Page 9 of Vine (Island Love #3)

CHAPTER 8

CASPIAN

A live TV studio moved fast. Budgets, props, lighting. Contract clauses, such as the one stating Leigh preferred his left side to camera, not his right. Mine stipulating long-sleeved shirts. Social dynamics were complex, fluid, and hierarchical because time cost money. No one had patience for you to forget your lines or need five takes to warm up.

Low-budget outside broadcasting such as ours, on the other hand, moved as languidly as the vines pushed out new growth. If you didn’t knock your performance out the park first time, there was always tomorrow. And the day after that. For nine solid months. Plenty of time for bickering, for discovering your companion’s worst habits as well as their finest, for plotting their grisly demise as they plotted yours, safe in the knowledge none of you would (probably) ever go through with it.

Most of my time, when I wasn’t doing manual labour, was spent avoiding Leigh and Jonas or watching the riggers bash cables into the ground, then stand around scratching their collective chins discussing electricity generators. Only when the lighting was just so, the rain a mere drizzle, and the wind a laughable force 7 did we finally film a few pieces to camera.

Leigh revelled in it, like always. The gossip, the theatrics, the bloody self-importance, as if we were filming from a bunker in the Great War, instead of a paddy field in southwestern France. His enthusiasm carried through off camera too, at least when other folk were around, moulding his personality into whatever an audience wanted it to be. He made self-aggrandization sound humble; he knew everyone in the industry by six degrees, yet was still a fanboy. Not above flattery to get a leg up, he made every interaction with every single person on set matter, on the off chance they’d mention him favourably on their next project. Each new outfit sported by the tech supervisor was the coolest he’d ever seen, even if it was basically an anorak. Each set-up the slickest, each makeup artist the finest he’d worked with, each runner the most efficient.

Or perhaps he was just good at his job. Our job. At being a social butterfly, not an antisocial caterpillar like me. Like a hand in a glove, how easily I’d slipped into that role, sheltering in my new (snake-free) hexagonal home between takes, or finding escape buried deep in a thicket of woven vines.

I hadn’t forgotten my saviour, Max, but what with starting filming proper, nursing my painful eye, my shitty cold, and a general feeling like I’d been flattened by a truck, time had run away with itself without space to visit. A couple of times, I’d caught sight of him from a distance and waved; Emma joked he lurked around every corner. We still had plenty of segments to fill about the island locals. Maybe I could get to know him and ask him for an interview. His oddness intrigued me.

The following Saturday, Emma and I had a free morning to indulge in some shopping. Given that most of the tourist boutiques were closed for winter, we found ourselves in the big Leclerc supermarket a few miles down the road, seeking gift inspiration along the uninspiring grocery aisles.

“Shaving foam? I think he ran out about six years ago.” Chuckling, Emma picked up an aerosol. I smiled too; my saviour did have something of the caveman about him. So what if he had a peculiar line in small talk? Those rugged shoulders more than made up for it. And he’d tucked me into a warm bed, watched over me, and fed me hot liquids and paracetamol. He was hot himself, in a primitive, I-spend-my-free-time-camping-in-a-hedge kind of way. Anyone who could pull off a beard as luxuriant as that should have no trouble pulling off other people’s underwear.

“No.” Firmly, I returned the shaving foam to the shelf. “The beard stays.”

Buying gifts for men was renowned for being hard, doubly so when limited to perusing the meagre pickings of an out-of-season supermarket. The first time I’d bought Leigh a present, I hadn’t a clue what he liked. Turned out to be other men. Ah, well.

“Beer?” Emma suggested. “We know he likes it; he was drinking a pint in the bar.”

“Nah.” I shook my head, recalling snippets of dull conversations with straight friends. “He might be one of those fussy real ale drinkers who only buys beers with stupid names, like Dirty Tackle or Piddle Slasher, or Hauling Oats. And, hard to believe, but none of those are made up.”

I scratched my head as we turned a corner and found ourselves in front of an endless shelf of condiments. More varieties of coffee than the Starbucks menu graced the row above. Was Max a coffee drinker? Fuck knows. What did you buy a man who had a fondness for blue rubber, cute dogs, and had already stripped you naked?

“How about replenishing his hot chocolate supplies?” Emma suggested. “With a big pot of something fancy? An organic brand, maybe? And a mug to go with it? We walked past a load of crockery on the way in.”

Not a bad shout. And a better suggestion than a bottle of cider vinegar, malt vinegar, rice vinegar, red rice vinegar, balsamic vinegar, sherry vinegar… what the hell did people do with it all?

In the end, I purchased a bumper pot of Twinings finest hot chocolate powder and two mugs, on the basis that turning up with one and then being offered a drink would feel awkward. As if the whole thing wasn’t awkward enough already. The mugs were the same bright shade of blue as Max’s rubber waders and his bedroom walls, which kept Emma amused until we were back in the car.

As we drew closer to our temporary home, past our neighbour’s perfect rows of knotted vines and our less-perfect ones, my temporary levity faded, replaced with a familiar deep gnawing. Naturally, I still had no fucking clue where I’d find myself eight months from now. The ghost of future Caspian had taken up residence on my shoulder, and he was a chatty bastard. Needling me with anxiety and with a direct line to Libby. The tentative job she had lined up for me and Leigh sounded promising—breakfast telly stand-ins for the main couple’s weekly day off and holidays. Waiting in the wings to take over when one of them fucked up. Rumour had it the news anchor washed down his early morning bacon roll with neat gin, so it was bound to happen sooner or later. She mentioned a producer I’d met and liked. No Jonas.

But would spending all my waking hours with Leigh stop me from moving on? It was working like a dream so far. Anxiety had become an ingrained habit. Cutting, a shameful reflex.

Moving to the gatehouse helped somewhat, as did being in the fresh air, even if it was a little too fresh most days. At least I didn’t have to hear Jonas shagging any more.

Emma had been unusually quiet too. “Have you heard from Sexy Stella?”

She glanced over. “Yeah.”

“And?”

With a drawn-out sigh, she drummed on the steering wheel. “She’s coming to Europe next month. To some sort of horticultural buyers’ convention in Amsterdam. It’s a whistle-stop tour, but she’s asked me if I’m free to meet up for a couple of nights.”

“Oh.” It hadn’t been the most enthusiastic of responses. “And are you?”

The riggers, techs and the rest of the production team dipped in and out, half of them juggling other outside broadcasts and home lives elsewhere. Only Jonas, Leigh, and I were chained to each other for the entire nine months—mostly because the budget was too small to pay for people to actually assist with the manual labour, and also because Jonas bizarrely insisted that we had to really immerse ourselves in an environment to produce authentic telly. Like we were befriending polar bears clinging to shrinking ice caps, not, you know, chatting up the barman down at the local pub and wheedling the residents' discount in the launderette. Understandable with the intensive training required for the Broadway show, coupled with America being the other side of the Atlantic, but this felt a tad excessive.

My point being that while I was stuck here with the nauseating lovers, Emma was perfectly entitled to a holiday break.

She frowned. “I think so. Amsterdam would be easy to get to for a weekend—there are two daily flights from Bordeaux.”

“Not that you’ve checked or anything. So why aren’t you already booking yourself in for a back, sack, and crack, or whatever lesbians do to maximise their chances of a quality shag?”

I made her laugh, at least. “I dunno. Maybe because I’m scared that she’s going to be as wonderful as I remembered. And then what?”

“Then you find a job in Australia and fuck off out of here! Simple!”

Another huge sigh. “That sounds like an awfully Big Gay Adventure, Casp. What if it goes wrong?”

“What if it doesn’t?” I put on a cheesy voice. “It’s not about the years in your life. It’s the life in your years.”

She huffed a laugh. “Jonas’s desk calendar?”

“I couldn’t possibly comment. But you should do it.” We turned through the big gates into the driveway. “What could possibly go wrong?” I added. “I followed my heart on My Big Gay Adventures , traipsing after Leigh into television, and look how well that turned out.”

“Caspian? I’m never going to fucking ask your advice ever again.”

“You won’t need to. You’ll be too busy scissoring your way across Australia. Go to bloody Amsterdam, woman.”

The last time I knocked on a man’s front door at seven-thirty in the evening clutching a gift, I earned a three-day sexual marathon followed by a marriage proposal. I’d be gobsmacked if this visit followed the same pattern, though, oddly, it still felt a little like a date. Perhaps because I’d already slept in the guy’s bed.

Max out of his waders made a pleasant change. Not that I had a problem with rubber, in the right setting, but faded jeans stretched around thighs as big as my chest topped with a navy knitted sweater lent him a much less threatening air. More like he was on day release from an open prison instead of having absconded from a high-security one. Almost cuddly if one ignored the intensity of his dark expression.

“Hi!”

I received a curt nod in lieu of hello, but I’d take it, seeing as the tool belt and its sharp implements were somewhere else. With my best smile, I held out a plastic bag containing my gift. “A little something for you. To say thank you. I hope you like this brand. I have it in England sometimes. It’s very good. Not full of palm oil, like some of them.”

Another nod. Taking the bag from me, he opened it and peered inside. Hesitating on the doorstep, seemingly forgotten, I unzipped my coat, dropping a not-so-subtle hint. For a brief second as he held out his giant hand for it, his soft, brown-eyed gaze latched onto mine. Yep, I could easily lose myself for a few hours in those beauties.

Wrestling myself out of my coat and scarf, which seemed to be tangled up in my sleeves, wasn’t awkward at all. I’d suddenly forgotten how undressing worked. He hung my old wax jacket on an empty coat peg like it was Versace couture.

“A drink,” he barked, after closing the door very deliberately behind me and shuffling off towards the kitchen area. I followed.

“So, Max,” I began brightly as he unwrapped the mugs. “Have you lived here long?”

“Three years, two months, and thirteen days.”

“Oh! That’s… Well, I like what you’ve done with the place.”

“Huh.”

With the precision of a Scandinavian architect, he made a place on the shelf for his new blue mugs while I hovered anxiously nearby, not sure what to do with myself. Then, taking down two different mugs, he spooned three precise heaps of his own chocolate powder into each. I could have done with a glass of something alcoholic, but apparently, I was getting my daily calorific requirements all in one handy sugary drink again.

Dogs were reliable ice breakers, but Max’s was frustratingly disinterested and asleep in his basket, so I studied my surroundings while we waited for the milk to boil. Still the same layout as my own temporary digs, but all similarities ended there. During my last visit, the blue walls had snagged my concussed attention; this time, my eye was caught by all the bits and bobs lying around. A row of miniature shell collages lined a shelf above the fridge; a herd of intricate seahorses framed a shark, its dorsal fin a purple fan of mussel shells. More creations hung from the walls: a mirror encircled in driftwood, a heart fashioned from frayed rope, more shell designs.

“Wow! Is this all your own work?”

“Yeah.” Max nodded without turning from the stove. An uncomfortable silence took over. Never had the phrase a watched kettle never boils felt so apt. Bone tired, I was still recovering from whatever viral load had assaulted me. Perhaps I should have stayed on the doorstep, handed him my gift, and said goodbye.

Max’s movements were careful and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. Maybe he did, or maybe I’d become so used to the pacy whirl of city life and my own inner perpetual overdrive that normal felt like a freeze frame.

After several centuries came and went, the chocolate was mixed to his satisfaction, and I traipsed after him again, this time to the lounge area. He pointed to a plump leather armchair.

Aligning both steaming mugs on the low table between us, he settled into the more worn seat opposite with his hands wedged under his thighs, as if to stop them escaping. The table itself was a work of art, the base a cluster of sculpted driftwood logs moulded into the shape of a tree stump, then topped with a circle of toughened glass. The kind of bespoke item folk paid a fortune for in Chelsea. I ran my hand around the bevelled edge. “This is amazing. Did you make this, too?”

“Yeah.”

With his dark eyes focused on the patterned rug separating us, he stayed perfectly still, unbothered by the lack of conversation. Floorboards fidgeted more than him. For a long minute, the only sound was his slow, easy breathing. Any quieter and I’d hear the vines growing. Was it something I said?

If I thought the silence was awkward, it had nothing on my attempts to fill it. Like an internet browser with eight tabs open and all of them frozen, I scratched around for something suitable. “Have you always lived on the island, Max?”

“Yeah.”

That deep booming voice again; there was no other sound like it. I could wrap myself up in its softened vowels and take a nap.

“That’s nice.”

His forearms were on point too. Sturdy, like they could move mountains. I imagined I’d feel quite at home in between those, too.

“Yeah. I’m lucky.”

Another drawn-out silence ensued, tension stringing the air like cheese wire. As potential television-show interview material, he was a hard pass. I’d give him another minute, gulp down my drink, then make my excuses. Lifting my mug to my mouth, I took a big sip, scalding my tongue but keen to get going.

“I’m m-m-making these today,” he said. And swallowed drily, like the words pained him.

These were several halved oyster shells laid out on a sheet of newspaper in differing stages of completion. The hollowed insides of some were painted white, either with a first or second coat, and drying. The remainder had intricate designs painted onto the white backgrounds—a blue lighthouse, the island outlined in green, a cheerful orange lobster, a delicate blush-pink seahorse.

“May I?”

He nodded again, and I picked one up, fully aware of his eyes on mine. “So beautiful. Do you sell them?”

“No.” Our fingers brushed as he took it from me, firmly placing it back with the others, as if I had designs on stealing it. “I… I d-do them for f-friends. These are for éti.”

“You’re amazingly talented.” Maybe éti was a girlfriend or a sister.

“Yeah. I am.”

I laughed. “Modest, too.”

Was he pleased at the compliment? It was hard to tell. Unperturbed by the fits and starts in conversation, he leaned back in the armchair, big thighs spread, sipping his chocolate. His half-lidded, contented expression reminded me of a monk I interviewed, years ago in Ireland, when Leigh and I did a shoestring travel programme. (It got axed after six episodes, as they aired it opposite a famous actor swanning around the stunning houses of his celebrity mates. We pulled in less than 400,000 viewers).

Anyhow, the monk had been ancient; he’d grabbed my hand in his gnarled wrinkly one and waffled on about bringing my energy level down to something softer, to lay down my panic and imagine I had no fingers, no toes, no tongue, or some such bullshit. And as he’d made a cross sign on my forehead with eyes full of pity, my irritation had flared. What did he know about negotiating love, a career, and modern life, having spent fifty years praying in a monastery more than thirty miles from the nearest Tesco?

Unlike the monk, no matter how odd Max's company, there was no denying its soothing qualities. Taking his cue, I drank deeply of my own chocolate, savouring the melting warmth while endeavouring to embrace the quiet. The more I sat, the more I realised I wasn’t expected to fill the gaps in conversation, so I stopped trying. Which meant I slightly lost track of time, but fifteen minutes or more passed by in utter silence.

Somewhere behind me, the dog sighed in its sleep, and the fridge whirred on and off. A trickle of water sounded overhead, running down the roof into a drainpipe. Restful, humdrum sounds, normally lost under a buzz of chatter, traffic, social media messages, a blaring radio.

A couple of times, my eyes drifted closed. The day had been a pressure cooker of bad tempers: my own, Leigh’s incessant whingeing about his bad back, and Jonas sniping about anything and everything but most of it directed at me. Between takes, I’d escaped into my gatehouse, only to tie myself in knots fretting about the future, about the breakfast telly thing. Even there and alone, I couldn’t find a minute’s peace. A rational part of my brain instructed me to write a list of all the pros and cons the new job offered, while another part insisted on doing battle, rushing all the negatives onto all the positives until the whole lot coalesced into a seething mass of panic and I had to reach into my dwindling stash of acute anxiety meds to calm down enough to venture back on set.

Yet, with a hot mug of Max’s sweet chocolate cradled between my palms, the softness of the cushion behind my back, and the even rise and fall of his chest opposite, it felt like someone else’s tedious, neurotic day. Or yesterday, and I’d slept twelve hours in between.

Putting down his own mug, Max picked up one of the bare shells and began sanding the edge, each rhythmic scritch of the abrasive paper efficient and effective. It was almost as if he’d forgotten I was there.

“I should probably go,” I managed.

Behind my hand, I stifled a yawn. Perhaps I should add drinks with Max to my nightly bedtime ritual, because something was certainly encouraging my usual pile of anxieties to fall away.

“You can stay a while longer,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “Nicer here than at yours.”

There was no arguing with that. Warmer too. And so very, very peaceful. Drowsily, I tipped my head back, deciding to wait until he’d finished the current shell he worked on, then make my excuses.

A boom of thunder woke me, dry mouthed and disoriented and with a crick in my neck. And the dawning sensation that, once again, I’d slept at Max’s house and with Max watching over me. A woollen blanket had been tucked around my knees.

At least I still had my clothes on, but for fuck's sake. I was an utter embarrassment. And a total fucking mess.

More thunder rolled, closer this time, the clap making me jump. Anxiety skittered through my belly, sharper and brighter than the bolt of lightning heralding it, which was impressive for someone a tiddly bit scared of thunderstorms.

“It’s fine,” rumbled Max, like he’d poured olive oil between his vowels. “A storm’s only hit the house once.”

That wasn’t terribly reassuring.

“Burned the old house down,” he added, like I’d wanted to know.

“Goodness, well, I’d… I’d better head off.” I rose to my feet. “Thanks for the chocolate. And for rescuing me, of course. And sorry for falling asleep on you. As a rule, I’m a much better house guest. I have been known to chat and wash up and everything.”

I stopped wittering as another crack jolted the foundations. Jerking my chin in the general direction of outside, I hurriedly zipped my jacket and turned up the collar. Without a hood, I’d be making a mad dash across the gravel. “I’ll be glad when winter’s over, eh? Won’t be freaked out in the middle of the night by storms like this, for a start.”

Max stood too, looming over me, and I followed him to the door. Instead of showing me out, he grabbed his own jacket, then delved into a narrow closet to retrieve a blue woollen hat.

“For you.”

“Honestly, there’s no need,” I protested when he stepped into his boots. “It’s only twenty metres. And the storm isn’t quite overhead yet. I’ll run.”

“No.” He shook his head stubbornly. “You’ll slip.”

Oh God, this again. “I’m actually fairly agile. It was the snake, you see. I panicked. And I was tired. I couldn’t sleep. Unlike here tonight, when clearly, I slept remarkably easily. I’ve got a lot on my mind, and it whirls around my head at night. Do you ever feel that, Max? Like you can’t move on until a job is ticked off or a thought or an idea has a solution? I once phoned the dentist to change an appointment, but the number was engaged, and so I phoned every two minutes, for an hour and a half until I got through because I couldn’t move on until I had, which is a very strange way to behave and makes me sound mentally ill, which I’m not. Well, I am, but not overtly, I manage to hide it from most people, and so…”

“Shh. Wear the hat.”

He placed the beanie on my head as gently as if laying down a new-born baby, cutting off my inappropriate and random verbal deluge as swiftly as it had started. As he tucked a few strands of my hair under the brim, his undeniably gorgeous brown eyes bore into mine with the intensity of a serial killer. Except everything he did told me he was as far from that as a man could be.

“Shh,” he repeated, so softly and so tenderly I nearly burst into tears. “I’m going to make sure you’re safe.”

Can’t lie, it felt totally weird. I felt totally weird, like the presence of this odd stranger and his odd silences gave me space to breathe, and with it an unstoppable urge to vomit my frustrations. If Leigh knew, he’d tell me to run a mile. Maybe I should, but not only was the guy carefully wrapping my scarf around my neck massive, a table covered in sharp implements was within reach of his long brawny arms, and no one knew where I was. So I rolled with it.

“Um… thank you.” Maybe he wouldn’t kill me if I was polite. “And sorry for talking so much rubbish. And for sleeping. Again. I’m… I’m on a tablet that, well, I don’t sleep properly at night. My mind races. And… and I’m talking rubbish again.”

Stepping back, he gave me a satisfied nod, patted my head like I was a well-behaved dog, and then made a sound that might have been a laugh. “It’s not rubbish. And la mer Caspienne will stay dry now. And he won’t hurt himself.”

Weird as fuck.But not as weird as him taking hold of my hand as we crunched over the gravel. I felt like a child being led across a busy street. The wind whipping around us had a crackly, static quality, like the storm would break through any second now. “I’m not going to fall over, you know,” I babbled, trying not to think about lightning and storms and houses bursting into flames. “I generally don’t. It was a one-off, honestly. I have excellent balance most of the time, even in the dark and wet. And the other injuries, well… can we not talk about those for the moment? And don’t feel obliged to hold my hand. You know, I usually navigate gravel perfectly…”

He squeezed a bit tighter. “Being careful.”

“Oh, okay. Well… thank you.”

As we reached the end of the longest twenty-metre stretch of driveway ever, the sensor above the little porch of my gatehouse swung into action, bathing it in a welcome light.

“Oh look, the bulb’s working! There must be a faulty connection. I couldn’t get it to turn on earlier.”

“Fixed it for you,” mumbled Max.

“Oh. Oh, well, thank you, that’s very thoughtful.”

“Moved Kaa, too.”

Car? Kaa? He’d said that word before. I’d have to look it up.

“She’s under my sink now. In a box.”

Fuck me. That… that snake was his? A pet? Yep. The guy was a psychopath. Forget hot chocolates and woolly hats and new lightbulbs. I was making doe eyes with the child catcher disguised as a kindly fisherman. Any second now, I’d be a goner.

Except his big hand still gripped mine comfortingly, and, however strange his conversation and choice of non-human companions, those eyes really were awfully kind. And kindness and care had been in very short supply recently.

“Well, um… thank you again.”

Seemingly reluctantly, his hand left mine, taking its warmth. I dropped mine to my side and then, like an idiot, automatically held it out again for a shake. He didn’t take it, although his fingers twitched as if gearing up.

“Bye, Caspian.” His gaze fixed just above my left ear. This close, his eyes weren’t intense or threatening at all, merely two warm pools of deep brown. So taken by their extraordinary richness, and busy pondering why he didn’t look at me full on, I didn’t immediately notice the soft tickle of his beard as it brushed against my cheek. Nor the hardly there press of cool lips hidden within. At least not until he pulled away.

“Oh!” My astonished exhale puffed between us. The tip of Max’s tongue licked along his lips, lips that had seconds ago touched my skin.

“I like your cheeks,” he muttered, as if that explained everything. And then with a nod of his big shaggy head, he marched off.

“Honestly, Em. I must have the fastest case of Stockholm Syndrome ever. I’m going to google it and see.”

“Mmm?”

The weather had finally turned over a page. While summer was still light years away, the wind and rain were interspersed with patches of weak afternoon sunshine, occasionally warranting a removal of coats. For the first morning in a long time, I woke with two patent nostrils. Even more excitingly for everyone else (although an end to the daily updates on the state of my sinuses probably thrilled Emma more than I’d ever know), shiny green stuff sprouted from the vines. Leaf buds!

“Hear me out. I spend one night with the guy, 99 percent of it unconscious. Then, every time I catch sight of him, I can’t work out if he’s a) stalking me, b) plotting my untimely death either by snake-assisted asphyxiation or a gutting with a sharp chisel, or c) that hunky Max is a figment of my overactive, overcaffeinated imagination, and everyone is playing along because you all feel sorry for me. And, as if that wasn’t enough, he looks like he’s just emerged from the Australian outback after going walkabout for six months. And yet… I kind of fancy him? Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

“Um… perhaps that you’ve not had any for over a year?”

During the long winter evenings, as predicted, Emma and I had ticked off a few intimate secrets. My sexual drought was no longer one of them.

“Oh, and he’s drugging me with organic hot chocolate. Did I tell you that? His conversation, or lack thereof, literally sends me to sleep.”

The late-night hot chocolate and snooze-fest had happened three times now. As had the blanket, the walk home afterward and the cheek kiss. This morning, I examined my stubbled, ordinary cheeks long and hard in the bathroom mirror, trying to ascertain their attraction, whether they held any special attributes. Nothing sprung out.

“Is he into you? Or even gay?”

“Maybe.” I shrugged. “It’s hard to tell what he is, to be honest.”

“He’s had several opportunities to kill you, though, and not followed through.” Emma sounded both surprised and impressed. “So I think we can scribble serial killer off the list.”

“Super, now I shall sleep much easier tonight. Especially as he has a key to my gatehouse. He changed the bulb in the porch so I wouldn’t trip in the dark. And he holds my hand and walks me back across the yard.”

She smiled. “That’s very cute. Love is in the little things , according to Jonas’s desktop calendar.”

“Hah! He’d know. I’ve seen his dick.”

“Why don’t you have a holiday fling with him, if he’s game?”

“Who, Jonas?” I shuddered. “No thank you. Been there, done that. Or, rather, was done by that.”

“No, Max, you idiot. It might take your mind off everything.”

“What, like I should hire a gondola for the afternoon and invite him to come under my blanket?”

I waggled my eyebrows at her, and she chuckled. “Maybe he has one waiting and ready. Maybe he’s whittled it out of a log he found lying around on the beach. Like Robinson Crusoe.”

Having seen Max’s other creations, I wouldn’t put it past him. “Hi, Max. Is that a gondola in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?”

“I think you should consider it, though,” she said. “You like him, and he’s very different to Leigh. What have you got to lose?”

Over the last couple of days, a combination of green leaves on the vines and Max’s weird brand of voodoo had me feeling almost normal. And now Leigh was spoiling it, wandering into my hexagonal refuge uninvited and making himself comfortable on the tatty sofa. Making me uncomfortable. “Jonas has suggested we leak to the press that we’re not together. In the run-up to the show. You know, drop the odd rumour here and there hinting we’ve been battling relationship problems. You might have been ‘overheard’ saying how heavy a toll some of our more stressful projects have been on you.”

My stomach shrank in on itself. “Jonas can get to fuck.”

Before, Leigh had agreed we’d wait until our media careers were over, or at least going through a lull so we could separate without fanfare. He hadn’t foreseen a problem; Jonas wasn’t loudly out anyhow, so they weren't desperate to parade their new relationship in front of the cameras.

So what was the deal? If it was purely to improve the show ratings, then they could take a hike. My mental health was way more important. To me, at any rate.

“I knew you’d formulate a measured, mature response.”

“Sorry, Leigh, but what did you expect? What an excellent idea! Let’s splash my mental health crisis all over social media!”

“Jeez, Casp. That’s not what I’m saying. You don’t fucking listen. All I’m saying is…” He dropped his voice, as if Jonas was crouched outside under the window with a mic and a zoom lens. I wouldn’t have put it past him. I caught him snapping me again yesterday as I snuck in my lunchtime dose of venlafaxine. And not for the first time. “If, after this project, you and I are going into another venture together, then it makes sense, doesn’t it? What if we suddenly hit the big time? With this breakfast show, for instance? At some point people are going to find out.”

“Yes, I agree. But when they do, I want it to be on my terms, not Jonas’s.”

Even I thought I sounded whiny.

“This will be! We can use some of the early footage of you with your face mashed up and hint that you’re struggling with the toll of back-to-back filming, the intensity of it and all that crap and?—”

“What about you? How about you struggling? Why do I have to be the only one battling health and relationship problems?”

Leigh shrugged one shoulder. “Well, to be honest, you are. You’re the space cadet slicing up your arms, not me. I’m fine. It would be less believable, and I don’t want people whispering behind my back that I’m cracking up.”

“There’s nothing shameful about having mental health issues, you know!”

Leigh sneered; I’d walked right into it. “If that’s the case, why do you want to hide them? You’re happy enough for the world to hear you bleating about your sore throat. Why can’t you admit your brain’s fried too?”

“Because…” I trailed off as my guts twisted like a snake and my heart rate ratcheted. How the fuck did he do it? Always, he managed to make himself out as the reasonable one, the rational one. The sane one. The victim. The one who had tried so hard to make our marriage work, but being married to me was impossible. That I’d forced him to look elsewhere.

A wave of skittish exhaustion rolled through me as Leigh’s features settled into smugness. Of course having mental health issues were nothing to be ashamed of; to hell with the stigma. But the fucking stupid thing about mental health stigma was that the people needing to fight it were the ones least capable. After fighting their own internal struggles, they had no fight left.

And I was seriously contemplating carrying on working with this man?

“You know why,” I said tiredly. “And my answer is still no. I don’t trust Jonas, and I don’t trust you. It sounds like you’re throwing me to the dogs.”

Leigh stood. “Whatever. But I’ll just remind you that Jonas has total creative control over this project.”

I frowned, with a fresh spasm of disquiet. “No, he doesn’t. We share that with him. The contract was the same as all the others.”

Wasn’t it? I cast my mind back to the meeting in his office. Our argument, Emma coming in late, my itchy scab, my desperation to get the hell out. The first page shoved under my nose had been a replica of all the previous ones. I hadn’t bothered with the subsequent pages. “He wouldn’t dare.”

“No, probably not.” Leigh smoothed down his shirt, preening. Admiring himself. He was good at that. “Let me give you some life advice, Caspy. Though a little too late. Read the small print.”

I cut my thigh after he’d gone. Slumped on the closed toilet lid with my trousers around my ankles. I only gave myself a little nick. Quite superficial, really. Just enough to release the evil humours and steady my hand sufficiently to gulp down an extra venlafaxine. The meds didn’t work like that, but sometimes, combined with the cutting, I could con my brain. And then, while I waited for the bleeding to stop, I hugged myself and wished I wasn’t quite so alone.