by Beth O'Leary
Now I’m thoroughly bewildered. Has she been shagging all over the place or not? Is sleeping with guests off the cards? God, I hope not. If it is, maybe I can just move to a nearby hotel, though that would look a little . . . desperate.
Addie’s eyes are mischievous; I sip my drink and try to collect my thoughts.
‘Most of the guests are – what would you say? – wrinkly. Dads and granddads and rich guys with hot girlfriends permanently attached to their arms.’
‘Ah?’ I manage. ‘So . . .’
‘So I’ve spent the last two months doing my job.’
‘Right. Of course.’
‘And getting wasted on the wine they leave behind. And tanning. And stargazing on my back in that insane infinity pool.’
I think this means I’m all right to look at her legs again.
She watches my gaze shift over her and her lip quirks. ‘Penny for your thoughts?’
My heart beats faster. ‘They’re . . . not suitable for public discussion.’
‘No?’ Her eyebrows lift; that smile grows, and my nerves settle a little. She shifts so her bare foot touches my leg – she’s kicked off her sandals under the table. ‘Maybe we should find somewhere more private, then.’
‘How long is the drive back to the villa?’ I ask. It comes out rather more quickly than I intended.
She slides the car keys across the table. ‘Depends who’s driving, I’d say.’
‘I bet you a hundred euros I can knock fifteen minutes off your time here.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Done,’ she says. ‘But be warned. I’m not beneath dirty tactics.’
My imagination goes haywire. I take the straw out of my drink and down the rest in one while Addie laughs. I know what this beautiful village is for, now: it was built all those hundreds of years ago for this moment, the moment when Addie slips her sandals on and walks ahead of me to the car, hips swaying with promise.
I defy anyone to drive better than me in these conditions.
Addie slips her dress down one shoulder, then the other. I would say my eyes are on the road approximately twenty per cent of the time, and I’ve just remembered about all the wine I drank at lunchtime, but – oh, no, I’ve forgotten about it again because Addie has dropped her dress to her waist and I’m fixated at the sight of all that creamy pale skin. Her bikini is dark orange, two minuscule triangles, a few strings tied at the back of her neck, and her eyes are wicked and wide, mouth open in a laughing smile.
My throat is extremely dry; for a fleeting moment I wish Marcus could see this, a girl stripping in the passenger seat as I speed down a narrow French road with the sun in my eyes, then she touches my leg and I forget Marcus altogether. I am driving extremely dangerously, but quite frankly this would be the best possible way to go.
By the time we pull into the entrance to Villa Cerise I am so turned on I’m shaking. I turn to Addie and meet the heat of her gaze square-on, and there’s that teasing edge there, like a challenge, but there’s a little vulnerability too. Her creamy skin has goosebumped in the cool breeze of the air con; I can see her nipples beneath the thin fabric of her bikini top. My breath is coming fast. I hardly know where to start. Her eyes move to my lips – then, at a sound outside the car, she glances to the window.
I’m just mustering the courage to place a hand on the bare skin of her thigh when she says,
‘That’s not Deb’s car.’
I pause with my hand over the gearstick and follow her gaze to the rental car now parked under the plane trees outside the villa. I stare at it blankly. It’s not registering. Car, yes, I see that, but why could it possibly matter more than kissing Addie right this very moment?
‘Are you expecting someone?’ she asks.
I let out an involuntary little moan of despair as she reaches to pull her dress back up, then try to disguise it as a manly clearing of the throat.
‘Uh, no.’ Reluctantly I return my gaze to the other car and try to slow my breathing. Is it – my stomach drops, blood pounding – but no, it’s not my father. I recognise the jacket slung over the back of the bench at the front of the house, facing out towards the fountains and the valley beyond. It’s brown leather, Gucci, and my uncle Terence has worn it almost every day for all twenty-two years of my life.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ I kill the engine and press my forehead against the steering wheel.
‘What?’
‘Uncle Terry.’
‘Your uncle is here?’
‘He was supposed to come. Before the familial dispute.’
I straighten up, close my eyes for a moment, and then open the car door.
‘Dylan, my boy!’ roars a voice from the terrace. ‘I was beginning to think you’d absconded! O-ho, who’s this beautiful young lady? Where did you find her?’
Well, that’s done the trick. There is no greater turn-off in this world than my uncle Terence.
‘Hello, Terry,’ I say wearily. ‘This is Addie. She works at Villa Cerise.’
‘Hi,’ Addie says, waving up at Terry. ‘Anything I can get you, sir?’
I look askance at her. She’s wearing a new expression, a strange, plastic smile. This is her speaking-to-clients face – I’m pleased to see how different it is from the slow, wicked grin she gave me within moments of us meeting.
‘Dinner! Do you do dinner?’ Terry asks.
I cringe. ‘Addie isn’t . . .’
‘Absolutely,’ Addie says smoothly. She adjusts her dress a little higher at the neck. ‘I can request a chef for you – there are some fantastic local ones, I’ll fetch you the list.’
I watch her go. Her hips aren’t swaying now. I am desperate with longing.
‘Pretty, that one,’ Terry calls down to me. ‘But I expect you’re still smitten with the blonde from Atlanta?’
I cringe again as Addie pauses in the doorway to the kitchen for a moment, one hand on the stone wall. Terry is out of date in all senses – that jacket of his hasn’t looked good since the nineties, and Michele from Atlanta hasn’t been on the scene since Michaelmas term of third year, for Christ’s sake.
‘What are you doing here, Uncle Terry?’
‘I heard on the grapevine that you’d decided to go ahead with the family holiday!’ He grins down at me. ‘Three weeks of sun and wine with my favourite nephew? And none of the rest of the rabble? How could I pass that up? Come on up here, boy, let’s open a bottle to celebrate.’
I drag my feet up the steps and across to the terrace. The pool lies at one edge, glinting pale blue; beyond the water, the vineyards look hyper-real under the sun’s glare.
Terry slaps me on the back. His receding hairline has retreated so far now that he just sports a small patch above the forehead and one of those around-the-ears styles that monks used to favour in medieval times.
‘Good to see you, Dylan.’
I grit my teeth. ‘You too, Terry.’
My family. They’re like a bad cold I can’t shake, a dreadful pop song I can’t stop singing. How do I get rid of them?
And, more immediately: how do I get rid of Uncle Terry?
NOW
Addie
The sun’s properly up now, starbursting on the windscreen, making me squint even with my sunglasses on. The road ahead looks kind of dusty through it, like everything needs a wipe.
Dylan hasn’t said a word for over half an hour. We are three hundred miles away from Ettrick and having him in this car is making it hard to breathe. He still wears the same aftershave. Light and woody, a hint of orange.
‘I’m actually a very modern man, thank you very much,’ Marcus is telling Deb. She just called him a caveman. He said something sexist that I didn’t catch, which is probably for the best.
‘Oh, yes?’
‘You know what I did the other day?’
‘What?’
�
��I moisturised.’
I have to bite back a smile. I forgot this about Marcus. How charming he is, when he wants to be.
‘And do you know what Dylan’s talked me into?’
‘What has Dylan talked you into?’ Rodney says, when Deb doesn’t answer. She’s on her phone – that’ll be annoying Marcus. He likes undivided attention.
‘He’s got me going to his therapist,’ Marcus says, in a scandalised whisper.
I blink, processing. Marcus is in therapy? Dylan’s in therapy? That’s so weird. Like one of them taking up knitting or something. I bet their therapist is having a field day with these boys, though. Years of material.
‘How have you found therapy?’ I ask Dylan, trying to keep my voice light.
I look at him for just long enough to catch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. ‘Good, thanks,’ he says.
Right. Well then. We drive on in silence for a while. I’m dying to ask why he went. When did he start? Was it because of me? But that’s so self-absorbed.
‘I realised I was a little, uh . . . That some of the relationships in my life weren’t entirely healthy.’ He swallows again.
Everyone in the back of the car is very, very quiet.
‘I thought I could do with some help sorting that. You know. From a professional.’
My cheeks are hot again. That’ll teach me for being self-absorbed.
‘Let’s play a game,’ says Marcus. ‘I’m bored.’
‘Only boring people get bored,’ Deb says.
‘Only boring people say that,’ Marcus corrects her. ‘Five questions. I’ll go first. Ask me anything. Go on.’
‘What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?’ Deb asks promptly.
Marcus snorts. ‘Which particular social construct would you like me to measure “worst” by? I don’t really subscribe to a standard system of morality.’
‘How very exciting of you,’ Deb says flatly.
Marcus looks put out. ‘I caught and cooked one of our neighbour’s pet ducks, once,’ he says after a moment. ‘Will that do?’
There is a collective gasp.
‘That’s – that’s awful!’ exclaims Rodney. ‘Why?’
Marcus shrugs. ‘No food in, shops were closed.’
‘You ate it?’ Rodney says, and I can hear him shrinking back into his seat.
‘With hoisin sauce. Next question?’
‘Have you ever been in love?’ Deb asks. ‘Or does that not fit into your non-standard system of morality?’
The silence stretches too tight. I don’t look at Dylan.
‘I fall in love a hundred times a month, darling,’ Marcus says lightly.
The next song is playing: Taylor Swift, ‘I Did Something Bad’.
‘Nobody falls in love a hundred times,’ I say, before I can stop myself. ‘You couldn’t. It would kill you.’
Marcus snorts so quietly I almost don’t catch it. I feel myself flush.
‘The only time I’ve ever fallen in love was when the midwife handed me my son,’ Deb says.
I shoot her a grateful look for the change of subject. I can feel Marcus’s gaze on the back of my neck. He’d look away if I met his eyes in the mirror, I know he would, but I don’t quite have the nerve.
‘He’s the only man I’ve ever met who’s struck me as worth the effort, frankly,’ Deb continues, with a quick smile for me. ‘Next question for Marcus?’
‘What’s the nicest thing you’ve ever done for someone else?’ Rodney asks.
We all look at him, surprised.
‘Is that OK?’ he asks, cringing.
‘Christ, man, you’re a walking apology, aren’t you?’ Marcus says.
‘What – I . . .’
‘He’s polite, Marcus,’ I say. ‘It’s a good thing. Most people appreciate it.’
Marcus waggles his eyebrows and I catch something in his expression in the mirror. A challenge, maybe.
‘Ooh. Dylan, watch out. You’ve got some competition,’ he says.
‘Shut up, Marcus,’ I snap. ‘You know it’s not like that.’
‘Come on, guys,’ Dylan says, reaching to turn the radio up. ‘Leave it, please.’
‘Not like that?’ Marcus says. ‘Well. Heard that before, haven’t we?’
The anger rises all at once and I feel my cheeks flare red. I hate him. I hate him, I hate him, and God, I’m still not brave enough to tell him to fuck right off like I want to.
‘Marcus.’ Dylan’s voice turns sharp. ‘Don’t say something you’re going to regret.’
The car feels like it’s shrinking, its grimy windows leaning in.
‘What I’ll regret is sitting here while you pine for her all over again and I say nothing. That woman broke you, Dylan. I thought you’d realised that now. You’d be better off jumping out of this car into the fast lane than you are letting her work her way under your skin again.’
What the hell? I’m hot, heart pounding, I’m raging. I open my mouth to yell at him but Deb’s already there.
‘Where do you get off talking about Addie like you know a thing about my sister, you—’
‘Oh, I know about your sister.’
‘Marcus, shut the fuck up,’ Dylan shouts, and I jump. I’m holding the steering wheel so tight it hurts.
‘I will not shut up! I’m sick of you treating me like some fucking basket case you need to fix when—’
‘Umm, Addie?’ Rodney interrupts in a small voice.
‘You’re lucky to have Dylan,’ Deb tells Marcus. ‘You’re lucky to have anyone, frankly.’
‘And what’s your problem?’ Marcus yells at her.
‘Addie,’ says Rodney, with rising urgency. ‘Addie . . .’
‘I know. I know,’ I gasp. ‘Oh my God . . .’
‘What’s my problem?’ Deb snaps, as Dylan says,
‘Marcus, you said you’d try, you said—’
And Rodney keeps saying my name, louder and louder, and—
‘Everyone, shut up,’ I scream.
The car is drifting. I thought it was me at first – my head’s all over the place – but it’s definitely the car. What does it mean if the car’s pulling left? My first thought is ice, and something about steering into the swerve, but it’s hot enough that the sun is shimmering above the tarmac. It’s definitely not ice.
I move into the left lane. I’m swerving, pulling the wheel too far right to compensate, crossing the white lines. I try to slow down. For a mad second I think my foot is on the wrong pedal. The car doesn’t react properly when I brake. It feels like trying to shout but not getting any sound out. I push down harder and the car slows a bit, still dragging me left and I let out a sound, a frustrated, frightened guhh—
‘There’s a hard shoulder, Addie, get on it,’ says Deb behind me. Everyone else is quiet. I can hear them breathing.
I work my way down the gears: third, second, first. I hope this hard shoulder isn’t going to end. There’s a ringing in my ears like the world’s muffled. My neck still hurts from the whiplash, I notice absently. From the last time we crashed.
‘Hold on,’ I say grimly.
We’re not going faster than ten miles an hour, now, but as I ease the parking brake on everyone still jolts forward. The car groans. We sit in silence, and then, very slowly, I lower my forehead against the steering wheel.
As I wait for my heart to stop trying to claw its way up my throat, Dylan slowly reaches across and hits the button to put our hazards on. We all unfreeze.
‘Fuck,’ Marcus says behind me.
‘Goodness me,’ says Rodney.
‘Everyone all right?’ Deb asks.
I twist, forehead still on the steering wheel, and look at Dylan. His face is slack with shock. For a sharp second it reminds me of his expression when he stood in the doorway to our fl
at as I beat his chest with my fists and told him no, he couldn’t leave me.
Marcus gives a shrill laugh from the back seat. ‘Fuck me, Addie Gilbert, you just saved our lives.’
My breathing still isn’t slowing. I wonder if near-death experiences get more or less scary each time. Like, should I be calmer because I’ve already had one car crash today? Or panicking more, because I’ve still got all that leftover terror in my system?
There is a knock at the car window, passenger side. I shriek. My hand flies to my chest. Behind me, everyone screams. But Dylan’s reaction is the most surprising – he throws an arm out in front of me, as though we’re still moving and we’re about to hit something.
‘Hello? You all right in there?’
I squint. The sun’s behind the man at the window – I can only just make him out. He’s big and tough-looking, in his fifties maybe. He has peppery stubble across his sagging jaw. Beneath the white vest he’s wearing I can just see half the text of a tattoo: unconditio—
‘Do you need help?’ he asks.
Dylan drops his arm and winds down the window.
‘Hi,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘We’ve broken down. I suppose you gathered that much.’
The man makes a sympathetic sort of grimace. ‘I saw you,’ he says, gesturing upwards. We’ve stopped just shy of a big concrete bridge running over the motorway. There’s a set of steps running down the bank to our left. He must have come down when he saw us. What a nice man. Assuming he’s not an opportunistic murderer.
‘Do we need to, you know . . . call the AA?’ Rodney asks.
‘We should get out. Right?’ I direct this at the stocky Good Samaritan currently eyeing us through the car window.
‘Oh, yeah,’ he says, nodding. ‘Yeah, but get out this way.’ He points behind him.
Dylan clambers out first, then Deb, Rodney and Marcus. I climb out last, over the gearstick, which is a pretty technical manoeuvre.
By the time I emerge from the car our burly Good Samaritan’s eyes have settled on Deb and widened with delight.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ he says.
Deb gives him a cursory look and I suppress the urge to eye-roll. We don’t have time for this shit.