Summer Lovin'

I’d been reading the same sentence for three minutes now.

I still couldn’t focus.

The magazine, depicting landscape shots of decadent granite kitchens, seemed to wilt in my hands. It was some subscription piece, received through my letterbox this morning, where a too-happy woman who was much thinner than me, was standing in front of a newly refurbished manor in the Cotswolds, occupied the front cover. I glared at her, cursing her straight white teeth as they gleamed like my dead Mother’s pearls which sat on my vanity in the bedroom, never worn by anyone since she’d passed.

Resting the magazine on my stomach, which was bloated from the lockdown diet, I rubbed a hand across my face. My skin was bone dry, as if my pores were miniaturised deserts. I hadn’t been outside in over a month, despite Ariel’s desperate cries that I should at least sit on the veranda to read. She’d even set me up an online dating profile, without my consent. I hadn’t used it yet, but that familiar pull of needing to be involved, needing to feel normal, needing to make Ariel stop worrying, was starting to win me over.

For a second, I hated my sister. That second soon passed, allowing me to return to my natural state of hating the tweed-clad interior designer on the front cover of the magazine. Her diamond-studded smile was almost as bright as the necklace Ariel had bought me the day I was released from Loring Hall last spring. I’d never taken it off; it sat guarding my jugular, the large snowflake-shaped amethyst glinting in the afternoon sun. I laughed to myself.

Quarantined and yet the weather was perfect. Long, sunny afternoons, the clouds puffy cherubs in the sky. Sometimes, I felt as if I’d daydreamed my way into a parallel universe where we were all confined indoors for fear of the trees enacting revenge for how we’d abused Mother Nature. I supposed, in a way, we were a domestic abuse case. Humanity Versus Gaia. I could see it now, in the Chester Crown Court.

I sighed.

Perhaps Ariel was right. Perhaps I had been spending too much time indoors.

Dumping the magazine onto the carpet, my hands itched for the TV remote. There was nothing to watch – nothing I fancied watching anyway – but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I’d furloughed myself from my own company and my website was dry as a bone. No one was asking for consultations on a property. No one wanted a meeting over Zoom. Not yet.

I had a few appointments scheduled for next week, but everything seemed to be falling through at the moment. Ariel told me not to worry. That was easy for her to say; she worked with a multi-million trading company based in Manchester. She wasn’t lying on the sofa, staring at the blank television screen pinned to the wall above the fireplace. I thumbed the necklace, something which had become a comfort these past few weeks. At first, I’d tried to keep myself busy: gardening, working, skyping, consulting, cooking, ordering cake mixes when I learned I could not bake, reading. I’d even signed up for an Art History course even though Ariel’s hobby was visiting galleries, not mine. Anything to avoid that heinous dating app my sister had forcefully downloaded onto my phone.

Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to delete it. It sat on my screen – a crude heart wrapped in a Dove wings – ready for my desperation, or perhaps lockdown cabin fever, to win me over.

“Come to the Dark Side,” Ariel had giggled when she’d appeared on a video chat the day before.

“No thank you, Darth Vader”. I’d ended the call before she could protest. She didn’t have a boyfriend, or children. I didn’t understand why I had to. We had no Mother demanding offspring and our Father had flown to India for retirement. Only, now, he was trapped there, lodged like an aching incisor in the mouth of a monsoon. But I couldn’t phone him. Wouldn’t.

Not that since that day.

I could still remember his hand cracking against my jaw. One, twice. Over and over again until I ran at him with a kitchen knife the year before last and he collapsed from a heart attack. He was instated at St. Luke’s, whereas I was sent to Loring Hall. Thankfully, none of my clients knew. Ariel had made sure to keep the episode out of the local news and had paid some of the less discreet Police Officers to keep their mouths shut. It was penance, she told me once.

“I watch him beat you like an animal for decades, Belle. It had to stop somewhere”. Yes, I thought. Because I’d made it stop. Ariel had merely lingered in the shadows, clearing up the mess I’d made. All the same, I could never hate her. Even if she did insist that I finally got a social life.

Carefully, I sat up. My phone fell from my pocket, landing on the grey rug which guarded the fireplace like a flattened hound. It was cheap, much like the rest of the furnishings. While I spared no expense with my clients, since they were ones paying me, I reserved only moth-eaten curtains or gnarled oak tables for myself. My house had a rustic air, although the kitchen, with it is peppery granite worktops, was a recent edition. I’d bought the kitchen as a Christmas Present for myself, a gift for being released from Loring Hall.

My eyes caught the photo of Ariel on the far windowsill. Half obscured by an Aloe Vera plant, her grinning face begged me to pick up the phone. To try.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to.

The phone buzzed, like some strange insect. I half-jumped. Laptops, I could handle. iPads? No problem. Phones were a completely different matter. It could have been a text, a missed call – anything. But somehow, I knew it was the App. Winged Hearts. That was its name. It sounded like a cheesy rom-com from the 80’s. All the same, as I looked at the screen, my heart flickered. Someone had messaged me. Someone had liked my profile. I scoffed. No. Someone had liked the profile that Ariel had set up. A picture of me at one of my open house events, wearing a mauve suit, my hair scraped back in a painful ponytail. I didn’t dare look at the 100-word bio beside the photo. Who knew what lies Ariel had spun. Only, when I saw who’d messaged me, my heart stopped.

A woman named Amethyst. Quickly, I read her profile. She liked Art – painting mostly. She had a degree in Art History. A Gallery in London. Another Gallery in Los Angeles. I looked at her picture and my breath left my body.

Her hair was dark purple, like her namesake. She had deep brown eyes, almost black, as if two stones had lodged themselves in her sockets. In the photo, she was smiling, holding a snake. I laughed. Her bright pink dress was certainly offset by the roiling green python. Holding my breath, I peered at the message.

Do you live in a castle? With talking teapots. I hid a smile. Typed back,

Oh, yes. All my dinnerware likes to sing to me at night.

Belle. Your parents must have either hated you or hoped you’d marry a Prince.

The former. Besides, Princes aren’t really my thing. My sister’s name is Ariel.

You’re joking, she typed, adding a laughing emoji.

I wish I were. I waited for her reply. It came just as quickly.

Well, it’s a lovely name. To be fair, I have no room to talk.

Amethyst is my birthstone. I think your name is beautiful.

Well, you’d be the only one. Not even Lancelot seems to think so.

Lancelot? I frowned.

My pet snake. He’s the star of my profile picture. Blinking, I took a deep breath. She had a pet snake. It didn’t unnerve me as much as it should have.

Everyone needs a friend, I replied. A smiling emoji. Then,

Yes, well, despite his support, I do get lonely. Do you have any pets?

No. I live alone. I’m also allergic to dogs.

I have that same problem with my brother. I choked a laugh.

Don’t get me wrong, she typed quickly. I love him, but he has a habit of interfering. He set up this profile without even telling me. Now I don’t know how to delete the app.

I grinned, my heart dancing.

My sister did the same thing, I answered.

I didn’t realise how long we’d been texting until the mouth of sunset kissed my brow. Carefully, the phone still balanced in my hand, I shut the curtains. One by one. We even texted while I made myself scrambled eggs. They were sloppy, and the toast I added was burnt, but I didn’t care. Amethyst kept me moving, kept me smiling. She was 34 – like me. She didn’t want kids – like me. Her hobbies included skiing, though when I told her I was scared of heights, she typed,

Did I say skiing? I meant to say walking. On very, very flat surfaces.

Chuckling, I shook my head.

You don’t have to say that for my benefit. I’d love to watch you skiing.

You’d probably pass out.

Yes, but it would be worth it. I’d never ask anyone to change for me.

I’d had enough of that with Dad.

Neither would I.

Even as I showered, ready for bed, and plaited my hair in a scruffy fishtail, we continued to speak. She liked Italy but had never visited. I’d been to Rome twice. I sent her pictures of the holiday I’d taken with Ariel, but Amethyst, somehow, managed to spot the black eye I’d covered up with makeup. She managed to see the bruises beneath my white blouse.

What happened? Are you secretly a cage fighter?

I wish, I replied. A beat. A brief silence.

You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.

Not yet. But I want to tell you. It’s a little difficult being intimate, especially in times like this.

Oh my god, she texted. I just remembered. COVID. Quarantine. I giggled, realising that, while we’d being talking, the world had seemed to freeze. Lockdown hadn’t exited wherever we’d been.

Do you fancy video chatting this weekend? I have work tomorrow, I typed. She replied almost instantly.

Yes. Sorry. Was that too eager? Give ten minutes and we’ll try again.

I answered with the laughing emoji, then,

I’ll be seeing you. Amethyst texted back a selfie. She was just as beautiful as her profile picture, though her hair was unkempt, hanging in an aubergine twist around her neck. She was dressed in black slacks, holding a glass of Gin. I smiled and said.

You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I don’t know what to say to that.

I was talking to the Gin.

Hilarious. But, thank you. And I know we don’t know each other yet, but I would give my life to have this conversation all over again.

She signed off before I could reply. I was left trudging up the staircase to my bedroom, which was made up of teal wallpaper encircling a green bedspread. I had one bookshelf, which was practically empty, that stood beside a wardrobe. All my laptops were in the study across the landing, so my room was almost bare.

But that night, I replayed my conversation with Amethyst. And I did not wake with bile in my throat, images of my Father hitting me clouding my vision. I only dreamt of her.  

Over the next few weeks, we managed to video chat every other day. Skyping became a past-time for us. Phone calls were frequent. I asked her about her family. Both parents had died in a car accident when she was fifteen, but her brother had been nineteen, so they’d managed to get a bungalow together before his career as a salesman had taken off. Then she’d scraped enough money from a waitressing job to pay for her first year of University before winning a scholarship to do Art at Stamford in the U.S. Now, she lived in an open-plan flat and, I realised, she was only ten miles away. Ten miles too far. It became agony not being able to see her in person, to be able to brush her bruise-coloured hair from her face. I couldn’t hold her or kiss her. For the first time since Lockdown, I felt alone.

Even when Ariel visited to drop off some food, I barely registered her presence. I looked up from where I was standing in the porch to meet my sister’s gaze. Ariel was grinning from ear to ear.

“You met someone, didn’t you? I take credit for the wedding,” she said. Always bubbling, like a cauldron. I smiled, unwilling to correct her. After all, it was Amethyst who’d reached out.

“Please, can I see a photo?” she asked. Reluctantly, I dug out my phone.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” I said, flicking through to one of the first photos Amethyst had sent me. I watched as Ariel’s smile loosened. She turned to me, her normally sharpened features softening in pity.

“Belle, Sweetie. There’s no one there. That’s a picture of me on my birthday from last year.”

“Oh. I probably just scrolled too far”. But as I looked, any pictures of Amethyst had vanished.

“I probably just deleted them by accident,” I tried to say, but Ariel shook her head and stepped toward me. I stumbled onto a chair in the porch.

“Oh, Belle. Sweetie, I’m sorry. They warned me about this”. Loring Hall. I blinked the memory away. The memory of sitting in itchy white scrubs, letting some idiot shine a penlight into my eyes. The memory of those little paper cups, taking my too-bright medication.

“No. Amethyst is real,” I snapped. “You’re just jealous that I might find happiness before you”. With that, I stood and stormed into the house.

I heard from Amethyst within the next hour, asking if I was alright. As it turned out, my phone was glitching and the photos had been lost.

“I’ll send you some new ones,” said Amethyst. Her voice was silken, just as I’d imagined. I was happy when we’d replaced our regular texting marathons with hour-long phone calls.

“Thank you”.

“And I’m sorry about your sister. Why didn’t you tell me about Loring Hall?” she asked. I bit my tongue.

“What was I supposed to say? ‘Hello, I have delusions and see people who aren’t there, would you like to meet in the park for a chat?’”

“Yes”. For a second or two, I stopped breathing.

“Excuse me?” My voice was a mere whisper.

“I’d love to meet you in person. I’ve been longing for this for months. Hang on, let me mark it on my calendar.”

“Are you serious?” I said, incredulous.

“Completely”.

We agreed that we’d meet tomorrow. I texted Ariel about the meeting, who tried to phone me straight after. I ignored the call, but I listened to the voicemail she left. Telling me not to go. Telling me that regardless of Lockdown, I’d be disappointed. Disappointed. All of a sudden, my throat grew too hot, too dry.

“I’m so disappointed in you,” Dad had said. Then he’d taken off his belt. My back still stung. So, I ignored Ariel and I buried the memory of my Father. I could make new memories. A new life, with Amethyst.

So, the morning of our meeting, I dressed in my finest suit: a blue pin-stripped monstrosity which made me feel like a walking Nuclear Power Station. Make-up. Red lipstick. I took a black facemask just in case. After all, people had begun sneaking out of their homes more often, despite the Lockdown. I couldn’t afford to take any chances.

We’d agreed to meet at the local park, which was far enough away that she could walk, but I had to drive. I didn’t mind. In fact, on the way to the meeting place, I picked up a bouquet of flowers from the corner shop. Lavender, to match her hair.

Thumbing the amethyst necklace, I drove to the park.

And I sat on the bench. And I waited. And waited.

She never arrived.