by Karen Clarke
‘I don’t know.’ Jay’s face darkened. ‘Sounds like we have a stowaway.’
‘But… who else has access?’
‘Simon filled in the paperwork and picked up the keys earlier today, so maybe he has a spare.’
Another groan, followed by a crash, had us surging towards the door. Jay grabbed the chrome knob and pulled it, and we rushed through to see a half-naked Simon on the floor by the bed, an empty whisky bottle at his side.
The blood rushed from my head as Jay crouched at his side and put two fingers to his neck, as I’d seen paramedics do in TV dramas, and I scanned the cabinet by the bed for signs of scattered pills. There was only an empty glass and a paperback copy of Pride and Prejudice.
‘He has a sensitive side.’ Jay had caught my stunned gaze.
‘Is he OK?’
Simon had begun to mumble and shake his head, as though in the grip of a nightmare.
‘He’s not dead, just drunk,’ said Jay.
I felt a savage relief. ‘Thank God for that.’
Simon shot bolt upright, his eyes bright and unfocused. It was stuffy and he was sweating like a water-sprinkler. ‘Jus ’ad a lil snifter, thass all.’ His beard was unkempt and his tattooed torso gave off an air of menace in the softly lit cabin – until I looked more closely and made out a pair of cherubs, the word Mum in curly script and a guardian angel spreading her wings.
‘Like I said, a sensitive side.’ Jay was apparently reading my mind. ‘He doesn’t feel pain, that’s why he has so many tattoos.’ He moved behind Simon and slid his hands under his armpits. ‘Come on,’ he said firmly, face clenched. ‘Let’s get you on the bed.’
‘Wanted to have a lil shower,’ Simon muttered, twirling his hand to where his T-shirt lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. ‘Thought I’d try a lil drinkie first.’
‘More than a little,’ Jay said with a stab at jollity.
I rushed to help, relieved that Simon’s lower half was clothed, but it was like trying to shift a boulder. I could just about heft up one of his tree-trunk legs and Jay wasn’t having much luck at the other end. ‘Christ, he weighs a ton.’ His face contorted with effort as he tried again, and Simon threw back his head and began to sing, ‘O Sole Mio’ in a hearty baritone, emitting potent whisky fumes.
‘He likes opera?’ I asked, as Jay gave a mighty heave and succeeded in getting Simon’s top half on the bed.
‘Like I said—’
‘He has a sensitive side.’
Jay manoeuvred Simon further onto the bed, so his feet were dangling off the end. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen him this drunk since England crashed out of the World Cup.’
‘Why do you think he’s here?’
Jay didn’t get a chance to reply as Simon rolled onto his side, shoulders heaving as he released a mighty sob. ‘You thought I betrayed you,’ he slurred. He suddenly lurched to his feet and I took a step back, worried he was about to grab me, but he flung one arm across his chest, like a soldier on parade. ‘If you do not trust me, sir, then I must resign,’ he hollered.
Oh God.
Jay gave me a helpless look as Simon thumped back down on the edge of the bed, head lolling onto his chest. ‘He must have come here to hide out.’
‘I feel awful.’ I clenched my face in an effort not to cry. ‘This is all my fault.’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Jay. ‘It was a random series of events and a misunderstanding and it was Simon’s choice to get drunk, but if we’re going to blame anyone, how about me?’
‘What?’ I stared through a haze of tears. ‘How’s that?’
Emotions jostled in his eyes. ‘If I hadn’t been so stubborn all these years, refusing to do interviews like some…’ he flung out an arm, ‘like some prissy little diva, it wouldn’t have come to this,’ he said. ‘I’ve been a bloody idiot.’
Simon dropped onto his back and began to snore.
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘You haven’t been an idiot,’ I said, touching his arm. ‘You’ve a right to your privacy and if you hadn’t been such a prissy little diva as you put it, we’d never have spoken the other day, and I definitely wouldn’t be here with you now.’
He looked at me as if I’d given him a fresh perspective. ‘I suppose that’s true,’ he acknowledged, his mouth lifting at the corners. ‘I’ve never really believed in things happening for a reason, but maybe there’s something in it.’
An almost musical trumpeting sound exploded from the bed and Simon gave a satisfied grunt and rolled over. Jay closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose while I collapsed into laughter.
‘This is not how I imagined this evening turning out,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry, Natalie.’
‘Shall I make some coffee?’ I said, making an effort to pull myself together. ‘He could do with sobering up if you’ve got to get on a plane tonight.’
‘Wha’s she doin’ here?’ Simon’s voice made me jump. One eye was open, aimed at me like a poison dart. ‘Wha’s that?’ He pointed to my hair. ‘Where’s Jay?’ His hand fumbled at his waistband, as if to pull a gun, some protective instinct pushing through his alcoholic fog. ‘Where is he?’
‘I’m here,’ said Jay, moving to the side of the bed, reaching out a restraining hand as Simon made to stand again. ‘Everything’s fine.’ He looked at me, face shadowed with emotion. ‘I think I’d better take it from here,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Natalie.’
The smile fell away from my face as reality rushed in. ‘It’s fine,’ I said, but it wasn’t. Jay was famous; he had a bodyguard, who was also his best friend, and a film to finish shooting on the other side of the world. He had a new life planned for when it was over, and he’d known me for less than a week; a week that had nearly derailed him. He was leaving shortly for Budapest, then Hong Kong, then home for a few days, he’d said. Anything could happen during that time, the least of which was Simon’s voice in his ear daily, convincing him that I was a bad idea. ‘I’ll go, I’m only making things worse, anyway.’ My stomach convulsed with misery. ‘I hope you catch your plane, and good luck with the rest of the film.’
‘Natalie, wait,’ he said, as I turned to leave, but there was the horrible sound of Simon retching followed by soft swearing from Jay.
‘It’s fine,’ I said again, with forced brightness. ‘I’ll call you.’ It was a stupid thing to say, considering he didn’t have a phone, but I hurried off the yacht before he could reply, pausing only briefly for a tearful look at the canopied sundeck, knowing we’d never sit there and watch the sunset.
Twenty-Six
When I woke the following morning, it was almost a shock to not be lying in Jay’s embrace, water lapping the side of the yacht, golden sunshine streaming through the porthole – which was what I’d been dreaming about. Instead, I was alone under my duvet, rain drumming the window panes as though trying to get in, while Jay was in another country.
With a crushing sadness around my heart, I sat up and checked my phone: he hadn’t called. He’d be striding round some moody backstreet in Budapest on the trail of his would-be assassin, who couldn’t be somewhere ordinary like… well, France.
I hoped he’d managed to catch his plane and resisted the urge to text, now I had Simon’s number in my phone. I doubted he would bother passing on any messages. I was sure that, even though Jay would have told him about Giselle, and reassured him he’d never been in the frame, Simon would be relieved I was out of Jay’s life and go out of his way to make sure it stayed like that.
And, really, what had I been doing, getting swept up in what amounted to a holiday romance? Not even that. Jay was an actor, I reminded myself. He may not be formally trained, and Max Weaver was hardly famous for his romantic gestures, but he probably knew how to portray the right emotions to get a girl to fall in love with him.
In love. Was I? I definitely wasn’t Julia Roberts in Notting Hill, ‘standing in front of a boy’. We were adults, and I needed to get a grip.
Determined not
to wallow in regrets – Jay had made plans for his future, it was time that I did too – I rolled out of bed, pausing as I passed Dad’s door on my way to the bathroom. There was a murmur of voices and a low laugh from Mum, and I found myself smiling in spite of everything. They’d still been at Marie’s when I’d sneaked out of the taxi and into the house the night before, gusts of laughter flowing through my window. The sound had made it hard to pin down my seething thoughts, and after a bout of painful weeping, I’d drifted off to sleep, waking only once in the night to find my cheeks wet with tears.
My face in the bathroom mirror was a mess; cave-dweller hair, mascara-like clown tears down my face (I’d not had the heart to remove my make-up before bed) my eyes slitty and red. No Giselle-style dewiness; I looked like a Halloween mask.
I did my best, with the help of a steamy shower and a tube of foundation I found in Mum’s make-up bag by the sink, which promised to ‘magic away’ all my imperfections. I had a feeling it would take more than a layer of gloop, but it made me look lightly tanned, which was an improvement. After tucking a silky blue top into jeans that felt loose after a couple of days of hardly eating, I made a mental note to drop Marie’s dress and cardigan to the dry-cleaners and went downstairs, creeping like a burglar to avoid disturbing my parents. It reminded me of being a teenager, sneaking out of the house to meet Gemma, except it had been midnight, to a furtively planned picnic in the park, not early morning to the kitchen for tea and toast.
There was a packet of Warburtons’ crumpets on the side, which Mum must have brought with her, knowing we couldn’t buy them in France, along with Cadbury’s Creme Eggs and McVitie’s ginger nut biscuits. (I’d done a column about it for Expats, and readers had written in, reminiscing about their favourite foods.) I popped two in the toaster and while waiting for the kettle to boil, I picked up Dad’s notepad and scanned his latest notes.
Hiding behind a car door to avoid a hail of bullets is never a good idea. A whole vehicle between the police and perpetrator would be advisable (a round of bullets would go through a car door like a knife through butter).
Ditto, police officers jumping their cars through ditches, across bridges, and down pavements, so people have to leap out of the way. Running red lights, chasing at speed on regular roads – maybe a field if there’s proper access – anything else a certain route to death.
I smiled, and after I’d made my tea and buttered the crumpets, I pulled my laptop out of my bag where I’d left it the day before and, once I’d eaten, began to type. By the time I heard movement upstairs, I’d put together a proposal and a mini-synopsis, highlighting what would make Dad’s book special, citing his thirty years with the police force and his British sense of humour, along with a chapter to demonstrate how I thought it should look, and emailed it to the agents I’d made a list of months ago. If none of them bit, I was sure Dad could get his own column somewhere. I might even contact Jackie to ask if she’d like a series of real-life stories from him. He was one of the most interesting people I knew and I had a feeling her readers would think so too. On impulse, I typed her an email before my enthusiasm drained. Although she’d contacted Jools, digging for information about Jay and me, she hadn’t actually gone ahead and printed anything – at least, as far as I knew.
I quickly logged into Google and typed in ‘Natalie Bright and Jay Merino’ but although there were tens of thousands of results for Jay and a few for me, there was nothing linking us together. Bypassing the stuff I’d already read about Jay, I clicked on the link to my blog, which I hadn’t had a chance to look at, my eyes stretching when I saw how many people had commented. Several had relayed experiences of workplace bullying by jealous females, and lots more reported being shamed as ‘the other woman’ when ‘he was the one who’d lied about being single’. Tutting at one that complained about feminism having gone too far, I pressed the Twitter icon beneath the post and gasped when I saw how many times it had been shared. There was a direct message, too, from a freckled redhead called Verity.
I just wanted to let you know that I’ve followed your writing for a while! You retweeted a couple of my posts a while ago, and I wanted to let you know that one of your followers – a radio presenter in the UK – invited me to give an interview about my backpacking experience, and now I write for a travel magazine. Thank you so much, Natalie! Hope to read more of your stuff soon!
In a flash, I knew that that this was what I wanted to do – the thing I’d loved all along. Writing stories for ordinary (or extraordinary) people. They didn’t have to be wild and wacky or silly and sexy, like the ones at Chatter – though they had their place – but stories that were compelling, that would create a discussion, maybe inform and even uplift. And I wanted to carry on writing for Expats, because I liked Sandy and I’d somehow built up a following of people who actually enjoyed my column – even looked forward to it. I was never going to be the next Fleur Dupont or be published in the New Yorker, but did I really want to be? Well, maybe a tiny part of me did, but I’d use that ambition to drive me on and who knew what would happen?
Almost on cue, an email appeared from Jackie.
Hey, Natalie, saw Jay Merino on the news – looks like he’s sticking to his ‘no interview’ policy! Loved your latest blog post, by the way.
She read my blog?
I’m attempting to drag Gossip out of the gutter and wondered whether you’d like a regular spot in the magazine, similar to those we sometimes published at Chatter, called ‘Talking Point’? Call me to discuss! Jackie x
Grinning and tearful in equal measure, I quickly replied, telling her I’d call on Monday morning, then typed a message of congratulations to Verity, jumping when Mum and Dad came down, in dressing gowns and slippers, wearing matching smiles. Dad’s hair was sticking up at the back, and Mum was clutching an empty wine bottle, which she slid into the recycling bin.
‘Looks like you two had a good night,’ I said archly.
She fluffed her hair with her fingers and went pink around the ears. ‘Very nice, thank you, sweetheart.’
‘You’re up early.’ Dad planted a kiss on my hair, then pursed his lips. I’d forgotten my curls were sticky with styling spray. ‘I’ve been busy,’ I said, nodding at my laptop, feeling a bit swirly-headed from all the emotion. ‘Getting our writing careers off the starting blocks.’
‘Sorry?’ He scratched his ear.
‘I’ve got plans for us.’ I nodded pointedly at his notebook.
‘Oh, that.’ He looked at it with little interest. ‘It’s just a bit of fun really, love. I’m thinking of taking my pilot’s licence when I get home. Apparently, Larry flies a plane. He was telling us about it last night—’
‘Wait.’ I pressed my palms on the table. ‘What do you mean, when you get home?’
He swapped a look with Mum. ‘I’m thinking of going back to the UK,’ he said gently, sitting opposite and securing the belt of his dressing gown, a furrow of anxiety between his eyebrows. By thinking of, I knew he’d made up his mind, and felt a plunge of anxiety.
‘I thought you liked living here,’ I said. ‘I know you said it’s not home without Mum, but it could be, if she moves here.’
Mum sat next to me and cuddled my rigid arm, and a faint smell of roses wafted over me. Her favourite scent; the one Dad bought her every Christmas. ‘I love it over here, but my home’s where you grew up,’ she said. ‘It’s where my job is, and my sister and my friends.’
‘You’ve already made new friends,’ I said, feeling like I had a few years ago, when they told me they were splitting up – which was odd, when they were apparently back together. ‘What about Larry and Barbara. Marie?’
‘We can keep in touch,’ said Dad eagerly. ‘Larry and Barbara are going to come over and visit.’
‘And Marie?’
‘Not Marie.’ He glanced at his hands in his lap, and I could tell he was thinking of the meals we’d enjoyed next door, Marie’s attempts at teaching him French and their daily chats. ‘She’s go
t her business to run,’ he said quietly.
‘And the house?’ I’d have to dip into my savings if I wanted to stay. And I did want to stay, very much. The Île de Ré was my home now, and not just because of Dad. I had Charlie and Dolly, and Marie, and Sandy, and Jools was coming to stay in a couple of months and… I twisted my mind away from Jay, but it immediately sprang back to his cottage in Sainte-Marie. He’d return one day. The perfect escape, he’d said. Just like this place, and the Café Belle Vie, had been for me.
Mum took hold of my hand. ‘We thought we’d keep it as a holiday home, so you can stay here as long as you like, unless…’ Her eyebrows flew up. ‘How did your date go, last night?’
‘I’m not planning to move in with anyone,’ I said, dodging the question with a little too much vigour, but her words about the house had taken root. I looked around the kitchen and saw myself cooking dinner, writing in the garden when the weather improved – it was still pouring with rain – or bobbing next door to chat to Marie and shopping in Saint-Martin with Dolly, my parents coming over whenever they could. ‘That’s a good idea,’ I said slowly. ‘Are you sure?’
They nodded in tandem, their smiles almost reaching their ears, and I knew they must have discussed how to tell me and worried about my reaction – which was clearly ridiculous when I was an adult, but I supposed that’s how it was when you had children. ‘I’ll pay rent,’ I said, holding up my hands when Dad started to shake his head. ‘I insist. It’s about time I started to live like a grown-up, and I should have some regular money coming in soon.’
‘You can always come back with us.’ Mum pulled me into a full body hug. ‘You don’t have to worry about seeing Matt now he’s moving up north.’
‘He is?’ I drew back in surprise. Matt had seemed so set in his ways, wedded to the town where he’d grown up. He hadn’t even wanted us to go abroad on holiday, preferring to stay at the same little Cornish campsite he’d visited throughout his childhood with his family.