Page 9

‘Is the washing machine on?’ asked Alexa, suddenly cocking her head as the machine rattled loudly in the kitchen.

‘Uh-huh.’

Alexa put her spoon down, turning to face me, looking all earnest. ‘You’re the best, Scarlett. Thank you for being here when I need you. And for always knowing what to do.’

‘Any time,’ I said, meaning it, but also thinking that I almost never knew what to do, I just acted like I did.

Chapter Three

Heathrow Airport on a Saturday afternoon was not the best. All those snaking queues that went on forever and never seemed to move and groups so big it didn’t seem possible that they could all fit on the same flight and the giant suitcases that looked as though they had someone’s entire life packed inside of them. I stood patiently in line at the check-in desk for the 15:40 flight to Nice, mentally running the contents of my own reasonably sized suitcase through my mind. Had I got everything I needed? It had been a struggle to know what to pack, what with it being April. I was hoping for sun and blue skies, the kind that had soared over Grace Kelly’s head inTo Catch a Thief. But then it could be raining, couldn’t it? Or cold (unlikely, Alexa had assured me, practically forcing a bikini into my hands).

The queue for check-in inched forwards and my stomach suddenly tensed so hard it felt like a rock had been dropped inside it. Because there at the desk, with only about ten people between us, stood Theo: the man I’d hoped never to see again. He was facing forwards, so I could only see glimpses of his profile as he handed over his ticket and took his passport out of his pocket, but it was definitely him. The previously piercing sounds of the airport were now strangely muffled, as though I was swimming deep under water and all the action was happening on the surface. I tried to centre myself. Perhaps if I looked at something else, focused onsomething thatwouldn’tmake me feel as though my brain was about to explode. I zoned in on the loud American couple in the business class queue who were wearing matching Hawaiian shirts while still managing to look as though they had money. Within seconds, though, my eyes pinged back to Theo, taking in his dark hair, shaved short at the nape of the neck and then longer as it got closer to the crown. He had on one of the slim-fitting white T-shirts he always used to wear and the low-slung indigo jeans I’d seen him in a hundred times. His style hadn’t changed, then, which didn’t bode well for his personality. I watched him bend to haul his suitcase onto the conveyor belt, one of those sleek, business-like hard shell ones, which was different, because he was all about the rucksacks before. He had a jacket slung over his arm and a laptop bag over one shoulder. If I strained my ears I could hear his voice: deep, molten, his accent the perfect sweet spot between proper London and proper posh. All in all, things suddenly felt very real – I was going to have to talk to this man, who even from this distance was making me breathe far more rapidly than was good for me. I didn’t think it was possible, but now that I’d seen him close-ish up, I was dreading this trip even more than before.

There was more movement in the queue and for a second I panicked that I was going to end up at the desk next to Theo and that I’d have to then make the most awkward of awkward small talk with him while simultaneously checking in for my flight and I wasn’t ready for any of that, not yet. In fact, I’d been hoping I wouldn’t see him until I got to Cannes. Once I was unpacked and wafting about in something summery and sweet, looking effortlessly chic (well OK, perhaps not effortlessly), I’d be better able to summon the inner-confidence required to get through our first interaction in over half a decade. I was intending to play it cool.Be friendly and efficient. After all, we’d never had a proper conversation about what had happened before, so why start now? The past was the past, right?

Giving him another furtive glance to make sure he hadn’t spotted me, too, I pulled my phone out of my bag. I knew nothing about him anymore, a conscious decision, but one I’d made when I’d thought I’d never see him again. Now I knew he was definitely coming to Cannes and wasn’t going to bail at the last minute like I’d been tempted to, I realised I was going to have to face the unknown and check out his Instagram; that maybe it would help to be prepared so that I wouldn’t be completely blindsided if he told me he was married with two beautiful children or something (and of course they’d be beautiful, with his hair, and those eyes). I searched his name and clicked into his handle – @winterswrites – bracing myself for an onslaught of self-congratulatory selfies and shots of him lying half-naked on the decks of yachts surrounded by model-esque children with high cheekbones and names like Milo and Allegra. Careful not to accidentally follow him or like any of his pictures, I began scrolling through, wincing each time I moved on to a new shot, as if expecting the worst, although I didn’t really know what the worst would be. He wasn’t the most prolific poster (but then neither was I) and I was surprised to note that these days he almost exclusively talked about his writing process. Perhaps he’d finally developed some humility, although given that the next shot was a layout of a pretentious article he’d featured in for a men’s magazine with the headlineWhy I Need To Be Alone When I Write, perhaps not. Perhaps he wanted to give the impression he was a tortured artiste meandering solo along the mean streets of London. But if that was the case, why on earth had he agreed to team up with me again?

Still scrolling as the queue moved forward, I paused on aphoto of his desk – which was about ten times neater than mine had ever been – and a tantalising shot of the first page of the manuscript for his third solo book, which I seemed to remember was being published this coming autumn. In an unwise attempt to zoom in, my thumb slipped and I accidentally liked it. Complete and utter panic ensued as I frantically attempted tounlikeit again.

By the time I looked up, feeling worse than I had before and wishing I’d trusted my instincts not to look, I was relieved to see Theo had turned and was striding purposefully off towards security. He didn’t seem at all hesitant, which I supposed was good, but then that also told me that he had no qualms whatsoever about seeing me again. Why would he, I supposed, when I’d clearly meant nothing to him in the first place? I checked my ticket, suspecting that Carla would have booked us seats together. I didn’t want to be strapped into a chair next to him for two hours – I wanted to feel as though I could escape and walk away if I needed to. Because it could go really, really badly, couldn’t it, and somehow physical space felt like a necessary element to factor in.

I finally made it to the front of the queue and handed over my ticket and passport to the smartly dressed British Airways crew member who was managing to remain cheery despite probably having been at work since about 3 a.m.

‘Is it possible to change seats at this point?’ I asked as I lifted my suitcase onto the belt. I was already regretting packing four pairs of shoes – was it really necessary when I would be spending most of my time writing? But never one to be caught unawares when it came to my wardrobe, I’d brought the gamut of footwear with me so that all eventualities would be covered – trainers in case I decided to do some actual exercise (doubtful, although apparently there was a gym at the hotel), strappy sandals for evening, ankle bootsin case it rained and flip-flops because the weather forecast said it was going to be twenty-two degrees tomorrow, which in my eyes was positively beach stroll weather. Oh, and the loafers I had on. Was that too much?

‘Let me see what I can do,’ said the woman. ‘Anywhere in particular you’d like to sit?’

‘Um, as far away from my current seat as possible?’ I suggested.

I realised I was being a little irrational here – he might not even have the seat next to me, but I could hardly check, could I? It seemed safer to move regardless.

She tapped something into the computer with a wry smile and printed me out a new ticket. Clearly she knew the drill – the customer was always right, and ask no questions.

‘There we go,’ she said, handing it to me. ‘Have a lovely trip to Nice.’

I took it from her gratefully and headed for security, hanging back so as not to accidentally catch Theo up. He might be rooting through his liquids or something, stalled by not being able to fit his designer skincare products into one, solitary plastic bag. After breezing through security I was silently thankful that Heathrow terminal five was so huge. I bought myself a coffee from Starbucks then found a spot in the corner from where I could surreptitiously keep an eye out for a dashing, egotistical author. I was only delaying the inevitable, but needs must.

When our flight was called and I made my way to the gate, I kept thinking I could see him but then it turned out to be a different man with dark hair and a dark beard and a white top. There seemed to be a lot of them at gate number 33. I was one of the last to board, having now been seated at the back of the plane. Unfortunately, I’d failed to compute that this would mean that my original seat was likely to betowards the front of the plane and therefore there was a good chance that I’d have to walk past . . . yep, and there he was. Sitting in the middle of row 11, shimmering in that annoying way he tended to. Ridiculously shiny hair, shorter at the sides than at the front. Brown eyes, a little narrowed as always, as though he was suspicious of something, or trying to work out what the hell you were talking about. Beard trimmed, moustache covering his top lip, bottom lip raspberry pink and full. My heart started hammering painfully against my ribcage, which annoyingly had always been my go-to reaction to seeing him face on. Next to him, in the aisle seat, was a teenaged girl wearing giant headphones and flicking manically through her phone; thankfully she seemed to be oblivious to the fact I was staring at her fellow passenger as though I was an axe murderer eyeing up my next victim. What should I do now? Shuffle past and pretend I hadn’t seen him? If I dug around in my bag for a bit with my head down, he might not even notice me. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him fiddling with his seatbelt – if he could just keep doing that for another minute or so then I might just get away with it.

Of course, just as I lurched forward to scuttle past the end of his row, I made the mistake of glancing sideways at him and he looked up and caught my eye. He didn’t seem remotely fazed, which was interesting, because my legs now felt as though they were made of melted butter and I was sure every single millilitre of blood had just drained out of my body. I wanted to look away but I was also frozen to the spot. He tried to smile, at least I thought that might be what he was aiming for, but instead it came out as a sort of grimace. I eyeballed him back, incapable of exuding any kind of fake emotion like a simple smile in return because I was overwhelmed with the suddenly very intense feelingscoursing through my body – shock, regret, embarrassment, panic. All the bad things, basically.

We stared silently at each other for quite a few beats and I thought this might be hands-down the most mortifying situation of my life. Eventually I snapped myself out of it, aware that I was going to have to move on given that there were at least a couple of people looking for their seats behind me. I finally managed to give him the stiffest of stiff smiles and he nodded and saidScarlett.And I saidHey. Hardly cutting-edge conversation for two people who were supposed to write novels for a living. He unbuckled his seatbelt and started to get up.

‘I assume you’re in the window seat,’ he said, his white, perfectly straight teeth dazzling, even in the dim artificial light of the cabin.

‘I’m not, actually,’ I said, taking a modicum of pleasure from watching the confusion on his face. ‘See you in Nice,’ I said casually, forcing myself to breeze past him.

I threw myself down in my seat in the farthest back corner of the plane, wiping the sweat that had literally sprouted from my forehead during our approximately twenty-second conversation onto the sleeve of my jumper. This was not a good start.

Eventually I recovered enough to do up my seatbelt and then I opened the bottle of sparkling water I’d bought in Boots – obviously it sprayed everywhere, because that was the kind of day I was having – and tried to act like a normal person doing normal things on a normal flight. I could do it, I knew I could. I would, once again, feel human. At some point. Probably once I was back in London. I realised I’d done a great job of burying any residual feelings I might have had for Theo, but I hadn’t allowed for the fact that seeing him in the (tanned, glowing) flesh might unleash acertain type of emotion I appeared to have no control over.

As I settled down for take-off, I refused to let myself re-play the very short exchange with Theo over and over in my head, and panicked about the more familiar anxiety-provoking topic of my dad instead. Kate and my brother, Zach, hadn’t sounded particularly confident when I’d sprung it on them that they’d be in charge for the next two weeks and that there was a good chance they were going to have to make decisions without me. I’d left them two A4 sides of instructions, but was it enough? Had I missed anything? I made the mistake of checking my messages before I put my phone on flight mode and there was already something from Kate.

What is Dad supposed to have for dinner? Or does the carer do it?

Damn. I was sure I’d explained to her about when the carer came and what they did, and also, why wasn’t she just asking Dad what he wanted to eat? He hadn’t lost the power of speech entirely, thankfully, so was quite capable of answering a simple question about his mealtime preferences.

It’s on my note, I taped it to the fridge. Carer does it Monday to Friday. You’ll have to feed him at the weekend. He’ll tell you what he wants, just ask. Maybe try egg and chips, he’s always happy with that?