Page 17 of Vine (Island Love #3)

CHAPTER 16

CASPIAN

Even the air smelled different now the vines paraded their lush green foliage. A pleasant aroma of course, nostalgic even, though I couldn’t pinpoint why. Evocative of freshly mown grass perhaps, playing cricket with my dad on my childhood garden lawn. Of hopeful, happier times.

Anyhow, as I stood on my little doorstep with a mug of tea in my hand and the sun’s warmth blessing my face, I admired the rows of neat plants I’d had more than a passing role in cultivating. A sense of wellbeing I hadn’t relished for quite some time filled me. I’d cleared up my misunderstanding with Max, and we were going on a mystery date. Since our make up last night, my urge to cut had receded to a vague whisper.

“Casp? There’s something I need to tell you. I think we should sit down.”

I ushered Emma inside. “Sure, come in, there’s still some tea in the pot.”

I braced for her news, glad I was in a reasonable frame of mind to take it. She’d made up her mind about exploring a relationship with Stella. Now she’d come to tell me I’d face the remainder of the summer without her. As self-centred and self-obsessed as I was, I was happy for her. And a little envious she had the gumption to follow her heart.

“My sister texted me very early this morning,” Emma began.

My spidey senses twitched. In my experience, early communication from family members generally heralded the birth of a baby or bad news, and as far as I knew, Emma did not have any heavily pregnant close relatives. “She spotted something on Twitter relating to me that… um… well, you might not like.”

I frowned with confusion. “Sorry, that I won’t like?”

“’Fraid so.”

I didn’t know Emma’s sister, so how could it be anything too terrible? And world emergencies we could do nothing about were delivered to our pocket phones every morning. Even a stress kitty like me pushed most of them aside. Nonetheless, as Emma shook her head at my repeated offer of tea and her mouth stayed in a resolute thin line, ice-cold drips of fear filled my belly.

“You have a secret life as a lesbian dominatrix,” I deadpanned, still hoping for the best, knowing it wouldn’t materialise. “With a well-known Hollywood actor. No, two well-known actors. We can work around it. I’m liberal in my outlook.”

“Unfortunately, not.” She sucked in her bottom lip. I didn’t think I’d ever seen her so uncomfortable. “You remember when you and Leigh flew back to England, and I stayed behind to do a couple of pieces to camera?”

I nodded. “Yeah, about a career in viticulture. I haven’t seen them yet, but Jonas thought they were great.”

“Yes. I did too,” she agreed. “I enjoyed it much more than I imagined I would. He’s surprisingly good at that sort of thing. Anyhow, when we wrapped up at the end, Jonas asked me about you. Just polite chit-chat. He commented you seemed like you were still having a tough time with things and asked if, as your friend, I thought there was anything he could do to help.”

I dry swallowed, the ice drips coalescing into a solid block. Jonas didn’t do polite chit-chat without an ulterior motive. “And?”

“And I fell for it.” On a deep exhale, Emma buried her face in her hands. “Shit, Casp, I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. He was being really nice, and I was so bloody relieved the piece to camera had gone well. I was still shaking like a leaf, to be honest. I told him that, since the split, you were still struggling with your mental health, with anxiety. You had been seeing someone about it, you know, back in England before we came out here, and your relationship with Leigh was increasingly strained. And he was so sincere , Casp. He said he would do whatever he could to make filming easier for you, give Leigh a heavier burden, put you in the background more, you know. And it was only after, when… when I walked away…”

A crushing pain started deep in my chest, like I couldn’t breathe. I was 90 percent sure I was having an actual heart attack. Emma didn’t need to say the rest. “He was still filming, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was. And it’s out there. He’s put a clip of it on the show’s Twitter feed, of me saying you and Leigh are under strain, that you’re not coping. He spliced some stuff together—he put words into my mouth. He’s hinting you’re having some sort of breakdown, Casp. And I’m so, so sorry. It’s all my fault.”

Good news oozed across the internet like warm syrup. Bad news exploded like an atomic bomb. I didn’t need to see the tweet; I could imagine it in my head. Multiplied and extrapolated by an informal alliance of the press, bloggers, bigots, homophobes, and all the other heartless fucking keyboard warriors getting sick kicks out of spreading someone’s private misery across every corner of the globe. United in furnishing the details for lurid headlines, libellous retweets, and more angry, hateful followers.

“He said you cut yourself, Casp. He said that you always wear long sleeves because your arms are covered in scars. He has photos of them, apparently.”

I needed to run, but my feet were locked in place. Opposite me, Emma started crying. Somewhere in my head a voice told me I should comfort her, reassure her it wasn’t her fault. And I would, if my windpipe hadn’t closed over. My vision clouded, blackness seeped in from the edges. I felt myself swaying. Was this it? Was this the end for me? I clutched at my throat, trying to pull a breath in. It couldn’t be. I had a date. I was going on a date with a man in red sequinned waders. A man who knew the average weight of Russian salmon and the exact circumference of his penis. And he was good and kind and… and cared.

“It’s okay, Emma,” I gasped. Every bit of me shook, I barely got the words out. “I do cut myself. I’m a pissing bloody mess. But Jonas can get to fuck.”

When my legs, lungs, and brain finally remembered their primary roles, I found Leigh and Jonas wolfing down a pile of croissants in the shade of an awning. Lounging in matching stripey deck chairs as though life couldn’t possibly get any better.

“You are an absolute fucking piece of shit, Jonas,” I began. I turned to Leigh. “For Christ's sake, tell me you didn’t know about this.”

“Um…” Under his tan, Leigh’s skin darkened. “You can’t deny it's good publicity for the show, Casp. To stir up some interest. The post’s been retweeted thousands of times already.”

“What, you think it’s okay to use Emma to spread my personal life across the internet? And you let him talk you into agreeing to this?”

Him being the smug turd on Leigh’s right with a flake of pastry stuck to his chin. My fists clenched with the urge to punch it off.

“Well, no, not exactly. But Jonas has a point. We need something to spice up the vines and the bird stuff. It’s going to resemble an exceptionally dull season of Countryfile if we’re not careful. And, babes, you are not as pretty as their front guy.”

“Emma says you’ve made me sound like a fucking headcase!”

“I think you’ll find she did most of the talking, not me," Jonas corrected. "And if the hat fits… You should choose your friends more carefully, mate. Never know when they’re going to suddenly turn on you.”

“I think we can include ex-husbands in that little piece of advice, too, don’t you, Leigh? And Emma hasn’t turned on me. You tricked her!”

Stretching his legs out, Jonas rubbed his nose and sniffed. His eyes shone bright—too bright. How the fuck had he got his mitts on a baggie of coke in this backwater? “Come on, Caspy, you’ve been at this game long enough by now to know news is a never-ending cycle. Just chill. All I’ve done is ensure our programme stays on people’s radar with a bit of juicy gossip. There will be another story along soon, and some other poor person will be hounded.”

Caught in the barrel of the wave, that was no comfort whatsoever. I had a dreadful feeling I was about to vomit and clapped a hand over my mouth.

“It was only a matter of time, anyhow,” said Leigh in a fucking annoying, patronising tone. If he told me to calm down, I might hit him. “The papers will find out about our split sooner or later.” He tilted his head towards his boyfriend. “Jonas just, you know, hurried things up. We’re going to drip-feed it.”

“I don’t want you to! It was my fucking marriage too, you know! And this is my fucking career!”

Jonas tutted, shaking his head. “Getting yourself overwrought isn’t good for you, Caspy. We all know how that ends.” Leaning across, he faux-whispered in Leigh’s ear. “No razor blades lying around, are there, hon?”

My stomach roiled. In the dim recesses of my mind, disconnected threads from the very beginning of this bloody project knit together. The bastard had been planting the seeds from day one. How many other members of the crew had accidentally not received NDAs? Was Emma just the beginning? And then there was my tiff with Leigh when I had a stinking cold and a black eye. He’d filmed that too. When was that going to appear?

“You’ve done this because of the breakfast telly thing, haven’t you?”

“No,” he responded calmly. “I’ve done it to make this programme fly. You and Leigh aren’t the only ones in need of a job after this series comes to an end, you know.”

“So you thought you’d get yourself one by hanging me out to dry?”

“Jeez, stop being such a bloody drama queen.” Jonas took a delicate bite of his croissant, flicking crumbs off his chest. I had a good mind to ram it down his throat. “Let me ask you something, Caspy my old fella. Why do you think people watch this crap in the first place?” He threw his arms up, waving the pastry around as if he was Martin fucking Scorsese holding an audience from his director’s chair. “It’s because they’re waiting for it all to kick off! Arguments, rows, and spats are the lifeblood of any programme putting real people into pressured situations and pointing cameras at them.”

“I hadn’t realised I was in a pressured situation!”

“What, you thought this programme was about growing vines?” He barked an ugly laugh. “That’s cute. No, more like putting an estranged couple in close proximity with very little to occupy them and then watching them burn.”

The reality of his words hit me. What a fucking idiot I’d been. You thought this programme was about growing vines ? About rows of twigs slowly turning green? After a high-stress Michelin-starred kitchen, a racetrack, and a Broadway show? Had I really been so fucking na?ve to believe people would tune in to watch that ?

“What? Fuck. Jonas, tell me you haven’t.” Leigh, never the brightest tool in the box, realised his new man was an absolute arse wipe at the same moment I twisted away to retch sour coffee and bile into the dry dirt between my feet.

That Twitter clip? It was just the beginning.

“Haven’t what, hon?” Jonas asked.

“Did you keep the cameras rolling? During our arguments? When Caspian banged his head? And after, when we rowed about us fronting Wake Up Britain ?”

“I might have done.” Jonas had the gall to sound smug. “Honestly, hon, you look amazing in the footage. Especially next to this fruitcake. You’re going to love it. Mind you, I’m not sure the brekkie telly people will be too keen to give Caspy a long-term contract after they’ve seen it.” Dropping his voice to a stage whisper, he made a throat cutting gesture. “A bit flaky, you know? But you’ll be fine. They’re going to love you.”

“I don’t want to do it without him!” Leigh leapt up, his twisted, angry features bearing down on Jonas. “Show me the footage. Now!”

Even as Leigh launched into full, yelling hissy fit mode, nothing would come of it. They’d have this spat, and Jonas would smooth it over with empty promises and great blowjobs. He’d shoot some of Leigh’s scenes again, showing his best side, both inside and out. And where would that leave me?

I pointed to our oldest friend. “He’s a cokehead, by the way,” I puffed, wiping my mouth and coming away with drool. A low blow, but all I had left. “Thought you might want to know.”

God, I felt ill. The heat, the row, the shock, the panic, Jonas placating, Leigh screaming. All merging into one, stabbing at my brain like an axe intent on splitting it into two hemispheres. I sucked in big gulping breaths, holding onto my head. A crushing pain thrummed in my chest, and I staggered, reaching out to the awning for support. My rational mind insisted I was too young for angina; the crazy one whispered I was dying.

Oblivious, Leigh laid into Jonas, and Jonas gave him a piece of his mind back. A crowd had gathered, people were murmuring, someone was laughing, a dog was barking. Emma was sobbing. All those things and people had crawled inside my head; everything was happening right inside my skull.

Self-preservation suddenly felt a lot like running away, if my wobbly legs would let me. Escaping to my home, slamming the door behind me, locking myself in and everyone else out. Ridding myself of the weight pressing down on my chest, the screams squeezing my head. But, try as I might, my brain refused to issue the instruction to my legs, leaving me spiralling, fracturing, cleaving into a thousand pieces, like shattered glass.

Flashes of a cheap razorblade, patiently waiting for me on the chilled white enamel of the bathroom sink, cut through every thought. If I shut my eyes, I could even feel it, like a bow across a violin string, the fucking glorious glide of cold metal against damp tender skin. Slicing it crisply. Cutting out places for the pain to bleed from, hurtful words streaming out, hot and angry and red against cool white flesh.

“Leigh, I…” I began. Someone needed to notice I was dying. Why had nobody noticed I was dying? But I never got any farther.

My legs, having held me up way longer than they or I ever anticipated they would, buckled underneath me. As part of me braced for the fall, another welcomed it with open arms.