Chapter Twenty-Five
The next day is filled with wine and bread and olives and anchovies and so much delicious food they have to practically roll me back onto the boat.
And although I dress up again for dinner, Gus is nowhere to be seen. For a moment, I wonder if he’s left the cruise all together, and it suddenly occurs to me that I don’t even know what room he is in, or how I’d contact him. It’s not like we exchanged numbers.
After a lonely dinner, I head back to my cabin for a moment and send Dad a message to see if he’s free. I like to check in on him at least once a week and I’m conscious it’s been slightly more than that.
“Why if it isn’t my jet-setting daughter!” he says once he answers.
“How you doing Dad?”
“I’m grand,” he says. “Making some beans on toast for dinner.”
“Not again.”
“What do you mean ‘not again’? I haven’t had this in four days. Last night was a jacket potato.”
“And what topping?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Mind your business,” he huffs.
“It was beans, wasn’t it?”
“So what if it was? Arrest me.”
“You need vegetables, Dad,” I scold.
I hear him pick the can off the side and slide his reading glasses on. “It says here that a tin of baked beans contains one of your five a day.”
“Ok, good,” I say. “What are your other four?”
“I had potatoes at lunch.”
“Do you mean crisps?”
He grumbles something unintelligible.
“What was that?” I nudge.
“Are you really calling me on holiday to harass me about my dinner?”
I laugh. “No, not necessarily. I was calling to see how you were.”
“Ah, a welfare check?”
“Have your other daughters been kind to you since I left?”
He makes a dismissive tsking sound. “They’re too busy for their poor old father. Abby popped in but only because she left her clarinet here.”
I press my lips together, mildly frustrated with my sisters. Even Abby. They have a tendency to assume I’ll pick up the slack with Dad. Not that he’s a burden so much but he is lonely and sometimes I wish he could find himself someone to love again.
I catch up with him about what he’s been watching on TV and how the new recruits are getting on at work. He tells me about the roses in the back garden which are in full bloom. I tell him all about Dubrovnik. Well, not all about it. I miss out some key elements.
And when I hang up, with him insisting he’s keeping me from things. I decide I can’t stay in the room all night.
I spend the evening alone, strolling along the decks, staring at the incredible views as we head towards Monaco, the rocky, greenery of Cape Martin in the distance as the sun drops behind me.
The truth is, there’s an ounce of relief in me that he’s not shown today.
Maybe he’s realised I was right and that nothing good could come of us flirting.
All that lays ahead of us is a trail of broken promises and shattered hearts.
I’m too sensible to get involved with a popstar. I’ve made a stable, safe life for myself. So much so, that I was able to leave Mike just like that and stay on my own two feet. I had a house, a decent salary and a bunch of friends who were mine and not his.
Then again, I wonder, as I listen to the yacht coasting over the waves below, if that was the problem.
What if I was so focused on myself, on my career and my family, that I pushed Mike away?
What if I was the reason he cheated? What if all the cruel things he complained to her about me were true? I was hard to be around. I was uptight.
But even thinking it, it doesn’t sound right.
Someone who truly loved me, would love all of me, surely?
I think about the heated kiss back in Rome. The way I haven’t laughed and flirted with someone as much as I have with Gus this past week, maybe ever! What if I ignore that feeling and it’s the biggest regret of my life?
What if I already screwed it up and I’ll never see him again?
Ugh. I groan at the navy sky, now littered with stars as the sun fully tucks itself away. Fine. I’ll make a move. Maybe. If I see him again, I’ll consider making the next move.
Because I want to. Because I enjoy his company. And because maybe he’s exactly the sort of thrill I need to escape this safety blanket I’ve created for myself, tossing all the fun and excitement from my life.
So, at breakfast the next morning, I’m nervous that I’m about to be horribly disappointed.
I eat a bowl of fruit and yoghurt alone, sipping on my coffee waiting for him to arrive.
I’m maybe on my fourth mug – I’ve lost count – before he arrives, striding into the room with purpose, searching for me.
His shoulders relax the second he spots me, his tense facial features easing.
“Good morning,” he says, that familiar grin returning to his lips. “Are you ready for the best tour of your life?”
I’m embarrassed by how relieved I am that he’s still here.
But first, I have to address the elephant in the room. “Was everything ok, yesterday?”
A shadow crosses his face, but it’s gone so fast, I can’t be sure.
“Oh yeah. I’m the last amenable band member according to my team. The others have gone awol. They thought I’d disappeared too. Which I did, but we won’t tell them that. They just wanted to check in; ensure I’m prepared for what’s next in the schedule.”
“Oh, really? Like what?”
He makes a cynical tutting sound I haven’t heard from him before.
“A book with my name on that I haven’t read.
A whole bunch of interviews with podcasters to talk about life in the band.
Well…” he laughs, blinking, “To lie about life in the band. And then other things too… It’s all waiting for me as soon as I’m back. ”
I can’t fight the frown. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes himself out of it. “Don’t worry. It’s just my reality.” He points at the splash of coffee I have left in my mug. “You mind?”
“Oh no. Go ahead. I’ve had enough to keep me wired all day.”
He gulps the rest down and clears his throat.
“I’ll have both my phones with me going forward, but my main one is turned off.
I’ve saved my security team’s number in my contacts on this one,” he waves his burner phone at me.
“I’ve been instructed to tell someone I’m with that if there’s an emergency, you need to dial this number. They’ll ask you for the codeword.”
“That sounds serious.”
“I told them it’s Roko.” I know he’s trying to diffuse any tension.
I smile. “Ok.”
“This counts for you too. Worst case scenario they’re linked up with local police and can make sure you’re safe.”
“Gus, I feel like you received a bollocking.”
He half-smiles, half-cringes. “You could say that.” Then he sighs. “Shall we go?”
*
Gus wears lighter clothing in Monaco than he did when we were walking the streets of Croatia, Montenegro and Italy.
I wonder if it’s because his team know he’s here, so he’s less concerned about being undercover.
But now I have this sense of being watched, being followed.
I want to ask him about it and yet I don’t because he’s relaxed again, his smiles flowing freely, his laughing light.
He explains he’s taking me to one of the key tourist attractions and I follow him blindly when he stops and says, “What do you think?”
I blink. “What do I think about what?”
He nods his head towards a road with high metal barriers. “Well?”
“It’s a road.”
His lips part, his face disbelieving. “Tell me you know what Formula 1 is.” Not a question, a demand.
“The car racing thingy?”
Gus gasps. “Don’t mess with me.”
“What do you mean?”
“You seriously don’t follow Formula 1?”
“Well, I know it’s about cars that go fast and men who wear skimpy cat suits. Is that a crime?”
“No,” he laughs. “So I guess that means you don’t know how famous this bend is?”
“There’s such a thing as a famous bend?”
“Well, when you say it like that… honestly, you’re ruining it for me. This is the Fairmont Hairpin Curve.”
“Are you serious right now? I have dodgy ankles. It’s a million degrees out and you made me walk all the way up here to look at a bend in the road?”
“A famous bend in the road!”
I shake my head and laugh, exasperated. “I refuse to accept that’s a thing!”
Gus is gobsmacked, looking between me and the bend, gesturing with his hands. “I can’t believe you don’t get it. It’s the bend.”
He’s not being serious. “Gus…”
“Sara…”
“Oh my God, is that guy proposing at a bend in the road?” I whisper, pointing at the couple behind us. The man gets down on one knee as a line of classic cars vroom up the hill towards the sharp hairpin.
Gus touches his heart. “Romantic.”
“It’s a fucking road.”
“It’s a famous road,” he mutters, his tone laced with humour as he tows me away by the elbow. “Let’s leave them to it before you ruin the moment.”
After that we hop in a taxi to the Monaco Cathedral, then take a leisurely stroll through Old Town (because Gus knows this is where my heart truly lies) and take our time admiring the fancy yachts.
Once we’ve exhausted ourselves and my bloody useless ankle is starting to complain, Gus says he’s taking me to his favourite bar.
At first it doesn’t look like much, a tall building with yellow painted walls and a staircase that goes up and around the apartments out front, but once we reach the top, I realise we’re on a rooftop bar with views across the city and out to sea.
A lovely breeze blows through the tables, shaded by mismatched awnings.
The barman greets Gus with a familiar handshake.
And because there’s hardly anyone up here, besides a few locals, Gus suggests I find a table I like, then returns a few minutes later with an espresso martini for me and a beer for him. “I assume you like caffeine in your cocktails too?”
“I do,” I say, with a pleased grin. “Especially when it’s early afternoon. So, have you been here a lot? You seem so familiar with the place.”
“I come here for the Grand Prix. It’s usually a lot busier.”
“I bet. Lots of vroom vroom people.”
“That is what they call themselves,” he jokes.
“Where do you usually stay?”
He fidgets as if the conversation catches him off guard. “A yacht.”