A Summer to Remember. Victoria Cooke

you get off? I can’t talk to you when you’re all breathy. It sounds like you’re having sex. And I don’t think those are quite the right words to the song.’

      She giggles. ‘Okay, I’m losing the battle against my saggy arse anyway. So, tell me, what’s up?’

      I decide to get straight to the point. ‘I don’t fit in and everyone here is horrible.’

      ‘Oh, Sam. It can’t be that bad. It’s just settling-in nerves. By next week you’ll be fine.’

      I shake my head even though she can’t see me. ‘It’s different here. It’s so male-dominated. They don’t listen to a word I say and they even sent me out for doughnuts. Maybe it’s just the men here. They’re so arrogant, and the UK team seem to lap it up like it’s something to aspire to.’

      ‘Listen to me, Sam.’ Bridget adopts a stern tone. ‘You’ve waited so long for this opportunity, and you deserve to be there as much as any one of those men. Don’t you dare give up so soon.’

      ‘I know, you’re right but …’

      ‘There are no buts about it. You’re going to see the three months through, and you’re going to make yourself heard. Okay?’ I know she’ll have one hand on her hip and her eyebrows raised.

      ‘Okay.’ I sigh.

      ‘I know it’s hard.’ She softens her tone. ‘Why don’t you escape the apartment for the weekend and have some you time? You’re near the coast – pick a beach and stay a night or two in a hotel.’

      Being near the coast hadn’t really registered with me. Apart from seeing Boston Harbor on my first day and that wasn’t exactly enjoyable. I’ve not thought about anything other than work since but there isn’t really anything to stop me. ‘Do you know, that’s actually a great idea.’

      ‘I know.’ She laughs.

      We say our goodbyes and the idea of going away and having some ‘me’ time makes me feel lighter. Not having to see the four, okay three, buffoons (if I exonerate Tony for being half-alright) from work over the weekend is an added bonus too. When I first arrived, I saw an advertisement for ferries to Provincetown down at the harbour. I don’t really know anything about the place, but if there are enough people wanting to go to justify a big ferry, it must be alright. A quick Google search confirms that it’s perfect. A beachy little town at the tip of Cape Cod, renowned for its artists, tourism and for being a popular holiday spot for the LGBTQ community, which I’m hoping means there’s less room for the Carl, Dave and Steve community. It sounds like the perfect getaway.

      I book the ferry for Friday evening.

       Chapter 7

      Boston looks stunning as we sail away from it. The sun glints off the skyscrapers, making the whole city twinkle. There’s no sign of the ugliness that lurks there, crawling the streets and seeping into the offices.

      Ninety minutes later, we pull into the little harbour of Provincetown, framed by low-rise, wooden-cladded buildings and tree-lined hills beyond. Golden sandy beaches run either side of the pier, and the Pilgrim Monument stands tall and proud above everything else. Perhaps I should take a leaf out of its book and on Monday, march into the office tall and proud and demand to be acknowledged. Or something to that effect.

      We disembark onto the pier. A small souvenir shop with a colourful wooden pirate outside catches my eye. Huh, just when I thought I’d escaped all the dreadful blokes of Boston. I drag my case down the pier, which throws me straight into the small yet busy heart of the town. The atmosphere is light and airy; people aren’t walking at fifty miles per hour and nobody is grimacing like in the city. My stomach dances a little with excitement. I already know coming here was a great decision.

      The no-frills hotel I’d booked is a pleasant surprise. I’d suspected they were over-egging the listing a little when they said all rooms had beach views as standard, but the double doors onto my balcony do, in actual fact, overlook a beautiful sandy beach. I dump my overnight bag on the floral bedspread and step outside, taking a deep breath of the deliciously salty air. This is what makes it all worthwhile.

      The air is starting to cool, and my stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since lunchtime, so I take a quick shower and change into a fresh pair of jeans and a strappy vest top before heading back into the town. There’s a festival feel to the place which I hadn’t expected. Rainbow flags billow outside many of the buildings, and a cacophony of laughter spills from the numerous bars and restaurants. A man ambles past in a gorgeous sarong. He flashes me a smile and it gives me a warm buzz. I feel like I’ve found the home I never knew I wanted. My eye is caught by two men who are offering body painting by a beautiful church. One of the men, a dark-haired, rotund, cheerful-looking fellow in a crazy patterned linen shirt, beckons me over.

      ‘Come on over and choose a design.’ He gestures to a photo board of colourful tattoos in such an animated way it’s hard to refuse, even though I want to because I’m far too old for glittery body art. Though I’d estimate him to be about forty so perhaps I shouldn’t worry.

      ‘Oh, okay,’ I say, hopping into the chair.

      I choose a sparkly butterfly that he starts to paint on my right shoulder blade. I’ve no idea how it will turn out, but I figure it will wash off, and he is just trying to earn a living.

      ‘So, how long have you been doing this for?’ I ask to relieve the relative awkwardness of a complete stranger touching me.

      ‘Oh my god, you’re English,’ he gushes. ‘Harry, listen to her. Go on, doll, say it again.’ He places both hands on my shoulders and forcibly turns me to face a slimmer, blond man in a pale blue short-sleeved shirt who seems distinctly less impressed.

      ‘I, er, I was just asking how long you’d been doing this for?’ I ask again. Somehow, the more I speak, the more I seem to sound like my surname should be Windsor.

      ‘Oh my god, your accent is just darling,’ Harry says before turning back to his client, a little curly-haired girl who makes me feel more ridiculous.

      ‘Oh, thank you,’ I say, forcing a smile.

      ‘And yes, we’ve been here seven years. We came on vacation from New York and just fell in love with this place. Gave up our big careers to paint people each evening after lying on the beach all day,’ the cuddly one says, gesticulating with his paintbrush.

      Wow, I can’t imagine just walking away from a career I’d worked hard for. ‘So, you escaped the rat race?’

      ‘We sure did. How about you? What do you do?’ he asks.

      ‘I’m still fighting my way through the rat race, but I enjoy it.’ It’s currently a bit of a fib of course, but he doesn’t need to know that.

      ‘So, are you here alone?’ He must be working closely because I can feel his warm breath on the bare skin of my back.

      ‘Yes. I’m in Boston with some colleagues working for a marketing company, but I needed to get away, so I came here for a weekend of R&R.’

      ‘I hear ya,’ he says. ‘Actually, I’d love to pick your brain a little, if you wouldn’t mind catching up when you’re free? We have a great trade here through summer but then autumn comes and we’re twiddling our thumbs. We could quite easily do Halloween face painting and things like that but need to reach a wider audience.’

      I’m not one for meeting strange men but I’m getting a good vibe from this one, and besides, you don’t really hear of many horror stories involving body-paint-slash-glitter artists. ‘Of course, I’m here until Sunday so I could come back when you’re quieter.’

      ‘That would be wonderful.’ He rubs a tiny section of my shoulder blade with his finger. ‘You, my dear, are almost done.’ He proceeds