Gold Diggers

He handed her an A – Z as they walked towards a soft-top vintage Mercedes SL.

‘An alfresco lunch.’

‘Where?’

‘Open the page, any page and decide where,’ he smiled, lighting a cigarette and wedging it between his lips.

Erin closed her eyes, flipped open the A – Z and pointed. Dulwich village.

Julian drove them all the way into southeast London with the roof of the car down, so the sun warmed their faces and the breeze ruffled their hair. They parked the car in the village and walked into the park with a creaky wicker hamper Julian had produced from the boot. They found a spot on the grass, laid out a blanket and spread the picnic out; there were two types of carved ham, three types of pickle, a ludicrously comprehensive selection of cheese, along with crusty bread, ripe strawberries and a bottle of chilled Veuve Clicquot.

‘Sorry, I forgot to bring any glasses,’ said Julian as he popped the cork. ‘D’you mind using straws?’

Erin laughed, feeling more happy than she could remember. ‘Oh, I always use a straw,’ she said, ‘it’s the only way to drink champagne.’

Erin lay back on the rug and looked up at Julian. She wanted to know everything about him: what his favourite music was, who he’d like to be stranded on a desert island with, how many girlfriends he’d had. Particularly the last one. She already knew a lot about him from their night at the bar. He was thirty, which she used to consider old, but working with oldies like Adam, Julian just seemed mature, experienced. A graduate of Manchester University, just like Norman Foster (‘my absolute hero’). Julian had told her, without a hint of irony, that architecture was his life.

‘So is that what you want to be, then: a starchitect?’ she asked, biting into a strawberry.

‘I guess,’ he smiled, breaking off a piece of bread. ‘I mean, it would be amazing to be like Frank Gehry. He turns his hand to everything from jewellery to concert halls, and the really cool thing is, whether it’s a bracelet or a suspension bridge, you can tell it’s his.’

Erin smiled; he had the same passion for his job that she saw in Adam. He had the same magnetism, too, but Julian’s was a different kind of sex appeal – softer, more obtainable perhaps. Julian was definitely more classically handsome. Definitely. In fact, it was all she could do to prevent herself from reaching out to touch him, to run her fingers over the hint of pale brown stubble on his chin, to feel his tanned skin and those long lashes that framed his eyes. She took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on what he was saying.

‘… But even if I stay working at our practice forever, I’ll be happy,’ he went on. ‘I just want to design. Both my parents are architects, so I guess I’m doing what I know best.’ Julian plucked a long stem of grass and began to play with it. ‘What do your parents do?’ he asked suddenly.

Erin licked the strawberry juice from her lips and rolled over to look at him, propping herself up on her elbow. She rarely discussed her parents with anyone. She’d barely even told Chris the story, and he was her closest friend in London. But there was something about Julian that made her want to open up to him, mentally and physically. She wanted him to know everything.

‘My dad was in the fashion business, but nothing very glamorous like a designer. His company actually made jeans,’ she said, looking a little embarrassed. ‘My mum worked for him sometimes, doing the books and things, but mainly she was a housewife. Anyway, my dad’s dead. I went to live with my gran when I was six.’

Julian looked confused. ‘Why didn’t you live with your mum?’

‘Because she’s missing.’ She paused, knowing it was a first date and it all seemed completely inappropriate to discuss, but he had put his hand on her head, stroking her hair with his fingertip, and she knew it was okay to talk.

‘Missing?’ asked Julian quietly.

‘My dad committed suicide after his business went under. My mum had always been a bit of a depressive and it just got worse after he’d gone.’

Julian nodded, encouraging her to go on.

‘We lived in London then, but spent a lot of time at my gran’s in Cornwall. One day, the summer after my dad’s death, we were in Port Merryn and my mum said she had to pop back to London for the night. She never came back. Police found her car a week later near Beachy Head but they never found her body.’

She glanced at Julian, wishing she hadn’t told him, but at the same time glad she had.

‘Do you think she’s still alive?’ asked Julian.

Erin shook her head. ‘She’s dead,’ she said categorically. ‘I know it sounds weird but, even before her car was found, I just couldn’t feel her around any more. Anyway, I know if she was alive that she would have come back for me.’

She fell silent for a moment. ‘I know that might make me sound like a bad person. Believing she’s dead, I mean. My gran’s the opposite, she won’t accept that she’s gone. She still keeps a light on in my mum’s old bedroom at night, so she can find her way home, I guess.’

She scrunched up her eyes in the sun and a tear ran down the crease.

‘You have to believe what is right for you,’ said Julian slowly, reaching out to touch her hand.

‘Well, it definitely worked out for the best, me getting a job in London. I had to leave Cornwall to escape the limbo,’ she said softly. ‘Every night I’d see the light and it would make me feel bad.’

Julian began to pack away the hamper and took her hand. ‘Come on. We’re going to cheer you up. Let’s go and hire some bikes from that place by the gate.’

‘Good idea,’ smiled Erin, rubbing her face. ‘Because I want to show you something.’