The Last Charm

by Ella Allbright

  ‘We?’ My voice squeaks again. Spending twenty-four hours alone with Jake? Spending tonight in a hotel with him?

  ‘Yep, we. It makes sense for you to jump in as my passenger.’

  ‘Why weren’t you flying?’ Like a normal person, echoes silently around the room.

  ‘I like exploring the world, which you really should know by now, and I thought it was a good opportunity to take in some great views on the way down. And now I’ll be saving your arse.’

  ‘You’re not saving my arse.’

  ‘You’ll get there at least half a day ahead of when you would have done, and you’re not going to have to drive. I’d say that qualifies.’

  ‘Isn’t it great, Leila?’ Dad appears, Fleur padding along behind him. He beams, happy the issue’s been solved.

  Glancing from him to Jake, who’s immediately crossed the room to pick Fleur up, I nod. This is my best option. I’ll look ungrateful and silly if I say no. ‘Yeah,’ I echo weakly, ‘great.’

  ‘Let’s get going then. You can log on to the online site to book the hotel room while I’m loading the car. It’s the Ringhotel Monch’s Waldhotel. It’ll take us a few hours to get to Folkestone.’ Jake passes Fleur to Dad then lifts my case, grabbing the garment bag on the way to the door. ‘Got your handbag? Passport? Travel insurance? Wedding gift?’

  ‘Now?’ I reply, flustered. I need some time to get my head around the morning’s events. To process that Jake and I are going to spend more than a couple of hours alone together. Travelling to a wedding. The best man and the bridesmaid. Like in one of those rom-coms Shell loves so much.

  ‘Yeah,’ Jake says cheerfully, ‘the crossing is at one o’ clock. We need to get going.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Are you ready? You’ve packed a sketchpad and some paints, right?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t planning to—’

  ‘I know it’ll be a busy few days, but I’ve heard the views over the lake are amazing. You never know, inspiration might strike. Come on.’ He puts my case back on the bed, unzips it, and stares at me expectantly. ‘Get your painting stuff.’

  Dad stands still, his gaze moving between us. He looks amused.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I mutter, rolling my eyes. But I walk down the hallway and into the spare room to get my supplies, careful to close the door behind me so Jake can’t see the mermaid mural.

  ***

  Letting out a two-tone whistle, I stare at the sleek black BMW. I’m not usually excited by cars and I’m not in the habit of whistling either, but Jake looks so pleased I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘Is it yours?’ Moving to the passenger side, I peer in at the luxurious tan leather seats and interior.

  ‘Nah, it’s just hired for a few days. But I’m thinking of buying one so thought it’d be nice to try out. It’s a seven series with a six-cylinder engine and the four-wheel drive makes it good for driving in any snow we hit. The panoramic cameras make it easy to park too.’ He winks at me, nodding his head at my scraped and battered Fiat.

  ‘Ha ha.’ Opening the door and sliding in, I sigh at the comfort of the front passenger seat and the amount of legroom. Not that I need much.

  Jake climbs in next to me, stretching his long legs out and starting the engine. ‘You like it?’

  ‘It’s nice. It feels really spacious.’

  ‘Good.’ He sorts out the sat nav, plugging in the postcode for the Eurotunnel and checking the route for traffic. ‘The only thing is right-hand drive would’ve been better for driving in Europe, so I should have hired it in France, but I didn’t want to mess around hiring one car over here and then picking up another on the other side.’

  ‘You really do have a head for detail, Jake. I wouldn’t have even thought about it.’

  ‘That’s because you need someone to organise you,’ he says, an impish expression on his face.

  ‘Like a PA?’

  ‘Like a boyfriend with good attention to detail,’ he replies, his dimple flashing as he watches for my reaction. ‘Is Ethan still on the scene, by the way?’

  ‘I’m single at the moment and plan to stay that way for a while, so I’ll have to plump for the PA.’

  ‘Let me know what the day rates are,’ he jokes. ‘I have the money set aside for a car, but at some point, I may need to earn some more.’

  ‘Ha. That reminds me, how much do you want for fuel money?’ Holding my breath, I hope he doesn’t come out with anything in the high triples.

  ‘Nothing.’ Jake frowns. ‘You’ve paid for your hotel tonight, but I was making the trip anyway and your tiny frame and luggage are hardly going to add much weight to burn extra fuel.’

  ‘Jake, I can’t let you—’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ he interrupts. ‘We’re friends, remember? And friends do each other favours just because they can. Anyway,’ he finishes, ‘you’ll be doing me a favour by keeping me company and sharing the views.’

  ‘All right.’ I don’t want to spend the whole journey arguing about it, so I’ll find a way to slip him some money afterwards.

  ‘By the way –’ he leans in close, extending his arm across my body, his hand reaching for my hip as I hold my breath and wonder what he’s doing ‘– the chair has lots of different settings including all-over body-massage. The buttons are down here on the side.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ I breathe, going almost cross-eyed looking into his face because he’s so close. Those beautiful eyes are only a few centimetres away and I wish I had something as striking about me. A quirk which makes me unique. When I see myself in the mirror, I just see … bland. Colourless.

  Still, for a moment, I wonder if he’s going to try and kiss me. But he straightens, clears his throat, and puts the automatic gearbox in drive.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Okay,’ I whisper.

  As we set off on our journey, I shift in my seat to gaze out of the window. That can’t be disappointment flipping my stomach over, can it?

  ***

  Staring in the mirror, I splash my face with cold water then dab it dry with hand towels, the overhead lights bouncing off the white-tiled walls. The drive to Folkestone was uneventful and we made it in two hours fifty. I know because I kept an eye on the sat nav, counting down the time until we got here so I’d be able to stretch my legs and have a few minutes away from Jake.

  The journey’s been a bit awkward. For me at least. I wasn’t sure what to talk to him about and kept brooding over how my heart almost stopped when he was leaning over me earlier, thinking he might kiss me.

  Just after we left, Jake fell into silence, rubbing his scar at regular intervals like it was hurting him. I actually fell asleep for a while in the middle, lulled by the smooth ride and massage seat. When I woke up, he handed me a bottle of water, smiling when I apologised for dropping off.

  ‘It doesn’t bother me,’ he said, ‘these aren’t the views I wanted to share with you anyway.’

  After I’d stretched my arms and yawned, I rooted through my bag for my phone. Calling Chloe while sitting next to Jake wasn’t a good idea as I had no way of knowing what she might say within his earshot, so I messaged instead.

  Chlo, hope everything’s going according to plan at your end :) My plane was grounded by fog so I won’t be flying in tonight or need picking up. I’m so sorry. But not to worry, Jake’s giving me a lift and we’ll be arriving 2moro lunchtime. Sorry I’ll be a bit late! Ahhhh – you’re getting married in 2 days! SO EXCITED :) :) :) xxxxx

  Her reaction wasn’t quite what I expected, but being with Owen over the past few years has definitely mellowed her.

  Sorry you’ll miss the boat trip tomorrow morning, but at least you’ll be around for the spa! Massages & facials all around! If you’re with Jake, I’m not worried. He’s a good guy, and I’m so pleased he’s Owen’s best man :) 48 hours to go! xxxxxxxxx

  I’ve never really thought about how much time she must spend with Jake when he’s home, because of Owen. It suddenly strikes me as strange that
we don’t do more together as a group. Why is that? I almost texted her to ask, but decided to talk to her face to face. Besides, I have other more worrying stuff on my mind.

  ‘Ready?’ Jake’s leaning against the wall outside the Ladies’ at Folkestone terminal, holding the sandwiches and crisps we picked out.

  ‘Yes.’ I hesitate.

  ‘What’s up?’ He hands me my food.

  ‘Have you ever been in the Eurotunnel before?’

  ‘No. You?’

  I shake my head slowly. ‘Never. Do you know how long it takes?’

  ‘About half an hour, I think. What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m worried,’ I confess, falling into step with him as we make our way across the terminal.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Well, what if it springs a leak?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He looks puzzled as we step outside through the doors.

  ‘The tunnel. It’s in the sea,’ I say, earnestly, ‘so what if it springs a leak and then with the pressure and everything it could flood and crush us—’

  Jake throws his head back and guffaws so loudly I swear half the people in the car park turn to look at him. ‘Jones, you are hysterical!’

  ‘What?’ I hiss, feeling my cheeks flush bright red. I curse my stupid milky-pale skin.

  ‘I— No, I can’t …’ he stops and splutters, bending over and holding his stomach with glee. When he straightens, it looks suspiciously like he’s wiping tears away from the corner of his eye. ‘The tunnel is under the sea bed, about 40 metres, I think. It’s not on the floor of the sea, it’s buried underneath it. So, the chances of it springing a leak …’

  ‘Oh.’ Scrunching my eyes up, mortified, I blab, ‘I always wondered how they built it without all the water getting in.’ Even as I open my eyes and say it, I realise how silly I sound and start sniggering.

  ‘Jones, you make me laugh.’ Taking the key fob from his pocket, he unlocks the car, shaking his head. With a mischievous grin he starts humming ‘Under the Sea’ from Disney’s The Little Mermaid.

  Elbowing him, I join in before saying, ‘Well, at least I’m good for entertainment value.’

  ‘You certainly are.’ Wrapping his arm around my neck, he brings me towards him and plants a kiss on my forehead before I can do anything, ‘And I love that you can laugh at yourself. Don’t ever stop.’

  Dropping his arm, he gets in the car, leaving me staring after him at the affectionate gesture. I can’t work out whether it was brotherly or something else, and am too afraid to ask.

  ***

  In the end, the Eurotunnel’s quick and easy although a little hot, and we decide to stay in the car in the train carriage to eat our food rather than get out. There’s not exactly a lot of room to walk around, given how they pack in the vehicles bumper to bumper. A few times Jake shakes his head and chortles, and I know he’s remembering my gaffe. I good-naturedly ignore him, choosing to read instead.

  ‘I hope that’s not a premonition about our trip,’ Jake gestures at the paperback’s title: The Accident by C. L. Taylor.

  ‘Hardly, it’s a psychological thriller about a teenage girl who steps out in front of a bus. I think we’re safe.’ My tone is wry.

  ‘Is it good?’

  ‘Yes. I love her voice.’

  ‘The author’s?’

  ‘Yes. It’s what makes a book so unique, isn’t it? It’s why you could give a story with the same plot, descriptions, and character to two writers, but they’d write two totally different books. It’s the way they tell it.’

  ‘Like a signature, or a fingerprint.’

  Surprised at his acuity, I glance at him, ‘Exactly.’

  ‘It’s the same with artists, isn’t it? Everyone has their own distinctive style: the paints they use, the way they mix the colours and how they use them, the way they sketch shapes and perceive things. I could ask you and another artist to paint the beach or a house—’

  ‘Or a house on a beach,’ I add playfully.

  He smiles. ‘And the two paintings would be different. Yours would be better, of course.’

  ‘Obviously.’ Pausing, I gather my courage. ‘You think of me as an artist?’

  ‘Why, don’t you?’

  ‘I guess I always think artists make their living selling their art. I don’t do that. So, I think of myself as a painter.’

  ‘That’s bullshit,’ Jake says, ‘painters are people who paint walls or fences for a living. You create art – pieces that tell stories. I’ve told you before, I’m not sure I would have got through some of my teens if I hadn’t had those doors to escape through or your wonderland to hide beneath.’

  It touches me, even though I still cringe a bit about him seeing pieces I created for myself when I was so young.

  ‘I mean it, Jones,’ he says as he shifts around to face me, laying a hand on my arm, his skin warming mine, ‘you’re an artist. You have the imagination, passion, and discipline to put brush to canvas and create something special.’

  ‘Not so sure about the discipline bit, but I am painting more, partly because of what you said last summer. About having regrets if I don’t share my art. So, thank you.’ Dropping my gaze, I stare down at his tanned hand on my pale one, the strength of his long fingers overlaying mine. His skin makes mine tingle, and I bite my lip.

  ‘You are?’ Lifting his hand away, he grips the steering wheel instead. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I’m working on a series of oil paintings based on mythical creatures. I’ve completed three so far. I’m thinking there’ll be another two.’

  ‘Which creatures?’

  ‘I have you to thank actually. The first is a unicorn.’

  He grins, looking delighted. ‘What I called you at the concert. What else?’

  ‘A dragon,’ I admit as it dawns on me how much Jake’s inspired me. I didn’t realise.

  ‘I said you were the Mother of Dragons for helping Mum.’ His grin widens, that familiar dimple creasing his cheek. ‘So, you must have done a mermaid then, the most mythical creature of all.’

  ‘Nope,’ I blush. The mural is far too personal to show anyone, and it didn’t feel right painting a different mermaid, or my mermaid in a different setting. I tick the other three off my fingers, ‘Phoenix, Pegasus, and Valkyrie.’

  ‘Who does the Valkyrie look like?’

  ‘Eloise. The black hair, big blue eyes and statuesque figure – it had to be her really. She agreed to sit for me.’

  ‘What was that like?’ Jake asks as the tannoy in the carriage announces we’re five minutes from Calais.

  ‘Painful, for both of us. She found it hard to keep still, even to be immortalised in art.’

  ‘Wel,l if you ever need a male muse, let me know. I was trained to sit still for hours.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Immediately my mind flashes to a visual of Jake sitting on a stool with his top off. To bat it away, I say, ‘I didn’t think of that, you needing to sit still for hours. There must have been times the job was really tough.’

  He waves my comment off, unwilling to talk about it. ‘What are your plans for the series? Are you going to ask Edwin to sell them, or explore other options?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll see what happens.’

  My vague reply obviously doesn’t satisfy him, because he narrows his eyes at me. ‘What are you scared of?’

  ‘That’s a bit blunt. But any number of things,’ I say as the fears flow from my mouth: ‘that people won’t like them, that they won’t be good enough, or won’t sell.’

  He looks thoughtful. ‘Or that they will sell, and all the attention will be on you? You’re an introvert, Jones, and I know you’d find it difficult, but talking about your art goes hand in hand with painting it. Anyway, you talk to people about art all day long at the gallery.’

  He’s too perceptive at times.

  ‘That’s different. I’m talking to them about other people’s work, the spotlight isn’t on me. I don’t like anything that’s too showy
, or where there are too many people. Like Sandbanks last year.’ I can’t believe it’ll get any better if I do eventually sell paintings and make a name for myself. I’ll still feel out of place, silly and scratchily self-conscious, never knowing quite what to say and stumbling over my words. Praying for it to be over so I can go back to hiding behind my canvases.

  ‘Speaking of pictures –’ I deliberately change the subject ‘– thanks for all the postcards. I guess now you’re home for good, you won’t be sending them.’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  As he answers, it strikes me that I’ll miss them. There are another four postcards in my drawer from the last year, secured in their bundle with the purple ribbon. Pictures of sandy beaches and teeming ports. He’d listened to the complaint I levelled at him at the concert, and instead of a generic sentence saying he hopes I’m well or describing the weather or saying to tell Dad hello from him, he instead includes inspirational quotes that are personal to me.

  I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship, by Louisa May Alcott. Or my favourite, which was about setting your course by the stars, and not by the light of passing ships. That one made me feel reassured, like Jake was saying it’s okay to be different and you should live your life according to something bigger and not worry about what everyone around you is doing.

  Those postcards gave me comfort, and I’m sad at the thought of them ending.

  ‘Isn’t it time to go?’ I ask, shrugging off the sadness. The train’s pulled up on French soil while we’ve been talking, and the vehicles in front of us are pulling away.

  Jake starts the engine and rolls the car forward. ‘If you ever want any moral support at art events, or anything,’ he offers, returning to our previous subject, ‘don’t forget I’m home now. I’ll be around.’

  Something in my body pings at the thought, and all the questions I’ve been asking myself crowd in my head clamouring to be heard, but I simply say, ‘I’ll bear it in mind, thanks.’