What We Did That Summer

Chelsea Waterfront, London, December 2024

A ringing phone dragged Tess from a swampy sleep. Not the kind that restores, the kind that drowns.

Nothing in her had been repaired, not her body, not her mind, and definitely not the brittle splinters of her soul (which at this point resembled artisanal kindling).

The ringing went on and on, cheerful and insistent, with no regard for human suffering. Her brain tried to form a thought and came up with a single word:

No.

A dull pressure throbbed behind her eyes and her mouth tasted like stale champagne and bad decisions. She squinted in the dim light, trying to piece together where she was.

A Christmas party floated sideways into her memory. Glitter in her hair, spilt punch, Mariah Carey squealing All I Want for Christmas is You.

A bare arm draped over her waist brought another vague memory. Not exactly comforting. She turned her head. Riiiight. Some young city stockbroker. Bare chest, tousled hair, dead to the world.

She couldn’t remember his name. Or rather, she could remember too many. Ben? Luke? Oliver? Whoever.

The harder question was: Who was she?

Tess didn’t know anymore.

She was whoever remained after the vodka martinis, the cocaine, the half-hearted sex.

A version of herself moving through a midlife crisis in Mayfair, panic in Paddington, chest pains in Chelsea.

There had been a time she could tell the difference between a bad night and a bad life. Lately, everything blurred into one long mistake.

It was the week before Christmas, 2024, and her life was a tinsel-tangled, half-burnt fruitcake of chaos. Ho ho merry fucking ho.

London in winter isn’t poetic, it’s punishing. A smear of grey stretches across the sky. Buses hiss past like dragons coughing smoke, and everything is wet.

Tess moved through the city like a ghost in expensive boots. Tired all the time, but no one looked too closely. London has its own way of glossing over collapse.

Work was a blur of boring meetings and bullshit.

People always demanding, always taking, but no one ever asked how she was. Not that she’d tell them.

Daylight lasted a few short hours and the nights came early, creeping in like mould.

Bars in Shoreditch. Clubs in Soho. Lines on mirrors. Champagne flutes. The London version of Billionaire Boys Club with worse lighting and fewer morals.

It wasn’t fun, it was forgetting. And it worked, for a while.

The phone stopped ringing. She groaned and reached for it with the grace of a crustacean. Everything hurt.

Kirsty.

If it was early in London, it was late in Australia. Kirsty never called late.

Tess slipped out of bed, careful not to wake… whoever he was.

She pulled his shirt from the floor: crisp, striped, expensive (practically screaming I own crypto). Pulling it over her head, she crossed to the balcony, the tiled floor icy under her feet.

Outside, the Thames lay dark and swollen. The wind slapped her bare legs. It was the first real thing she’d felt in weeks.

She rang Kirsty back.

“You sound like shit,” Kirsty said. “How’s everything?”

Tess exhaled, slow and shaky. She glanced through the glass door to where a pair of bare feet hung off the bed.

“Everything… is sleeping,” she said.

“And what’s this one’s name?”

“Oh god, who knows. Something forgettable.” She rubbed her eyes. “My head’s killing me. What’s up?”

“The villa is for sale.”

The river hushed, the wind softened, and the ache behind her eyes paused.

“For real?”

“For real. The old man finally carked it. His nephew wants to sell.”

Tess opened her eyes. The river was still there, the sky still grey, but reality had shifted.

“Can I afford it?”

“You can. It’s mostly land value on the headland. The villa needs a lot of work, the pool’s a swamp and the boathouse burnt down years ago, but if you sell the place in Paddington, you’ll manage.”

Tess sank into a patio chair, heart thudding.

“I don’t know, Kirsty. Things are complicated here. I can’t just pack everything up and move to the other side of the world.”

“Stranger things have happened. Like your ex Tony marrying that influencer with the teeth.”

Tess groaned. “Do not bring up the teeth.”

“Too late.”

“And what about the London gallery?” Tess said, grasping for reasons to stay.

“You spend half the year travelling anyway. And the galleries in New York and Berlin already run remotely,” Kirsty said.

“I need to think,” Tess said, trying to sound more decisive than she felt.

The reality was, her life was unravelling thread by thread. After her second divorce (another cheating arsehole), she’d lost the plot completely, and Kirsty knew it.

Winter only reinforced it. Her life felt bleak and shadowed, as if summer had withdrawn entirely. Only her work kept her going, and even that was starting to slip.

“Think fast,” Kirsty said. “The villa won’t wait forever. Come home, Tess. Start over.”

Tess laughed, but it caught in her throat. “Start over. At forty two?”

“Why not?” Kirsty said. “You’ve had the tragic backstory and the shitty husbands. You’re due a peaceful third act.”

“I don’t even know if I want a third act.”

“Yes, you do.”

Tess didn’t reply. A lump rose in her throat. Memories stirred, sunlit and sepia tinted.

Riding her bike with Kirsty along the coast road, wind whipping through her hair. Jason’s suntanned feet beside hers, dangling over the edge of the boathouse jetty.

Back when she hadn’t had a care in the world, when summers felt endless.

Traffic clattered across Battersea Bridge. Somewhere, a siren wailed. She looked across the Thames. Beneath it, something in her whispered she would drown in London if she stayed.

She let herself listen.

In her mind, Tess saw herself on the terrace at the villa, looking over the estuary, barefoot and whole.

Even after everything, she still believed in the hope of better days. Maybe surrendering to possibility is not surrender at all, but salvation.

“Maybe it’s time I came home,” she said softly.

On the other end, Kirsty exhaled. “I think so too. Go kiss what’s-his-face goodbye. I’ll email the details. Love you.”

Inside the flat, Ben/Luke/Oliver was awake now, propped on one elbow, watching her dress.

“You’re leaving?” he asked.

Tess laughed. Of all the wild, impulsive things she had ever done, this might take the cake.

“Yeah, I’m leaving,” she said. “I just bought a house in Australia.”

***

In Neptune Bay, the estuary lay still and calm beneath an indigo sky, the tide turning slow and quiet.

Dan whistled in the kitchen as he poured two glasses of wine.

Downlights pooled across the benchtop, casting a soft glow over the vintage tiles Kirsty had insisted on. The rest of the kitchen was sleek, old and new stitched together in happy harmony, a reflection of their life together.

He smiled wryly, thinking of the phone call. Tess back in the picture.

“Here we go,” he muttered.

Kirsty came in wrapped in a towel, damp hair pulled up, cheeks still pink from the shower.

“What’s that look for?” she asked, reaching for a glass.

“I was thinking about the men of Neptune Bay.”

“Oh God. What now?”

“They’d better brace themselves if Tess is coming home.”

Kirsty laughed, bright and easy.

“Don’t be mean. She can’t help it if she’s met so many horrible—”

“Men?” Dan finished.

Kirsty gave him a light swat.

“You know what I mean. Poor Tess has had nothing but bad luck. None of them were right. Starting with your mate, Jason.”

Dan shrugged, taking a sip of shiraz.

“Or maybe she’s the common denominator.”

“Dan!” her eyes sparkled.

He grinned and pulled her closer.

“I know, I know. Not everyone meets their Prince Charming in high school. I just don’t want her turning our sleepy little town into a soap opera.”

“She does attracts a certain kind of chaos,” Kirsty admitted. “But think about what she’s been through—her parents, the divorce. God, I could murder Rajesh myself. We need to support her, not scare her off.”

Dan looked at her, reading between the lines. He knew how much Tess meant to Kirsty; their bond had survived distance, time, and every twist of fate. Tess wasn’t just a friend, she was family.

“You think she’ll do it?” he asked. “Buy the villa?”

Kirsty nodded.

“Yeah. I think she will. She’s circling something. Coming back to herself.”

Dan let that sit (they would need more wine, possibly a vineyard). Then raised his glass.

“To comebacks, then.”

***

Heathrow served its usual brand of chaos. Screaming children. Rude businessmen. The smell of coffee that somehow never tasted like coffee (warm regret in a paper cup, if you were curious).

Tess arrived at the gate out of breath with her carry-on slipping off her shoulder and coat crumpled over her arm. Flushed, flustered, five seconds from unraveling.

A woman’s voice chirped over the loudspeaker: “Welcome to London Heathrow.” Tess resisted the urge to snap, Nobody asked you, Susan.

Six months had passed since Kirsty’s call.

She’d settled on the villa, sold the Paddington flat, cancelled her newspapers, had one last awkward cup of tea with an elderly neighbour who insisted on showing her photos of cats that weren’t hers, and sent a final text to the girls from yoga class.

Namaste bitches xx.

Tess joined the line of passengers at the boarding gate, shifting from foot to foot, heart thudding over the murmur of announcements.

She scanned her boarding pass and walked toward the airbridge. The steady drone of rolling suitcases and holiday chatter filled the air.

This was it. There was no turning back now.

She took a step toward the aircraft when a voice called out from behind her, cutting through the hum.

Tess’s breath caught. She turned slowly, heart hammering in her chest.

Her second divorce had been made final over a year ago. And yet, for one ridiculous half-second, Tess imagined the rush of footsteps, the breathless apology, the look of regret in his eyes.

The sort of scene reserved for movies and star crossed lovers.

This wasn’t the movies.

“Ma’am, sorry, you dropped your coat,” the gate steward said, handing it to her with a polite smile.

Tess blinked. Almost laughed. Still, for a moment, she had believed.

She found her seat, stowed her bag overhead, murmured apologies as she squeezed past the aisle seat.

The cabin lights dimmed. A metallic clunk as the hold closed, a lurch as the brakes released. Heathrow slid past in blurred streaks of orange and grey.

There was a quiet poetry in leaving this way; no fanfare, no one waving goodbye.

London slipped away beneath a quilt of clouds.

She didn’t look down.