Page 23 of Vine (Island Love #3)

CHAPTER 22

CASPIAN

In the dark aftermath of his mother’s death, it was easy to see how Colette had won Max around. Her easy manner reminded me of my first primary school teacher. Nurturing and unflappable; if I confessed to stealing the pink crayon or a pen pal relationship with a serial killer, I doubted she’d bat an eyelid. Nor was she surrounded by the usual professional trappings beloved of private psychologists. We were seated in her kitchen for a start, not an office. And instead of framed qualifications on the walls, there were smiley photos of friends and family. A stern-faced Max peered out of one of them. Next to me, a pile of clean laundry waited to be ironed.

“What does a contented life look like to you, Caspian?”

My mind jumped to Max and his shell creations, his simple routines, and his dog. I’d been here before with questions like this. I’d hoped this Colette woman might be different.

“Not other people’s lives,” she added. “Or an idealised version. But yours. A pragmatic one. An achievable one, where you live with your anxieties, but are no longer controlled by them. Take your time, I’ll make us both a drink while you think about it.”

“Not working in television,” I began. “But I don’t have any other trade.”

“If you did,” she persisted.

“Perhaps outdoors.” Outdoors? A Londoner like me? Wow, that idea had totally bypassed my conscious mind.

“Could you expand on that?”

“Um… not really?” I searched my brain for something to grasp on to. “I… I suppose I enjoyed the Formula 3 training. Being out on the track. And I enjoy pruning the vines, I think, if I separate it from everything else going on here. The fresh air and monotony of it soothes my mind. I’ve appreciated the changing seasons.”

“Good.” She poured milk for us both. “Let’s park that for a moment. Where do you see yourself living when filming finishes?”

“Not in London,” I added promptly. “Being here has shown me that. The daily fight on the Tube, the social stuff, the endless competing, it stresses me out. I can’t do it anymore. Maybe not even England.” I considered Emma, boldly planning a move to the other side of the world. “Which is a problem because, as I said, television work is all I know.”

“But you said you don’t want to pursue it any longer,” she pointed out.

“No. I don’t.”

A pause followed, during which she made a few notes on a pad. Or annotated her shopping list. It was difficult to say. The supposedly cosy chat had very quickly drilled down to the nitty gritty. We were facing forwards, talking about the future, not analysing what went wrong in the past.

Was I really going to abandon television altogether?

The pen stopped, and she addressed me once more. “What about family?”

“I only have my mother. We… we’re not close. After my father died, she moved on quite quickly. She met someone else and remarried. I have a half-brother and sister. They’re much younger; I was at boarding school, then off at university while they were kids. I rarely see them.”

“Would you like to have a family of your own some day?”

It took me a while to answer that one, even though I’d pondered the question many times, both internally and aloud, during my happier years with Leigh. “No, I don’t think so. Although I’d like a committed, long-term partner. But I’m too self-absorbed for children. Too selfish, too inward-looking. Which are character flaws people don’t often admit to, aren’t they?” I gave a little laugh. “I do have some insight.”

“But you think a life partner might cope with that.”

“The right one, yes.” An image of Max massaging my feet, as if they were precious, flitted through my mind. “I’m… I’m very fond of Max. I’d like to grow fonder of him, given the space. He’d like me to stay here on the island. To give us a chance to see if it could grow into something special, and I think I’d like that too. But I think, at the moment, there are too many competing voices in my head to explore those feelings properly.”

“What’s the loudest voice right now, Caspian?”

That was easy. “My anxiety. Combined with the embarrassment of a bunch of colleagues and strangers seeing me so… so hopeless. And pathetic. Which makes me even more anxious.”

A lump welled in my throat, and I swallowed a gulp of too-hot coffee, determined not to cry. Even self-pity exhausted me.

“Do you consider Max a stranger?” She gave a little laugh. “I had the impression you were more than that to each other.”

“No, not Max. We are more. As I said, if my health improved, then I’d like to see if we can work something out. He’s… he’s wonderful. No, I meant his brother and sister-in-law. And people on set who are temporary friends, but not really.” And you.

“Yes, I can see that’s embarrassing.”

I cringed at the hazy memory of yelling at Leigh and Jonas, under the curious stares of the camera crew, all wondering if, this time, I’d really lost it. My shameful retching and collapse. Needing Max to rescue me. I felt splayed open.

“Does Max know how you feel about him?”

I dragged my mind back to the present, to Colette’s warm kitchen and her placid tones. “Probably not. He likes me, but he’s not very experienced with relationships. I’m concerned he’s diving too quickly into this one. He wants it to be special, but I’m scared to give him false hope. To throw myself into it and then not be all he thinks I can be. Because I might not improve, you see. I might always be this way. And it wouldn’t be fair to saddle him with someone like me.”

She frowned at me, tapping her pen. “Is that your opinion or Max’s?”

“Mine.”

“Were you in a better place when you first met him?”

I was lying semi-conscious on sharp wet gravel . “Not exactly.”

“Can I suggest, therefore, that he might like you as you are?”

I barked a laugh. “You can suggest all you like, but I have a hard time accepting it.”

“Perhaps that is also something you could go away and think about.”

Maybe doing this in a foreign language helped, or maybe the French did therapy differently. I’d anticipated rehashing my father’s death and the failure of my marriage, but we’d dived straight into the here and now, and touched on the future, too. More pragmatic life-coaching than therapy, like an older, wiser friend pointing out what was bleeding obvious to everyone except me.

“I asked what the loudest voice right now was, and you said your anxiety. What’s the loudest voice when you are on set?”

I chuffed. “100 percent my anxiety. It screams. It… it makes me want to vomit.” It knew all my insecurities and used them against me. It told me to cut myself.

“Is that due to the people you surround yourself with, or the job itself?”

“Both. There’s nowhere to hide on television. It’s… intense, and close up. You have to be on your game when you’re filming. And that’s hard for me, especially working with my ex and his partner.”

“And the medicine you take—I’ve gone over the list—do they help at all?”

I considered for a moment. “Yes, they stop me having regular panic attacks. They keep everything more on… a low simmer. Like, it’s always there, but more predictable. More of a constant grinding nausea rather than outright retching.”

“And the side effects? Constipation? Dry mouth? Ejaculatory?”

“Um… tolerable.” I preferred to avoid discussing my sex life with strangers. And the state of my bowels, to be fair.

“So your libido is okay.”

“Yes.” Clearly, she’d missed the part about embarrassment.

“Is there anything else you feel I should know about you today, Caspian?”

“Yes. I cut myself. A lot. I’m very ashamed of it, but I can’t stop.”

“There’s nothing shameful about mental health problems, Caspian.”

That old chestnut. Maybe she wasn’t so different. “Easy to say if you don’t have any. Or arms covered in scars. I’ve cut for nearly twenty years, on and off. It brings me temporary relief.”

“Do you feel like cutting yourself now?”

“Yes.”

She changed tack. “Let’s go back to that sickness you mentioned, that uncomfortable sensation in the pit of your stomach. Do you have that now, too?”

“Yes.” I turned my face to the window, closing my eyes.

“Can I suggest that it’s a mix of shame as well as anxiety? And that your meds probably help somewhat with the anxiety, so what we need to focus on is the shame?”

The fucking woman was right, of course. Tears began trickling down my face. Inevitable self-pity settled around me, snug as a woollen blanket. Wallowing in that was pretty addictive, too. I’d wasted day after day thinking about solutions for getting over my shame. And I was pretty sure it wasn’t one of them.

I’m not sure how long I sat in that kitchen with a box of tissues. Colette didn’t ask me anything else. In fact, she made inroads into the basket of ironing. And when I gathered myself to leave, she gave me a hug, which wasn’t in any therapy manual I’d ever come across.

As I trudged back to the vineyard, I mulled over Colette’s words, recalling all the times I’d accidentally exposed my arms and how negatively it made me feel. éti wasn’t the first, but for every compassionate woman like her, a nastier one was never far away, ready to take her place. With a judging gaze, making me feel humiliated, exposed, and small, wanting to vanish. Wanting to cut again, for temporary relief, even though it violated the social norms we all believed in. That I believed in. And so the cycle continued, shame preventing me from looking another person straight in the eye. Wanting to sink into the ground and disappear. Directing my focus inward, viewing myself in a negative light. And cutting again for more temporary relief.

Maybe a cocaine addiction or alcohol would have been simpler.

I fell into Max’s arms, overcome with the familiar deep fatigue a session of raking up all my emotional shit brought with it. Muscle aches would start later, like I’d been run over by a bus. I wasn’t ready to handle his anxious questions. Fortunately, none were forthcoming. Perhaps Colette had forewarned him, or perhaps he remembered how he’d felt himself.

Apparently, hot chocolate, a fuzzy blanket, and a snuggly dog were the cure.

“There’s this amazing podcast we could listen to, about whether spiders dream,” he suggested when I was draped across his lap to his exacting standards.

“Yeah?” I said sleepily. “Well, I have nightmares about spiders, so maybe they could do one on me for spiders to listen to.”

“That would be boring,” answered Max cheerfully. “Lots of people hate spiders. And then they talk about these ant super-colonies that span entire countries. Which sounds very cool.”

Already, my walking, talking, brawny, antianxiety medicine was kicking in. I snuggled deeper into the blanket and yawned. “Stick it on, big man. Hit me with it.”

I woke hours later, in bed, with Max curved around me like a shield. “Are you okay, Caspian?”

“Yeah.”

“Your appointment with Colette. Did it help?”

I thought about it before answering. While sipping coffee in her little kitchen, I’d formulated some massive decisions. Perhaps down to a mixture of Colette and Max combined, her kitchen providing the space to put them into coherent words. “Some."

“That’s good.” He gave me a tight squeeze. “And the cutting. Did she help with that.”

“No, not really.” If only it were that simple. “It’s an addiction, Max. Like smoking or cocaine. I think I’ll be tempted to cut forever, on and off. Who knows? But we talked about the shame. How it makes me feel. And how the TV work and the toxic people surrounding me don’t help. If I get rid of those, then my need to cut will diminish. She says they slash at my self-esteem. They chop down my self-worth, giving me such a negative view of myself."

Only his breathing, warm against my neck, filled the silence. And then, “I think those cuts to your self-worth go deeper than the ones on your arms.”

The best adventure stories often began with all of a sudden . Just as the most important turning points often come at the most unexpected times and in the most unexpected of ways. The most astonishing people are the ones you never anticipated could astonish you.

I twisted in Max’s firm hold to stare at him. At a kind, simple man and my strongest weapon. Murmuring his simple, clean truth, like it had been so obvious but took someone with his own life pared down to only the very best parts to see it.

His open smile back at me was filled with so much fucking honesty I wanted to crawl inside it. I did the next best thing; our mouths met, and he pushed me onto my back, so I was beneath his hands. And then he made love to me as if I was rare and precious, stroking me and petting me and whispering sweet nothings like I might fall apart if he didn’t.

And, as I made my own love in return, I decided taking a chance on loving him might turn out to be the best thing I never planned.

The show must go on. A mantra Jonas lived by, even when my life was shooting up in flames. When carrying on felt like a superhuman achievement. Thus, when I stepped out of Max’s warm embrace into the cool chill of my faltering career, it came as no surprise that nothing had changed during my two-day absence. Though the vines had grown. The grapes were plumper and softer, hard green clusters softening to fleshy, juicy, tempting bites of summer sweetness. I didn’t recommend tasting them—wine grapes were table grapes embittered, sour second cousins.

I caught up with Emma, hidden in the depths of one of the middle rows, defoliating clusters and topping shoots. Saddled with the hot, arduous labour of two, thanks to me.

“Hey,” I said in a hushed voice so as not to frighten her. “I’m back.”

Her eyes narrowed, she nodded a cautious welcome. Her face was drawn. “Hi.”

I stepped closer. “Sorry I didn’t come and find you sooner. I’ve… um… had a rough couple of days.”

“Are you well enough to be here?”

“Yes.” I blew out a breath. “I think so. Though I don’t have a lot of choice, really, do I? I’m camping out at Max’s. He’s been great. Really great. I don’t know what I’d have done without him, to be honest.” Her tool bag lay open on the ground at her feet, and I bent to select a pair of secateurs. “May I?”

She nodded. “Yes, please. Do the alternates to me along this row. Look, Caspian. What happened. I’m sorry. So sorry. Like you wouldn’t believe. I had no idea he’d do that; I was such a bloody idiot to let…”

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault, and I’m not cross with you. I had no idea either.”

“You’re probably aware he’s been at it again.”

Of course he fucking had. Strangely, I didn’t care as much as I imagined. “No. I’ve deleted all my social media.” I huffed a laugh. “Best thing I ever did. Do I want to know what he’s been saying about me?”

She sighed. “Probably not. More pictures. A closeup of you with the bruises suggesting you’re an erratic nighttime wanderer. A drinker. A hint you’re unreliable because you’ve disappeared for a couple of days. It’s crude, but he’s gathering followers and some press attention. This series might end up being the most popular of the lot.”

“Yippee.” I snipped around a cluster of grapes, exposing them to the sunshine. The excess foliage dropped into a bag at my feet.

“You don’t seem too bothered.”

I shrugged. “Trust me, inside, I’m dying. But in three weeks from now, I’ll be done with it, have my paycheck, and be a free agent. And I’m not going back. I’m finished with telly. Fuck knows what I’ll do for cash. I need to rent out my flat pronto. Or sell it. But I’m informing my agent this afternoon.”

Saying all that out loud in English for the first time felt like a burden lifted.

“Wow.”

“Yes. But I’d rather you didn’t share that with Leigh and Jonas. Not yet. I’d like to do it myself.”

“You don’t need to worry about that. Jonas and I aren’t on speaking terms. And I’m leaving too. On Friday.”

Oh God, that sounded awfully soon. Did it leave me enough time to win my friend back? “I hope it’s because you’re going to Australia.”

“I am.” For the first time, a small smile crept around the corners of her mouth. “I have a six-month marketing job at a winery twenty minutes outside of Sydney. Covering maternity leave. I had negotiated a start for mid-September, after we’d finished filming here. But funnily enough, I can’t wait to get away, so I handed in my notice. You’ll manage the last part without me. You’re great at it; you’ve learned so much already.”

I rolled my eyes. “Trimming stalks isn’t exactly memorising the choreography for a Broadway show, is it?”

“No,” she agreed. “But you’ve learned tons more than that. There are some short courses organised by L’école du Vin in Bordeaux. If you signed up for one of those, I reckon you could run a small vineyard like this. Especially if you get involved in the vendage. The island cooperative always needs extra pairs of hands.”

For a few minutes, I let that little fantasy play out in my head. Hot summer days spooling out into the future. Me, buried deep amongst the lush green plants, snipping and pruning to my heart’s content, my inner demons calmed. Then strolling twenty-two metres back home to Max, to blue walls, blue waders, and sweet hot chocolate served in bright blue mugs.

Yeah, right. Now Max had a sexual conquest under his belt, the world was his oyster (so to speak). He’d soon tire of me when he spotted that queue of fun, cute French twinks.

“I’m so pleased for you,” I answered, meaning it. “Our loss is Sexy Stella’s gain. Now who am I going to drown my sorrows with in L’Escale?”

“Er… you could always get Rubber Legs to take you there? In his waders?” She chuckled. “God, you must have found out by now—does he have any other clothes?”

“Not many. Just a couple of blue sweaters, blue jeans, blue boxers… He’s, well, he’s set in his ways. Oh, and a set of red sequinned waders he brings out for special occasions.”

Emma’s jaw dropped. “No way.”

“Yep. Way. With sexy little gold tassels hanging from his nipples.”

“You fucker. You had me for a second.”

My morning back at work had been too good to last. Sure enough, after lunch, Jonas arrived, prowling the perimeter of the set like scum circling a drain. My stomach cramped. “Ah, the wanderer returns,” he exclaimed. A smirk played around the edges of his mouth.

Fuck off was on the tip of my tongue; I swallowed it down. “Tell me the plan for the afternoon.”

“Decided to grace us with your presence, have you?”

“We’re all entitled to a couple of sick days,” I pointed out primly. My heart set up a fast rhythm against my rib cage. “Unless you also removed that from the contract.”

He ignored my jibe. “Is that what we’re calling it these days. Sick ?”

“As I said,” I persisted, determined to hold my ground, though I was quaking inside, “tell me the plan. For instance, are we filming the vines or the next stage of my mental breakdown?” I made myself meet his eye. “You know, so I can prepare accordingly.”

He gave a mocking laugh. “We’ve been doing both alongside each other very well until now. I don’t see why we can’t continue.” Checking his phone, he added, “I want a bunch of ripe grapes and you and Leigh side by side in thirty. He’s going to knowledgeably discuss them and convey his pant-wetting excitement for the upcoming vendage, while you are going to stand next to him, attempting a facial expression which isn’t going to scare the younger viewers but trying not to look so spaced out on whatever meds you’re guzzling it turns the older viewers off. Pretty much what you’ve been doing since we arrived, to be fair.”

He stalked off. A good thing, seeing as my legs were visibly trembling. If he turned around, he’d see me hyperventilating; I prayed he wouldn’t get the satisfaction. I felt sick to my stomach —I might be sick. Each quick shallow breath made my fingers tingle and my head spin.

Not to be outdone, my arms started to itch, reminding me as usual of the quickest way to take the edge off. The work of minutes. I’d be back long before someone hunted me down. I could slip away now. My belongings were at Max’s, but with Leigh and Jonas out here, I’d be sure to find a razor lying around in the bathroom of the big house. Leigh had a meticulous shaving routine, and one of those fancy straight-edged blades without a safety guard. I’d only make a little nick, perhaps one I could even hide from Max, up high near my armpit. I could wear a T-shirt to bed, say I was cold, even though lying next to him was like stepping inside a sauna.

But I’d earned it, hadn’t I?

The ping of Max’s text was timed to perfection. I could ignore it, of course, pretend I hadn’t seen it. But Max was persistent. Knowing him, if I didn’t reply, he’d be round here hollering for me. With a shaky finger, I tapped it.

I’m worried about you, la mer Caspienne. :)

I was worried about me too. With a sigh, I wandered shakily back into the vines and settled on a patch of grass. Shouts and laughter from the crew drifted across as the humdrum of checking the sound and lighting began. I had a few minutes before anyone noticed I was missing. Enough of a time window to text Max, or to cut myself, but not both.

Screwing my eyes shut, I pictured him out on the oyster boat, hard at work, his straggly hair flapping around his face in the stiff breeze. Those big powerful arms, like fallen logs, hauling sacks of oysters around as if they were two-pound bags of sugar. And worrying about me.

Mustering every ounce of willpower I had, I thumbed a reply.

I’m surviving, I wrote. I’ve survived my first skirmish with Jonas. Just. :)

Three dots appeared and vanished as he typed, then, Some people have to hurt other people to feel powerful. Remember that. :)

My breathing evened out. As my urgent need for a razor faded, so did my panicky nausea. Some people were powerful without ever realising, I nearly answered. Yet wouldn’t harm a fly.

We saw some dolphins this morning , he added. Off to the east side of the bay. Bottlenose. Seven or eight of them. I’ve been reading about dolphin reproduction recently. The males have penile slits so they can retract their penises. It improves hydrodynamics. :)

I shook my head, smiling despite myself. How did he do it? How did this man centre me so effortlessly?

Nice sexting, Max! Are you attempting to seduce me with this dirty talk? Because it’s working. We’ll be trading nudes next. ;)

I deliberated over the last emoticon, not sure if Max’s lexicon extended to winky faces. Playing safe, I deleted it. The three dots appeared again.

Yes. We could do that. I have a good one of a hot US football star wearing just his jock strap I can send you. :)

I burst out laughing, so much I struggled to type. I was thinking more along the lines of a picture of you? :)

A longer pause before he answered. Oh my god, was he actually contemplating it? I’m on the boat with Nico and one of the farmhands right now. Exposing my penis to them would be a violation of social norms. Sorry. But I can be nude for you later. :) :)

I’ll look forward to it. X

Three dots and then, XXX.

Picking a leaf from the nearest vine, I rubbed it between my fingers, bringing it to my nose. Sharp and tangy, an almost herbal scent. In a cloudless sky, the sun beat down on my back. The air held a fresh honey warmth and patches of blue sea poked through the rows of vines. Somewhere on it, Max was dipping his nets, or whatever oyster fishermen did, and thinking of me.

And, knowing that, the afternoon of filming, of having to confront Leigh and Jonas, suddenly felt a little more bearable.