Down with Love
Anna is woken by the shrill ring of her phone. She cracks an eye, feeling like she has been asleep for minutes, not hours. But then she registers it’s her ringtone, not the discordant chirp of the alarm. A dream flits from her brain. She’s not sure what it was, but it must have been torrid because her bed covers are heavily rumpled. Grey light is leaking from the edges of the curtain. It’s early. For one moment she thinks Tolly may be calling to cancel and she sits bolt upright. The man is an early riser. She remembers his personal trainer comes at six every morning.
The screen is alight, making it easy to find. Anna pulls it closer and checks the caller. Not Tolly. James. Slightly addled from alcohol and too little sleep, as she answers her boss’s call, dimly wondering why he is calling so early in the morning.
“Thank god,” James breathes down the phone like one drowning in relief. “Are you with Bella?”
“Not at the moment,” Anna replies, sliding back down in the bed and pulling the covers over her.
“She’s not picking up.” James sounds fraught. “I’ve tried her phone a million times. The last thing I knew, she was in bed beside me. When I woke up, she was gone. All there was, was a message on my phone saying, With Anna .”
The unmistakable tinny voice of a tannoy echoes down the phone, but it is too distorted to make out the words. “Where are you?” Anna asks.
“At the airport.” Anna recalls James has an early flight on his trip back to the UK. “But I’m worried about Bella. I can’t get hold of her.”
“Bella is fine.” Anna sincerely hopes this is the case, but she has no way of knowing, especially if Bella is not answering her phone. James, cool, calm and collected even in the boiler-pressure environment of an emergency department, is being dismantled by his love for Bella. He needs to calm down before he embarks on his long flight. And Anna’s words are probably true: “She’s most likely not answering because, unlike me, she was smart enough to put her phone on silent while asleep.” Anna is deliberately vague about where and with whom Bella might be sleeping. This is not the time to tell James what she knows or suspects of Bella’s whereabouts.
“She came with me to a friend’s house last night.” So far, so true. Now for the supposition. “We were out till late and she wouldn’t have wanted to wake you when she came back.” If she came back. “And before you ask, no. I’m not trotting through the hotel in my pyjamas to ask her to answer her phone. Look, she’ll be back in the UK soon enough. You guys can catch up then.”
Silence. Then: “I suppose you’re right. But if you see her, tell her to call me.”
“I wouldn’t count on my seeing her. I’m out all day. She’ll probably see your messages before then. But I will tell her if I do see her. Go get your flight and stop worrying.” That last is valid. Bella doesn’t deserve James’s consideration.
James disconnects.
Fully intending to go back to sleep, she swigs water from the bottle by the bed and checks the time. She can still get in a couple of hours if she skips breakfast and make-up. After all, the make-up would probably just slide off her face in the California heat. And there really is no point in trying to compete with the tanned leggy women strutting along the boardwalks. She resets her alarm, then drops the phone to the floor and her head to the pillow.
A veteran of on-call shifts, she’s asleep in minutes. When the alarm sounds, she’s a lot perkier. A shower further helps to restore her. She tosses her hair into a messy knot, pulls on a cute pair of ditzy shorts and a white top and she’s ready. She’s careful to apply a layer of sunscreen to her exposed skin and set sunglasses on her head. This is California, after all. Finally, she picks up a loose white overshirt in case they are out late, slides her feet into trainers and heads out of the door. On the dot of nine o’clock, she’s exiting the hotel foyer, bubbling with an excitement she doesn’t care to examine too closely.
Her heart plummets when she sees Frank, not Tolly. The driver steps forwards. He has a cup in his hand, which he holds out to her. “What is it?” she asks.
“My generation would call it coffee.” Frank’s mellow tones make it sound like the greatest delight. “But yours would say, Americano . With milk, not creamer.”
Someone knows European tastes. “Where are we going?” she asks, ignoring the door he’s opened to the rear seats and walking around to ride shotgun.
Frank shrugs and climbs in beside her, tucking his belly carefully under the steering wheel, before answering: “The marina.”
Frank must have magical driving skills because somehow he manages to navigate Los Angeles’s rush-hour traffic, snaking through roads but never once falling prey to its notorious tailbacks. By the time Anna has finished sipping her coffee, he is pulling to a stop beside a palm-tree lined walkway. As Frank takes the empty cup and helps her up, he nods to one of the gangways. “Mr Hyde’s just coming.” It’s the first indication Frank has ever given that he knows the identity of his hirer.
A figure appears. He is tall, clad in a loose sky-blue shirt, sleeves rolled, and dazzling white shorts. Sunglasses shield his eyes and a cap hides his hair. Even knowing it is probably Tolly, Anna hesitates. She reflects that it’s an effective disguise. His stubble is not really long enough yet to obscure his jaw, but from a distance, he looks like any other mariner. It’s only when he raises his arm in greeting that she becomes certain it’s him and starts off in his direction, casting a thanks towards Frank as she leaves.
They meet halfway. Anna, being British and not wanting to be over-familiar, stops a pace short and smiles her greeting. “This looks exciting,” she says. “Are we going somewhere in particular or just out on the water?”
Tolly grins happily back at her and her heart does one of its annoying skips. She’s hoping exposure therapy will work to calm it down, but so far it’s having no discernible effect. But then, this is only their third meeting. “Santa Catalina Island,” he says. “I thought it’s somewhere you probably wouldn’t have been.”
He takes her hand to lead her onto a gangway and it feels natural, like her palm belongs in his. But he drops it again as they walk along the pontoon. Boats surround them. The sun sparkles off the chrome trim of gleaming, sleek monster motorboats, while weathered tarpaulins cover sailboats bobbing at their mooring. The air is full of clinks of metal and the slap of the sea against the dock and the smell of brine and seaweed. And diesel.
Tolly stops beside a mid-sized motorboat, still as shiny as the day it was first sold. It’s been backed into its mooring, making it easy to step from the dock to its rear platform. Another man, dressed in a similar style to Tolly, is waiting on the platform. Tolly takes her hand again to help her step onto the boat, but really, it’s a little gap and the water in the marina is barely rippling. The other guy holds his hand ready to help her onboard if she needs it. Instead, she moves to the side of the small deck to make room for Tolly. He steps across with no help at all. The other guy has already turned away and is moving towards the helm when Tolly says, “Anna, Marco. Marco, Anna.”
Marco twists around long enough to raise his hand and moves on. Plainly, he is not going to be part of the party.
Anna looks up at Tolly. “Where do you want me?” she asks.
He smiles but Anna has the feeling it’s an internal joke. He indicates the seating behind the helm. A selection of croissants, fruit and pastries are laid out on the small hardwood dining table and cups of some unknown liquid are slotted into the accompanying built-in drink holder.
“If you haven’t already eaten, I thought we’d have breakfast.” Tolly nods towards the table. Anna takes a seat, but he doesn’t join her. He jumps off the boat again, moving around the dock, untying the lines. Anna sits back to watch him. He moves with easy practice and confidence. It’s quite sexy, the image of a man who knows how to do things. But maybe not unexpected. She is aware of his general background, if not specifics. She can guess there was more than one holiday sailing around the Med or the Caribbean in his teenage years.
At a shout from Tolly, the helmsman engages the engine. Tolly steps onto the platform and they move slowly away from the dock. He disappears below deck briefly and reappears, waving his hands in the air to dry the last of their dampness. Finally, he slides into a seat perpendicular to her.
“Beer?” he offers. “Champagne?”
“Ye gods, no.” She turns to look at him, but he shrugs. Remembering her manners, she adds, “But don’t let me stop you.”
He laughs. It is a gorgeous, rich sound of genuine mirth. “Indeed, I would not dare.”
Anna picks up one of the cups in the holder and sniffs it. She takes a tentative sip, but the boat clears the marina and the slight swell of the water in the bay, empties half the contents of the cup into her mouth, around her mouth and up her nostrils. She swallows quickly to avoid spluttering, relieved to taste nothing other than the sweet flavour of freshly squeezed oranges.
She hastily replaces the cup in its holder and looks up to find Tolly holding out a napkin with a broad smile. “It can be tricky,” he says. “Getting used to the motion of the boat.”
“Caught me by surprise.” Anna picks up a croissant and breaks it into smaller pieces, starting with the ends as she leans back. The canopy overhead is closed, giving some much-needed shade from the sun, even though it is still morning time. A pleasant breeze, caused more by the motion of the boat than the weather, lifts the loose strands of hair on the nape of her neck. The sea is a brilliant turquoise, its surface rippling. The sun shines down from a cloudless sky. It is an idyllic moment, far from the hustle of her normal day with its windowless treatment rooms and operating theatres. Anna is determined to enjoy every moment of it. She pops a fragment of croissant in her mouth and her eyes open wide. These are almost as good as those you get in France, the insides soft and doughy and tasting of butter, as far from the greasy, desiccated offerings of her hotel breakfast as wine from vinegar.
“Is this your boat?” she asks Tolly, who is halfway through a slice of watermelon.
He swallows before he answers. “It belongs to a friend.” He pauses. “I haven’t really settled in here yet or started to acquire things.”
“What about the house?” she asks.
“Rented.”
“How come you haven’t put down any roots?” She takes another bite of buttery goodness but keeps her eyes on his face as he answers.
“Lots of reasons. When I first came here, I wasn’t sure it was going to last. I took every piece of work my agent recommended. So I was working a lot and didn’t have the time to look for a long-term home. And I didn’t want to commit if it was all going to …” he raises his hand in the air “… evaporate.” His eyes turn dull and he drops his hands. “And then my relationship ended badly and the last thing I felt like doing was finding a home when I had no one to make it perfect for.”
For one moment, Anna feels sympathy for him. She wants to reach across and take his hand. Then she remembers that Tolly ditched Eleanor and she stays right where she is. Who is she to interfere with karma?
Her tone is far more robust as she asks her next question. “But now you’re made, right?”
He shrugs. “Big expectations. Big shoes to fill. Also, any competent actor should be able to find something to bring to a role, but a director can make or break your career. Take Darcy, for instance. He’s been variously played as charming, cold, repressed and clueless. Not always successfully.”
“And how would you sum up your Mr Darcy?”
“Sardonic, probably. But the point is, it’s the director who decides what the characterisation is going to be. The actor has to do his job in delivering it. A good director and you’ll be up for an Oscar. Same script, same cast, poor director, and you might never work again.”
She can’t quite keep the sarcasm from her voice as she says, “Hard life. Being a film star.”
He doesn’t miss it. He focuses fully on her, then dips his head. “I deserved that. Compared to what you do, compared to what many others do, day in, day out. It’s easy to get caught up in your own microcosm and forget the rest of the world.”
Anna is the daughter of a baron, raised in a stately home with a five-hundred-acre park attached. She was educated in the finest schools and at a top university. She realises the irony of her critiquing his good fortune. Uncomfortable with the thought, she changes the subject.
“How is your mother getting on with married life?”
His smile is full of warmth. “Very much enjoying it. My new stepfather seems to be both attentive and adventurous.”
Anna blinks. “She used that word?” Describing your new lover as adventurous to your son is spicier than Anna would ascribe to the grande dame she had imagined as Tolly’s mother.
Tolly looks chagrined. “That was me extrapolating. I only meant they seem to be visiting a lot of places and doing a lot of things out of the ordinary.”
“Such as?”
“They learned to row a gondola. Not something I would have ever expected my mother to do.” He sees Anna has stopped eating. “Do you want to move forward?” he asks.
Nodding, she stands. He takes her hand and helps her down the steps, then guides her along the side of the boat to the bow, as if the smooth hardwood slats on the floor are particularly tricky. She lets him. It is strangely pleasant to be looked after for once. Her natural inclination to assume control misleads others to believe she neither wants nor cares about being looked after. Once they are settled on the cushioned area on the bow, the boat picks up speed. Anna quickly pulls on her shirt for some extra warmth.
They can see the island before them. Anna brings her lips closer to Tolly’s ear. For one tiny moment, the pitch of the boat rolls her forwards and her lips brush his skin. A thrill goes through her with an intensity unlike any previous experience. She wonders if this was such a wise idea. Their day has barely started and she is already fantasising about repairing to the cabin beneath them and giving the island a miss.
She buries the thought. “What’s on Santa Catalina Island?” she asks when she has steadied her voice and herself.
“Not much, in particular. It’s just generally charming.”
“Do you often go there?”
“Sometimes. To hike.”
The effort of shouting over the wind is too much. Anna lets the conversation drop. She leans back to enjoy the feel of sunshine on her face, the ruffle of the wind in her hair and the occasional spit of spray. Tolly beside her sits forwards, his hands loosely clasped between his shins, elbows resting on bent knees. He turns his head. His sunglasses hide his expression, but his gaze lingers for some minutes. Then he returns to looking ahead as the island nears, and Anna feels it is safe to watch him. The wind tousles his hair, strewing dark locks around his forehead. The stubble on his chin heightens his masculinity and the shirt, taut across his shoulders, outlines his muscles. His face is relaxed, and in that moment she understands he is happy. She does not think he has ever looked more handsome. Not one of the posed and styled and flatteringly lit publicity photos comes close to this image.
She would like to take a sneaky photo, to preserve this moment. But photos around celebrities are problematic, and asking consent would destroy the closeness developing between them. She turns her attention away from him and back to the island.
A large, round building with a red clay-tiled roof marks the entrance to the harbour. It looks more like a palace than a fort but lacks windows. Anna nudges Tolly. “What’s that?” she asks. She no longer has to shout as Marco has throttled their speed down to an amble as he approaches the marina. A large boat is moored on the far pier, probably a ferry. But the rest of the harbour is surprisingly full of craft, sailboats and powerboats, mostly sleek and glossy. None of them look like the sea-battered hulks of working boats.
Tolly’s attention is on their approach. He gives his answer without turning his head: “The casino.”
Anna’s heart falls. Mainly courtesy of Hollywood films, many people who have never been inside one, imagine casinos are full of glamourous people and excitement. Anna knows the reality of casinos. Bright lights, lively music, banks of slot machines and desperate people. No windows, so it is easy to lose track of time. A masterclass in disorientating humans and relieving them of money. She spends her working life in rooms with no windows. She has absolutely no wish to spend her holiday in one. If they have come for the casino, she and Tolly are clearly very different people. This day with him may be a huge mistake.