way through her scars. There
was a pull in me to let the blue flood out, to heal and heal and heal, but I
fought against it, allowing only the merest trickle through. Finally, when I’d
touched the last scar, I tugged her skirt back into place and sat back,
breathing slowly against the heaviness that had settled on me.

‘Done,’ I said.

She opened her eyes dreamily. ‘Wow.’

‘Same time tomorrow?’

‘Hell yeah!’

She sat up and reached for her skirt hem, but I stopped her.

‘Just leave the cream to settle in, right? It’ll take a
little time.’

‘Right,’ she said.

As I screwed the lid back onto the pot, her quietness struck
me.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked, suddenly alarmed. Was she in
pain? Or had I given myself away?

She fretted with a spangly sequin in her skirt.

‘Cara?’

‘Will it work, do you think?’ she whispered. ‘I mean, I know
it can’t give me the full function back, or take away the pain – but even if
the scars were just a little lighter…’

I reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘It’ll work,’ I said.

‘I’m going to die.’

‘You’re not going to die.’

‘I am, Luke. I’m going to die. Right here. Today.’

‘No way. Just have a little faith in yourself, Scarlett.’

‘There’s faith, and then there’s blind stupidity.’

‘You can do it.’

‘I can’t do it.’

‘You can do it.’

‘I can’t.’

‘You can. Nearly there now…’

‘Oh, crap!’

‘Wait for it…’

‘It was nice knowing you, Luke.’

‘Go, go, GO!’

So I did. I turned my back on the gargantuan wave coming
fast at me and paddled furiously, belly to board, even as a voice in my head
screamed at me:
What are you doing! This wave is insanely huge!
Beside
me, I was vaguely aware of Luke following my lead, and then the wave was
surging behind us and I surrendered: I let go of all the ‘can’t do it’ and just
bloody did it. And we were on our feet and
flying
– whooping and
laughing and weaving along the wave, chasing it down until it broke, and then
dropping down, into the surf.

‘Now that,’ said Luke, wading over to me, ‘is what I call a
wave.’ He was glorious – panting and red-cheeked and sparkly-eyed and
mind-bogglingly attractive in his black wetsuit, and I reached across the
boards and pulled him in for a long kiss.

‘See,’ he said, grinning, when he broke away. ‘
Told you
you
could do it.’

I grinned back. I’d done it. I’d surfed a Fistral wave. Not
much of one, by a pro surfer’s standards – it was a pretty calm day for Newquay,
so I’d been told, and Luke had chosen a smaller wave than those many of the
others were riding. But still, it had to have been three times the size of the
biggest I’d ridden at Twycombe.

‘Again!’ I demanded, and began wading out.

Again became again and then again and then a whole other
host of agains, until finally flying turned to wiping out as my wobbly legs
refused to hold me up. I left Luke and the others to it and headed back to
shore. Cara was waiting on a picnic blanket surrounded by a cooler, a stereo
tuned to a local station, and a mountain of towels and clothes and trainers.
She handed me an energy drink as I sat down.

‘Here’s your tipple,’ she said. ‘Though how you can drink it
is beyond me. Tastes like cough medicine.’

Privately, I agreed – but I’d discovered at lunchtime, after
my session with Cara’s scars, that a few slugs of one of these drinks worked
wonders for the exhaustion.

‘Delicious,’ I declared and necked it. I moved to collapse
onto the rug beside her, but she shoved me off.

‘Hey – wetsuit. I’m not a fan of a soggy bottom.’

‘Sorry,’ I said and rooted about until I located my stuff. I
wrapped a towel around myself and executed the covert strip-dry-change manoeuvre
I’d perfected over the previous months. ‘Better?’

‘You may sit,’ she declared imperiously.

I sank down beside her. ‘Is there another drink?’

She rooted around in the cooler and then handed me one. I
gulped it down.

‘Hey. You okay?’

‘Sure. Just thirsty.’

‘Hmm.’

‘And tired. Surfing takes it out of me.’

‘How was it out there?’

‘Terrifying. Exhilarating.’

‘I was watching. You held your own.’

‘I’m nowhere near the standard of most of the people here,
though.’

‘Still…’

We sat in companionable silence for a while, watching wave
after wave, surfer after surfer, and listening to the radio.

‘Wow, Axel F,’ I commented. ‘What a station.’

‘Quality tunes. You missed Rick Astley, Whitesnake, Fine
Young Cannibals and Tears for Fears while you were surfing. Oh, and Europe.’

Cara broke into a pitchy rendition of ‘The Final Countdown’.
An old bloke sitting on the beach just down from us turned to stare. I gave him
a look and joined Cara for the climax. We held the last note until our lungs
were screaming and the old man was gaping wide enough to attract a fly, and
then took deep breaths that were fast released as laughter.

When we’d finally got past the hilarity of public singing,
Cara startled me by sobering up and announcing out of nowhere, ‘I looked at my
legs, Scarlett.’

‘Oh?’

‘They look different, I think. It’s hard to tell, but the scars
– I think they look a bit lighter.’

‘That’s great!’

‘It is!’ She grinned. ‘But will you do me a favour? Don’t
tell anyone else about this. I mean, I know Luke knows about the cream, but I
don’t want anyone else to know – and for now, no one but you and me can see the
results.’

I nodded. That suited me just fine.

‘But what about Kyle – won’t he see?’

‘No way.’ She stared out at the surfers for a moment and
then said to me, ‘To be honest, Scarlett, it’s over with him.’

‘No! Lovely Kyle?’

‘He
is
lovely,’ she conceded. ‘But there’s not much…
passion there, you know?’

‘Oh.’

‘We’re just mates really. We don’t even kiss these days. We
were going to call it off this week, but we didn’t want the weekend to be
awkward, so we held off.’

‘Wow. That’s amicable.’

She shrugged. ‘No reason not to be. He is lovely, after all.
But not quite as lovely as… ’

‘As who? Oo, is there someone else?’

She blushed but said nothing.

‘Okay, I won’t dig. So what’s the plan now?’

‘Night in at the apartment, I think. Tomorrow we’re back on
the beach in the morning, and then probably bumming about drinking – make use
of the fancy pad. But in the evening we’re hitting the clubs; I can’t
wait
for that. Sunday is lunch at Aunt Maud’s. Did Luke tell you about that?’

I shook my head.

‘Maud is Grannie’s sister. She’s really nice. Kind of
intense, but nice. She cares, you know? We used to come and stay with her down
here in the summer holidays when we were kids. She invited you to lunch as
well. But if you prefer, you can go coasteering with Si and the others.’

‘Coasteering?’

‘It sounds awesome! Basically, you explore the bits of the
coast that aren’t accessible – caves and cliffs and all that. Climbing, diving,
swimming, cliff jumps.’

‘Did you say
cliff jumps
?’

‘Yes!’

‘Lunch with your aunt sounds
great
. I’m in.’

Cara laughed. ‘I take it you’ll be happy to be a spectator
at the night surf Sunday night, then, rather than a competitor?’

‘Definitely.’

She caught me staring at her. ‘What is it?’

‘I was just wondering – does it bother you, always being the
spectator rather than out there, in the thick of it?’

‘I’m not
always
, Scarlett. Just because I can’t
coasteer or surf, doesn’t mean I can’t be right in the thick of other action.’

I raised a brow enquiringly, but she just grinned and tapped
her nose.

‘Now then, down to business. Which do you think would look
better in a wetsuit, Theo James in
Divergent
or Shiloh Fernandez in
Red
Riding Hood
?’

*

Luke had offered to cook for us all that evening, back at
the apartment, but he had his work cut out for him. Someone had had the bright
idea of everyone contributing not through a tenner in a kitty, for one,
cohesive food shop, but by bringing a bag of food each. The result was an
assorted jumble of foodstuffs that didn’t quite gel together into a meal.
Frankly, I was quite happy to graze – it was my usual style at home, culinarily
challenged as I was – but Luke was not impressed.

‘It’ll be like
Ready Steady Cook
!’ Duvali pointed
out. ‘Grab a few ingredients, whizz them together and hey presto! Oat cuisine.’

‘Idiot! You can’t make
haute
cuisine out of’ – Luke
surveyed the foods laid out on the counter before him – ‘canned peaches,
tomatoes, cheese, sherbet bombs, red cabbage, doughnuts, bread, mangoes, Jaffa
cakes, pilchards, eggs, baked beans, smoky bacon crisps, rocket, ketchup,
porridge oats and SPAM.
SPAM!
Who the hell brought SPAM!’

‘SPAM’s a classic, mate,’ called Andy from over by the doors
where he was fiddling with the stereo. ‘Got our nation through World War Two,
that.’

‘How about crustless pilchard quiche?’ suggested Cara from
her perch at the breakfast bar.

‘SPAM casserole?’ offered Kyle, who was mixing Cara a
mocktail (well, it was supposed to be, but I was pretty sure I’d seen a slug of
vodka go into the tall glass).

My ‘Cheese on toast?’ at least elicited a smile, but then
Duvali chimed in with, ‘Peach and baked bean pizza?’ and Luke looked positively
sickened.

‘Duvali, that sounds rank,’ said Si, who was stacking beers
in the fridge.

‘So? That Heston Bloomingwhat makes bizarre concoctions and
people love them. His Chubby Duck restaurant has loads of Michelle stars, I
heard.’

‘Fat Duck,’ said Luke through gritted teeth. ‘And it’s
Michelin stars.’

‘Michelin? Like the tyres?’

‘Yes.’

‘Weird. What do tyre people know about food?’

Luke looked about ready to do Duvali an injury, so I stepped
in. ‘Maybe I could pop down the road to the supermarket and pick up some
extras?’

At the touch of my hand on his arm, Luke relaxed. ‘Would
you? Then I can get going on doing something with this lot.’ He waved an egg
beater distastefully at the pile.

I reached up on tippy toes to kiss him. ‘’Course. Just give
me a list.’

Five minutes later I was down on the pavement heading to the
shop. Behind me, I could hear shouts of ‘Where’s dinner, Luke?’ and ‘C’mon, I’m
starving’ and the steady pulse of dance music. I spared a thought for the
neighbours, but I couldn’t help my steps falling in time with the very loud
beat.

My phone bleeped from the depths of my bag and I dug it out.
A text message from Jude.

You okay?

Fine,
I typed back quickly.
Just living it up.

Smiling, I slid the phone back into the bag and rounded the
next corner. New-build apartments had given way to older houses, standing
shoulder to shoulder and casting shadows over the street, which was deserted.

Well, except for the enormous tiger lying in the middle of
the road.

I staggered to a stop, grabbing on to some railings.

Yellow eyes, watching.

Velvety paw, stretching.

Vicious claws, unsheathing.

Tiger.

Rising.

Stalking.

‘It’s not real,’ I whispered. ‘It’s not real. It’s not
real.’

Still, when the air trembled with his mighty roar, I flung
up my hands to protect my face. But no flurry of orange and black came at me;
no claws gouged; no teeth tore. There was no beast in the road – just a powerful
motorbike with a throaty engine gunning past and away.

I slumped against the railings.

It wasn’t real. It had
felt
real, real enough for my
body to respond automatically – to make me freeze and then cower. But my
thought process said it all: I hadn’t wondered what local zoo had lost a tiger;
I’d simply wondered: why
that
? Why, when as a symptom of her
deteriorating health my sister had encountered nice, cheery, innocuous Shrek,
had I conjured up a Class 1 dangerous animal?

And then it came to me: I saw myself aged eight, decked out
in a frilly, fussy dress and perched on a footstool, reciting ‘The Tyger’ to
yet another ensemble of my father’s clients:

Tyger, tyger, burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

‘William Blake,’ Father would say. ‘Jolly good poet. We’re
descended from him, you know…’

I suppose when you’re forced to learn poems by rote and to
repeat them over and over, they’re forever embedded in your consciousness. I
suppose also that when, in a moment, you become the creator of your own vision
of reality, you call to mind an account of a terrible beast and the ‘he’ who
dared create it. Still, next time I would hope for Blake’s ‘The Lamb’.

Next time.

The supermarket was in sight, and I pulled myself together
enough to walk the rest of the way there. Inside, I stared around blankly for a
moment before remembering Luke’s list. I felt about in my pockets, but I
couldn’t find it; I must have dropped it on the way. I’d have to improvise. I grabbed
a basket and started plucking items off a shelf.

Once the basket was full, I queued at a checkout behind two
big guys in hoodies, one buying a case of beer and the other a bag of
doughnuts.

‘You done it before?’ said Beer Guy. ‘Night surf?’

‘Yeah, at Bondi.’

‘Decent. This’ll be my seventh year in Newquay. First at
Fistral, though.’

‘Huh?’

‘Used to do Lusty Glaze.’

Doughnut Guy sniggered. ‘Sounds like something from a sex
shop.’

‘It’s a beach, man.’

‘I know that. It’s on the Cornwall bit of my Marvellous Map
of Great British Place Names. Along with Greensplat…’

‘And Water-Ma-Trout.’

‘And Goon Gumpas.’

‘And Sally’s Bottom.’

‘And Skinner’s Bottom.’

‘And Jolly’s Bottom…’

They walked off, exchanging bottoms, and I thanked them
silently for the distraction as, smiling, I paid for my purchases.

I walked swiftly back to the apartment, scouting the
territory all around like a meerkat on alert. Happily, I made it back without
encountering any other wayward jungle predators. In the lobby of the apartment
building I stood for a minute or so, clearing my mind and remembering my
promise to myself to focus on
living
.

Up in the penthouse, I was greeted by calls of ‘Scarlett!’
and ‘Grub!’ and Luke took the shopping from me eagerly.

‘Thank you. This is perf–’ He stopped rooting around in the
bag and looked up at me. ‘Um, what is this, Scarlett?’

‘Right. Yes. I lost the list on the way, so I had to
ad-lib.’

‘I see.’ He cupped a flushed cheek with his hand. ‘You
okay?’

‘Fine! Just a little run-in with a cat. Gave me a fright.’

Luke looked at me oddly.

‘I’m more of a dog person,’ I said. ‘So, have you got what
you need?’

He peered again into the carrier bag and seemed to struggle
for an answer. Finally, he looked back up at me and smiled. ‘Perfect,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’

*

Later, much later… after dinner, after mocktails, after
dancing on the balcony to club classics, after watching the sun set leaning
against Luke’s chest, after a soak in the hot tub that fast became a splashing
shambles, after a raucous Twister tournament and a frantic
Hungry-Hungry-Hippo-athon… later, Luke took my hand and led me to the spiral
staircase.

As I emerged into our little haven I was surprised to find
it aglow. Luke had crept up here and laid out clusters of night-lights on every
surface – on the bedside tables, on the chest of drawers, on the windowsills,
on the floor. His iPod was attached to portable speakers, and playing soft,
soulful music, and lying on the pillow was a single red African daisy. Overcome
by emotion, I let him pull me over to the sofa by the window and sit me down
beside him. The wide panes of glass reflected the dancing flames of the
candles, so it seemed like the night sky was peppered with flickering, fiery
stars.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘This is perfect.’

He nuzzled my neck and murmured, ‘Perfect like a carrier bag
full of pizza base mix?’

I closed my eyes, revelling in the feel of his skin on mine.
‘Perfect like the most romantic setting I could imagine.’

That earned me a long, hot kiss on the neck.

‘But Luke, about the pizzas...’

He groaned into my skin and said softly between kisses,
‘Peach and baked bean pizza. I’ll never live it down.’

Breathing was becoming difficult, but I persevered: ‘I liked
that one. Oh. Mmm… And the… the pilchard and ketchup one.’

His kisses were trailing down now, across my clavicle,
around to the other side of my neck.

‘Not too sure… about the… SPAM and sherbet one… though…’

‘Scarlett,’ he growled into my ear. The rumble sent a
delicious shiver through me.

‘But really… given the in…’

‘Scarlett…’

‘… the ingredients… you did a good…’

His lips covered mine, sealing in the words. By the time he
let me go again I’d forgotten what I was saying. I stared at him. His cheeks
were crimson, his hair was crazy, his breath was sweet and hot on my face, and
I was quite sure I’d never seen, and would never again see, a more stirring
sight.

He leaned back a little and said, ‘Scarlett, are you sure
you –’

‘Shut up,’ I said, and I kissed him.

But he pulled away and searched my eyes. ‘I have to know
that you’re sure.’

I sighed. ‘
Yes
, Luke. Are
you
sure?’

‘Oh, I’m sure.’

The tension melted out of him and he brushed a kiss onto my
cheek.

‘Since the first day I met you out on the water.’

He laid one on my other cheek.

‘Since we sat on the rock in Heybrook Bay.’

He kissed my forehead.

‘Since that party at Si’s with you in that little red top
and those sexy strappy shoes.’

And then he was dropping kisses down, behind my ear, along
my neck, across my chest, faster and more fervently, and whispering all the
way:

‘Since we kissed in the folly.

‘Since the night you first slept in my bed.

‘Since we slow-danced at that party.

‘Since I found you lying beside me on the beach.

‘Since you told me you were staying.

‘Since the beef bourguignon.

‘Since the basque –
oh, that basque!
’

He found my lips. He kissed them. And then… and then there
was no blue at all, only scarlet flames.