Page 13 of Vine (Island Love #3)

CHAPTER 12

CASPIAN

Flinging the last vestiges of winter aside, our vines came alive. The fertile soil warmed; nutritious sap scaled the twisted roots. Buds burst open as more leaves unfurled. I caught a snatch of a light delicate fragrance wafting on the wind. Emma said this was a critical stage in the wine-making calendar, and I nodded like I cared. She had come alive too, returned from her weekend in Amsterdam with a spring in her step and a list of Australian wineries advertising viticulture jobs.

Selfishly, I hoped she wasn’t too successful too soon.

I shouldn’t have embroiled Max in the farce I called living, but somewhere along the line, I’d accidentally pressed the like button. As I swayed in his arms with my head against his chest, during one of our quiet evenings together, breathing him in, I nearly spilled everything about Leigh and Jonas.

Soon, I would, but at that moment, I didn’t want them spoiling the safe little haven of Max’s gatehouse. Like hugging a tree or a welcome lighthouse in a storm, he soothed me. He even stopped me cutting—once, before a hellish meeting, his cute, abrupt texts had me giggling long enough for the addictive urge to pass. Jonas and Leigh seemed lesser foes after his hugs and kisses. Shadows seemed smaller, tomorrow seemed lesser, my future brighter. My heart stopped racing. He performed a minor miracle on my libido.

Then, like front-line soldiers issued rare weekend passes, Leigh and I flew back to the UK.

Miraculously, Jonas stayed behind. With the advent of bluer skies, he wanted to capture some backdrop pics of the island. Also, abreast of the rumours Emma might not stay the course, he wanted to persuade her to compare and contrast French versus New World vines.

Leigh and I didn’t add much to that, so we travelled alone. Leigh’s thick leg touching mine through denim on the narrow seats of the small plane felt like the flesh of a stranger, and I tried to occupy my mind by imagining it belonged to Max instead.

“That Emma’s a nice girl,” he commented as the plane taxied on the runway. The early morning flight was half empty. A nervous flier (naturally), I used to grasp his hand for take-off and landing.

Now I just gritted my teeth and hoped no one spotted the dark circles of sweat forming under my armpits. “Woman.”

“What?”

“Woman,” I repeated irritably. Flying never improved my mood. “She’s in her late twenties.”

As the flimsy aircraft gathered energy and courage to take off, I pictured Max in his blue jeans pottering about his tiny blue kitchen. Fuck knows what he saw in me. Another pet, perhaps, like his dog or his, oh fuck, his snake. No matter how comfortable I became in his home, no way would I ever be opening any of the lower kitchen cupboards.

“We’re meeting Libby at two.” Leigh’s strident tones cut through that weird grinding noise small aircraft made when the wheels retracted, as if an important rivet was working loose and the whole thing was seconds from falling apart. “With more details about the breakfast telly proposal. She’s trying to organise a screen test for Monday.”

Grateful for the interruption to the voice of doom in my head insisting I was moments away from a watery grave, I turned to him. “Does Jonas know we’re meeting her about it?”

One of those questions to which I already knew the answer.

“No. We don’t know if we can pull it off yet, anyhow. We hardly need to tell him until the thing is finalised, wouldn't you say?”

“Up to you, mate. He’s your boyfriend.” There was a conversation I’d make myself scarce for. “Knowing Libby, she’ll ensure it happens.”

Our agent had much bigger names on her books than ours, but the woman was the best in the business; if suitable work was out there, she’d secure it. “I’m sure Jonas will be thoroughly understanding.”

Leigh’s expression soured, and he angled his head to the window. I used to automatically offer him the aisle seat, more room for his long legs. “One of the current duo on the breakfast show has a target on his back, apparently. Rumour has it all is not rosy on the pink velour sofas. Libby reckons they’ve got eighteen months tops before they’re out on their ear. There’s a toxic culture of bullying and discrimination, according to her sources.”

I’d be pretty toxic, too, if I had to get up at four every morning. Was I really considering signing up for that?

Making her way down the narrow aisle, the air steward smiled in that familiar way people did when they recognised us. Don’t get me wrong, not many people did—when I saw minor TV personalities in real life, I struggled to place them too, even celebs much more famous than us.

Spotting her, Leigh gurned back, then rested a proprietorial hand on my knee until she passed. I tried not to recoil. “Listen, Caspy. I’ve been thinking. If we get the breakfast show gig, we can settle into it, then gradually introduce the idea that, by mutual agreement and with a lot of soul-searching, blah blah, we’re having a ‘conscious uncoupling’. Even make it a slot on the programme, perhaps, show how we’re determined to work alongside each other. Best friends that married very young and have grown apart, etc, etc. Do a sympathetic interview together. It would be great for viewing figures, don’t you think?”

Like vomit, an unwanted pulse of anxiety rose through my chest at the same time a judder of turbulence shook the plane. I let out an involuntary gasp, and Leigh gave a short laugh. “God, Casp, don’t be such a wuss. It’s stopped already!”

Screwing my eyes shut, I gripped the armrest, trying to imagine Max’s big firm hand. It helped a bit.

“But going back to the separation thing. If you let Jonas drop hints before My Big Gay Adventures airs, if you let him film us looking a bit tense, it will tie in nicely. And I think he’s right about the viewing figures. People will tune in just to see how you— we’re — coping.”

“It’s a shame he’s not here now,” I said through gritted teeth, “if he wants me looking tense.”

Leigh whipped out his phone, but I batted him off. “Don’t even fucking think it.”

Sniggering, he sat back as the plane soared away from France and towards the next segment of my fucking miserable existence. “Give it some thought, Caspy, and let me know soon. We’ll land the job, then publicly separate in a planned fashion. It will work in our favour, you’ll see.”

Taking a cab directly to the TV studios, we recorded a couple of promo segments for our current show, along with a selection of stills for social media teasers. Leigh and I goofed around with bunches of grapes, bought from Tesco and not suitable for winemaking, although no one else seemed bothered. Max would have immediately pointed it out. Then we huddled under tricolour-striped umbrellas, sharing hunks of bread and cheese, while pretend rain fell around us. Ridiculous, seeing as it was pissing down outside, but that was television for you. I drew the line at a blue beret and a string of onions.

“Feel free to look as if you’re having fun,” murmured Leigh on the fourth attempt at the biting-into-a-baguette-from-opposite-ends shot. “You used to love getting your lips around a big knob.”

I still did. Picturing Max’s flushed face as I took him in my mouth was the most productive thing I’d done since arriving at the television studios. “This is idiotic, Leigh. No one shares food like this.”

Later, during a break, I played the promo back on my phone screen. My complexion was pale and insipid, my skin the colour of sour milk. Why would anyone even choose to lie next to me, let alone embrace me? I had less musculature than a starved rabbit, rarely ejaculated, and my arms were a patchwork of hieroglyphs. And all that before we plumbed the depths of my fucked-up psyche. Chronic anxiety had drained my adrenaline glands to the very pit, leaving behind nothing but a thin shattered husk. Every bit of the road I’d travelled over the last few years was etched deep in my skin.

Next to me, chatting to the media woman like his best pal, Leigh glowed with fake tan and the indefinable allure of a man on the cusp of believing he could have everything. Already convinced the show was a dud, I deleted the pics immediately. Who wanted to tune into a show with two blokes pretending to like each other while simultaneously trying to be enthusiastic about watching plants grow?

Our agent, Libby, was next on the agenda of this never-ending day, another journey with Leigh’s thigh against mine, in the back of an Uber this time, across town.

“You’re quiet.”

“Yep.”

“Talking of quiet, that French bloke living in the other gatehouse is a bit odd, isn’t he? He always seems to be prowling around.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” I gazed out of the window at dreary London, wondering what Max would make of it and whether he’d ever visited. I tried to picture him standing in line at a Costa coffee, waiting to order a hot chocolate or, fingers twitching madly, being jostled on a packed Tube. He’d hate it, all of it: the incessant traffic, tall buildings blocking out the sky, the throngs of people crowding the narrow pavements. The tarmac pavements themselves, probably. He didn’t belong in a city like London, or any city. He didn’t belong in Leigh’s head either.

“From what I’ve seen of him, he prefers to keep himself to himself,” I said without turning to face him. “He’s grumpy—best stay away.”

Libby wore her expression I’d grown to associate with triumph, guaranteed to cause my anxiety to ratchet skywards. She’d changed the venue of our rendezvous at the last minute to a different television studio, confirming my worst fears. “Good news, boys!” she proclaimed. “ Wake Up Britain can fit you in for a screen test now.”

At least I didn’t have to change my outfit. In fact, not much was required of me at all. Almost as though the job was ours to lose. From Libby’s enthusiastic chatting up of the producer as Leigh and I conducted a mock interview about a new cookery book with an enthusiastic runner pretending to be a celebrity chef, I suspected it was. The velour sofas were comfy enough—like everything else on the telly, they were smaller than they appeared, as was the nauseatingly jolly entertainment news presenter, who popped in to say hello.

All in all, I managed to convey an illusion of normality, tolerated Leigh’s public overfamiliarity with my person and everyone’s assumption they were making my dreams come true, and survived.

My tiny flat in Chelsea was steeped in the same stagnant, floral smell I’d forever associate with visiting my dad in hospital aged fourteen, when he was dying of throat cancer. It was only the scent of the wooden floor polish used by the cleaning service, but the knowledge didn’t help. Dropping to the sofa, I let my eyes drift over all I owned, all I’d worked for, all the things I’d purchased. Chic furniture, good china, arty sepia prints, the flat itself. Outward symbols of a full life, purchased after the split from Leigh to cover up what was broken. Did owning any of them make my existence better? Had they mended me? Would anyone stand up at my funeral and say I had great taste in home furnishings and a widescreen Samsung TV?

My arms itched, and my viticulture manual failed to hold my attention, so I got up from the sofa and paced around for a while, stopping to peruse the meagre contents of the freezer and to flick through some junk mail. Then, unable to resist the pull any longer, in the privacy of the flat’s cramped, soulless bathroom, I sat on the closed toilet lid and cut myself.

Inevitable, really. Thought gremlins had been pushing me to do it from the moment I fastened my seatbelt on the plane; the sour stink of decaying flowers merely sealed the deal. Only a moderately-sized welt, but in a smooth fresh spot on the medial border of my fleshy right upper arm. It stung like buggery in the shower afterwards, but the initial head rush followed by the steady relaxing calm was well worth it. With nothing tempting in the freezer and no inclination to leave the flat, I dressed my wound, then took myself to bed, whereupon I tossed and turned, cursing my one-ply eyelids. I felt jittery. The dull pain in my arm reminded me I’d already cut once today, but the calming effect had worn off.

Perhaps I’d do it again if I couldn’t sleep. And again after that. I could run a hot bath, cut somewhere it might really hurt, where it might bleed profusely. Like the top of my thigh, above the artery.

Perhaps, might, and what if.

When my anxiety spiralled, I’d played this game for years on and off, queuing up all the what-ifs in my head. What if I really went for it? What if I went too deep? What if I couldn’t stop the bleeding? What if no one found me?

What if no one cared?

As a diversion, because I was frightening myself and despite having decided that Max was not going to become an additional complication in my life, I texted him.

What’s up?

His reply was immediate. Hello, Caspian. Nothing. Your bossy lady friend said you were away for two days. :)

Even on the verge of … something , I managed a smile at his emoticon. I pictured his thin-lipped look of concentration as his big thumbs typed out my name and I tried not to cry. Maybe I would cut again tonight.

Shame. :)

Why were neurodivergent characteristics viewed as negatives? I applied a few to Max: intense, persistent, rigid. The flipside: observant, a problem-solver, predictable. Solid, in other words. Non-changing and dependable. Someone who liked the same blue mug, the same blue clothes, the same bloody limited palette of emoticons. Someone totally unable to spin bullshit. Someone at total ease with his big body and simple life because considering anything different was so far out of his comfort zone he couldn’t comprehend it. Someone utterly different to me and a much healthier, happier, better person because of it.

Yes. I’m in my bed in England. :)

Alone and miserable.

I paused a beat before typing again. My dick is wishing you were in it with me. Which wasn’t strictly true. My dick was as limp as cooked spaghetti, but no one hopefully going to rail you someday needed to know that.

Dicks aren’t sentient.

I snorted. How did one reply to that? I was still trying to come up with something suitable when he sent, I’m in bed too, reading an article on my phone about Siberian salmon fishing, so I literally can’t think about your penis right now.

Out of nowhere, my eyes brimmed with stupid tears, and I wished I was right there with him. Propped against his blue pillows, drinking his sweet hot chocolate out of one of his blue mugs, watching his eyes as he solemnly scrolled down his phone screen. I brushed my tears away, only for new ones to take their place.

Oh, okay. What have you learned?

That salmon living in the frigid rivers of Siberia are top predators, which means they don’t have any natural predators, except hungry Russians, of course. :) Some historical accounts record Siberian salmon weighing more than 90 kilograms.

A sob broke out. I would cut myself again. As soon as Max signed off. That sounds heavy, for a salmon?

Very. For comparison, the Alaskan king salmon typically tops out at about 25 kilograms.

Good to know.

Perhaps this cut could be a little deeper. I’d see how far I could go up my left wrist. I was more adept with my right hand. Would anyone care if I did?

Salmon pink is a misnomer, by the way . Salmon orange would be more accurate. :)

I mean, I’d have to summon the energy first. Swing my legs out of bed. Switch the lights on; the room was black as pitch. Or maybe just do it using the light from my phone screen, grab my razor and bring it back to bed. If Max kept texting me with his salmon shit, that brightness might be enough. It might be enough to?—

Or salmon coral. I wish you were here to discuss it properly.

It might be enough for me to admit the truth.

I need to tell you that I’m not feeling very well right now, Max. :(

Ten seconds later, the phoned buzzed. “ Caspienne .” He drew out my name sadly, tenderly, like saying it fucking mattered to him.

Naturally, I burst into tears.

He waited until my humiliating snivelling slowed to an occasional humiliating snuffle. And then he spoke again, continuing from where his text messages had finished. “The proper name for Siberian salmon is a taimen fish. Russians call them river wolves because they hunt in packs, like real wolves. But they don’t go on land, obviously. They mostly eat other, smaller fish, but they can also chase birds, such as ducks, if they are very hungry. Have you cut yourself today.”

“Yes.”

“Have you always cut yourself.” He asked in that strange, urgent way I was getting used to, the sentence like one big, unified word that would disappear if he didn’t hurl it out. French vowels fell into each other anyhow; Max took it to a whole new level.

I sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly before replying.

“Yes. I started when my dad died. I was fourteen.” I wiped my hand across my nose. “He died of cancer. I was at boarding school, and my mum found a new man quite quickly afterwards.”

“Was your dad nice.”

“Yes. He was.”

There was a pause except for Max’s steady breathing. And then, “My mum died of cancer too. When I was nineteen. Breast cancer. She had the brCA2 genetic mutation.”

“I’m… I’m sorry to hear that, Max.”

“I stopped speaking when she died,” he divulged, so loudly I moved the phone from my ear. “I have an autistic spectrum disorder, along with 1-2 percent of the adult population of France. But I’m not ill. With my disorder, I mean. I’m happy.”

Even as tears dribbled down my cheeks, he managed to make me smile. “I know. And I think… I think your …um… disorder is one of your biggest strengths.”

“Sometimes,” he agreed cheerfully. “My dad’s girlfriend, Colette, has helped me a lot. She’s a psychologist. She could help you too.”

I didn’t tell him I’d seen enough psychologists to fill a psychologist’s entire waiting room.

“When are you coming back. I want to see you.”

“You don’t want to see me, honestly. I’m a mess. I…I…” I pictured Max, lying back on his blue pillows, Noir warming his feet. Surrounded by the essence of his simple life: his shelves of books, his whittling, his driftwood and his favourite mugs. The rich fullness of it, in contrast to the weight of my emptiness. “You’re great, Max. You have… so much to offer. You don’t need me coming along and disrupting all that, then buggering off again.”

“I decide what I need. I’m autistic, not stupid.”

He was far from that. “I know. Sorry.”

“And I know what I need. You. And I want you to stop cutting yourself. Promise you won’t do it again tonight.”

Promise was too big a word; I knew because I’d made so many to myself only for them to burst as easily as a balloon on a rose thorn. If Max knew me better, he’d have not asked. I compromised. “I’ll try my very hardest. But only if you tell me more about Russian salmon.”