skinny arm, and that she only had to drive in a straight line now, right into East Hampton’s high street – or rather, Main
Street.
Still, Hump had promised to keep his phone near him, in case she got lost. He was already at the house. It was the end of May; the summer season officially started this weekend and Greg –
a lawyer friend of Hump’s brother who was in the fourth bedroom – and Bobbi would be over tomorrow. Ro was looking forward to seeing her again: as the only other person she vaguely knew
in the whole of America, Ro felt an artificial closeness to the architect – like a gosling imprinting on a panther – that paid no heed to the bolts of terror that flashed through her
every time she read Bobbi’s tweets: ‘Five a.m. kettlebells. #hellyeah’; ‘To M.I.T. 4 talk on Spatial Strategies of Resistance #bringit’.
Ro was looking forward to seeing Hump again too. They had communicated with increasing frequency via Facebook for the past six weeks, their messages becoming more relaxed by the day as their
updates and photo posts educated them remotely about each other’s lives. For instance, Ro already knew Hump could surf (a little bit – the photos mainly showed him wiping out), that he
changed girls like he changed underpants (every three days), and he considered the lime that came with his vodka to be one of his five a day. He knew that she, on the other hand, was partial to
‘box-set weekends’, drank only wine in pubs and bought fish food in bulk (Brenda wasn’t going to have to spend a penny on Shady, even if she didn’t come back for a year).
Greg was technically their Facebook friend too, but his page didn’t even have a photo of him, and he hadn’t posted anything at all in the six weeks since they’d paid their
deposits.
‘It’s all going to be great. Just great,’ Ro whispered to herself as she drove through Southampton and then Bridgehampton, where preppy-looking men and nautical-chic women were
clustered round cafe tables, sipping soy lattes and reading the local papers as the Manhattan commuters looked on enviously in their scramble to join them.
The road had become narrower now, having segued from a dual carriageway to a single-lane road a while back, and was flanked on either side with standalone units housing antiques and contemporary
furniture shops; long, low, painted wooden deli huts with the shutters pushed up and fresh fruits and vegetables arranged on trays; enormous, grand redbrick schools with pretty white windows, flags
in flagpoles and yellow buses parked out the front. The houses she could glimpse through the trees were set back from the road, clapboarded and rustic, with no fences or walls to delineate their
garden boundaries, and she didn’t see any cats, but plenty of deer.
The road came to a T-junction and Ro followed the traffic round to the left. She knew she was close now. She had just passed the sign for East Hampton Tennis Club and there was a marked shift in
tone as she rounded the corner – everything tightened suddenly, raised its game.
A sweeping, daffodil-fringed green (only the leaves left now) with a pond and a windmill on it sat to her right, a ribbon of bucolic, wainscoted and cedar-shingled houses streaming down a
straight and widened road that was shaded by giant horse chestnut trees. Ro put her foot on the brake, gliding more slowly down the street with an almost reverential wonder. Everything was so neat
and pretty – the colour palette like a watercolour painting, all misty greys and heathery greens, gardens bracketed with the famous white picket fences as stationary swing seats hung on
covered porches and carved shutters were pressed flush to the walls.
Her eyes grew even wider as the homes gave way to shops and she counted Tiffany & Co., Ralph Lauren (not one store but three!), Juicy Couture, Tory Burch . . . Her eyes wandered to the
people milling around – most of them looking like they were heading to a yoga
Street.
Still, Hump had promised to keep his phone near him, in case she got lost. He was already at the house. It was the end of May; the summer season officially started this weekend and Greg –
a lawyer friend of Hump’s brother who was in the fourth bedroom – and Bobbi would be over tomorrow. Ro was looking forward to seeing her again: as the only other person she vaguely knew
in the whole of America, Ro felt an artificial closeness to the architect – like a gosling imprinting on a panther – that paid no heed to the bolts of terror that flashed through her
every time she read Bobbi’s tweets: ‘Five a.m. kettlebells. #hellyeah’; ‘To M.I.T. 4 talk on Spatial Strategies of Resistance #bringit’.
Ro was looking forward to seeing Hump again too. They had communicated with increasing frequency via Facebook for the past six weeks, their messages becoming more relaxed by the day as their
updates and photo posts educated them remotely about each other’s lives. For instance, Ro already knew Hump could surf (a little bit – the photos mainly showed him wiping out), that he
changed girls like he changed underpants (every three days), and he considered the lime that came with his vodka to be one of his five a day. He knew that she, on the other hand, was partial to
‘box-set weekends’, drank only wine in pubs and bought fish food in bulk (Brenda wasn’t going to have to spend a penny on Shady, even if she didn’t come back for a year).
Greg was technically their Facebook friend too, but his page didn’t even have a photo of him, and he hadn’t posted anything at all in the six weeks since they’d paid their
deposits.
‘It’s all going to be great. Just great,’ Ro whispered to herself as she drove through Southampton and then Bridgehampton, where preppy-looking men and nautical-chic women were
clustered round cafe tables, sipping soy lattes and reading the local papers as the Manhattan commuters looked on enviously in their scramble to join them.
The road had become narrower now, having segued from a dual carriageway to a single-lane road a while back, and was flanked on either side with standalone units housing antiques and contemporary
furniture shops; long, low, painted wooden deli huts with the shutters pushed up and fresh fruits and vegetables arranged on trays; enormous, grand redbrick schools with pretty white windows, flags
in flagpoles and yellow buses parked out the front. The houses she could glimpse through the trees were set back from the road, clapboarded and rustic, with no fences or walls to delineate their
garden boundaries, and she didn’t see any cats, but plenty of deer.
The road came to a T-junction and Ro followed the traffic round to the left. She knew she was close now. She had just passed the sign for East Hampton Tennis Club and there was a marked shift in
tone as she rounded the corner – everything tightened suddenly, raised its game.
A sweeping, daffodil-fringed green (only the leaves left now) with a pond and a windmill on it sat to her right, a ribbon of bucolic, wainscoted and cedar-shingled houses streaming down a
straight and widened road that was shaded by giant horse chestnut trees. Ro put her foot on the brake, gliding more slowly down the street with an almost reverential wonder. Everything was so neat
and pretty – the colour palette like a watercolour painting, all misty greys and heathery greens, gardens bracketed with the famous white picket fences as stationary swing seats hung on
covered porches and carved shutters were pressed flush to the walls.
Her eyes grew even wider as the homes gave way to shops and she counted Tiffany & Co., Ralph Lauren (not one store but three!), Juicy Couture, Tory Burch . . . Her eyes wandered to the
people milling around – most of them looking like they were heading to a yoga
Similar Books
