Free The Lemon Grove by Helen Walsh

taxi’s brake lights blink red at each twist of the switchback. She hears it again – not tears, but laughter. Emmais giggling and the knowledge of it plants something raw and uneasy in her stomach. Jenn snaps on the air conditioning and climbs into bed. Gregory stirs. His boozy, stale breath asks:
    ‘They back, darling?’
    She squeezes his hand. He’s flat out again within seconds. Jenn lies there, unable to shut down, listening to the wind rise, the crash of the waves; the hiss as it sucks back through the shingle on the shore. The sound and fury of the tide takes her back there once again. Thoughts of the cove; thoughts of him. She bumped into him in the corridor before, on his way out. Handsome in his jeans and white vest. Brown arms. From Nathan, there wasn’t even a flicker. He’d smiled as he passed her, and a pain like a hunger pang shot through her.
    It’s a while before they come inside the house. What have they been doing out there? They do not bolt the kitchen door. She hears the skid of the refrigerator door. A stool knocked over – more giggling – then footfall on the stairs. They seem to hover outside his room for a while. Jenn torments herself with the image of his hands on her tiny waist. No soft padding on Emma’s hips; skin as smooth as a newly laid egg as his fingers prise their way under the hem of her denim shorts.
    But then Emma is passing – no, she is stomping past – theirroom. Is she imagining this? No. Her bedroom door slams and she hears muffled sobs, as though Emma is buried beneath her sheets. Should she go to her? No. Jenn shuts her eyes and tries to shut it out – all of it. She craves the sobering reality of a new day. But she’s thirsty now; her brain is fully engaged and she can’t shut down. She fumbles out for the glass on her bedside table, tilts it right back; it yields but a dribble. She lies there, staring out into the dark, but she knows she won’t sleep until she’s cleared her throat.
    She gets out of bed, irritated by her husband’s snoring. The bedroom floor is cold, the air cool. She switches off the air con and goes downstairs. As she steps into the kitchen she sees that the big oak outer door has been left wide open. She curses the pair of them as she heaves it shut, slotting the big iron cross-bar in its groove and planning the conversation she will have with Greg tomorrow. Will he rebuke his daughter as he would her? Of course not.
    As she comes back into the kitchen she smells the drift of tobacco smoke before she sees him. He’s there with his back to her, sitting on the steps below the back door, staring out at the night sky. She’s unsure whether to say something or to inch back upstairs unannounced.
    ‘Hello, Jenn,’ he says. He doesn’t move. A jet of smoke sails upwards.
    She freezes, says nothing. He stays dead still for a moment longer, then flicks the cigarette out onto the back garden and twists his upper body round. He gets to his feet. His eyes are black sockets in the darkness but she can feel his gaze all over her. He stumbles slightly as he advances towards her. She can smell beer on his breath. She knows she must speak up soon or her silence will be misconstrued. She struggles to inject authority into her voice:
    ‘Make sure you lock the door.’
    He is less than two feet away. She takes control, turns and walks to the foot of the stairs. He hesitates, then kicks his shoes across the kitchen floor. Sure, now, that he has her attention, he walks over to the big oak door, unlocks it and steps out onto the terrace. He heads down the steps. The terrace light trips on, isolating him in a bright white halo. She should go upstairs, back up to bed to where her husband sleeps in deep oblivion. But no – she goes back to the kitchen to slam the terrace door shut, to let their house guest know he’s overstepping the mark. As she grabs the handle, he turns to face her. He tugs off his T-shirt, peels down his jeans with his thumbs, drops his