One Perfect Summer

me closer to him.
    I wish he had a mobile phone so I could call him, but he’s putting all of his money towards a car.
    I turn and sit on the bench. It’s a clear night and the stars above are bright. Unlike in London, there is no orange haze here from streetlights. It’s beautiful.
    I finally cracked yesterday and told Lizzy about Joe. Her mum is recovering from the operation quite well, although they won’t know yet if they’ve removed all of the cancer. Susan starts chemo next week; it will be horrendous for her, let alone for my friend, who will have to watch her mother go through hell.
    Lizzy was surprised that I had met a boy – and even more surprised that I’d kissed him. We had both thought we’d be in a bit of a backwater here. She tried to sound excited for me, but I know she just wishes she were here having fun and that all this awful stuff wasn’t happening to her family.
    I suppose I should go to bed. I’m about to stand up, but freeze. Is that . . . a dog panting?
    ‘Joe?’ I ask quietly.
    ‘Alice?’
    I get up and run to the gate.
    ‘Where are you?’ I whisper into the darkness, and then I see him, stepping onto the track from the field. Dyson is already at the gate, wagging his tail. He crouches, ready to bark, and my reflexes work quicker than I would have ever given them credit for because I rush out of the gate and bend down to pat him rigorously before he can utter a sound. I don’t want him to rouse my parents. Their bedroom overlooks the garden at the back, but I don’t want to take any risks.
    Joe reaches me and I stand up and throw my arms around his neck.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, beyond delighted.
    ‘I took Dyson for a walk and my feet just kind of took me this way. I’m not stalking you,’ he adds.
    ‘I wouldn’t mind if you were.’
    He grins. ‘What are you doing outside?’
    ‘Waiting for you,’ I reply with a smile. His kisses are tender, more tender than they have been. Out of the blue I feel like I’m going to cry. It’s the weirdest feeling.
    Dyson whimpers and collapses in the dirt at our feet. Joe glances down at him and then back at me. The bizarre urge to cry vanishes.
    ‘Did your dad arrive today?’ he asks.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Are they asleep?’ He nods towards the house.
    ‘I think so.’
    ‘He’d kill me if he knew I was out here with his daughter.’
    I giggle. ‘I am eighteen, you know.’
    ‘It wouldn’t make a difference. If you were my daughter . . .’
    ‘What a gross thought!’
    ‘Urgh!’ He grimaces and gently punches my arm. ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’
    ‘You’re working, aren’t you?’ I check before answering.
    ‘Yeah.’
    In that case . . . ‘We’re going to visit some castle by the sea.’
    ‘Portland?’
    ‘That sounds familiar. Have you been?’
    ‘No. I’d like to go, though.’
    ‘Come with us?’
    ‘I have to work, remember.’
    ‘Pull a sickie!’
    ‘What, with my parents right there to check up on me? And they would ,’ he adds. ‘No. Anyway, you’d better spend some time with your dad. I don’t want to gatecrash.’
    ‘You wouldn’t!’ I am desperate for him to come, even though I know that he won’t.
    He smiles and kisses me. Again.
    ‘You should go inside,’ he says, pulling away and rubbing my arms with his perpetually warm hands. ‘You’re cold.’
    ‘Come and sit on the bench with me for a bit,’ I plead.
    He hesitates and then nods. ‘Stay.’
    ‘Bring him in, just in case he barks,’ I suggest.
    ‘Okay.’ The delighted dog squeezes through the barely-open gate and I breathe in sharply as he runs down the driveway, but I know that the garden gate is locked so he won’t have a chance to bark up at my parents’ window. I’m past caring, anyway. I’d keep Joe here at all costs.
    We sit down on the bench and snuggle into each other. He wraps his arms around me and drapes his coat over my shoulders. I nuzzle my face into his neck.
    ‘That tickles.’ He chuckles, so I kiss him there. ‘Stop,’ he says, laughing quietly. Then he bends down to kiss my neck.
    ‘Argh!’ I whisper, trying not to squeal. It does tickle.
    ‘See?’ He raises one eyebrow at me in the darkness. I put my fingers up to touch the silver ring that is pierced there.
    ‘Did it hurt?’
    ‘Not much.’
    ‘Have you had many girlfriends?’ That question came out of nowhere.
    ‘Not really,’ he replies. What does ‘not really’ mean?
    ‘What does “not really” mean?’ If he