Chapter 15
BELLA
‘Want to go to the beach today, Bella?’ Tara asks as we sip tepid coffee inside the already stuffy cook tent.
‘Monica has already asked me if I want to go to Biot for lunch. Tim asked me if I wanted to go and play mini golf. Brain has asked me if I want to catch the train to Cannes and try to spot famous people,’ I sigh.
‘What did you say to them?’ Tara asks.
‘I said I’m not hungry, I don’t think I should have a weapon in my hand, and I can’t even spot famous people when they are in my bed, how am I supposed to spot them in the wild?’ I take a long sip of my coffee.
‘How about the beach then?’ Tara tries again. Monica, Tim and Brain have told her that as they all failed, it was up to her to make sure I don’t mope around the campsite all day.
‘No thanks, Tara,’ I reply, adding, ‘I’m okay, honestly,’ when I see the look of rejection on her face.
‘Isla only left an hour ago. My room is a mess. I need to pick up all the used tissues from the floor and change the sheets that are still wet from all the crying.’ I give her a weak smile.
‘Plus, the beach is risky for you, Tara. I might try and drown myself.’
I drag my feet as I drift back to my cabin.
There’s another reason I can’t face the beach.
The last time I was there, I was having my earth moved by my hot Scottish boyfriend.
The memory of the taste of the salt water on his skin and the feel of his fingers exploring under my bathing costume sends a shiver up my spine.
I wonder how many groupies he’d practised that on before me to get that good.
A tiny splash of water hits the hot asphalt, and I realise I’m crying again.
10 am
While I had fully intended to tidy my room, upon entering, I collapsed on the bed, curling up in a ball. I’m woken by the sound of loud knocking at my door.
‘Go away,’ I mumble.
‘Bella, it’s me, Monica. Open up, there’s someone here who says he needs to see you,’ she yells.
‘I don’t want to see anyone,’ I yell back, rolling away from the door.
‘I’m coming in,’ she warns before pushing open the door. ‘Jesus, Bella. It’s like a Kleenex factory exploded in here,’ she says, shocked.
‘Leave me alone, please,’ I beg.
‘Well, I would, Bella, but there is a young Australian man who insists he can’t leave until he puts a certain envelope in your hands, and your hands alone.’
I reach my hand out behind me like I’m ready to accept a baton in a relay race .
‘I think she wants you to come in here.’ I hear Monica say to someone outside, presumably the Australian mailman.
‘Um, okay,’ is his reply. I hear footsteps behind me. ‘Um, are you Bella?’ he asks my back nervously.
‘Depends who’s asking,’ I snipe, waving my fingers impatiently. I feel the sharp edge of an envelope hit the palm of my hand and close my grip to secure it.
‘Jock asked me to bring you this letter and to say, please, please, please read it. Okay?’ he stutters.
‘Yip. Bye,’ I reply, dismissing him.
‘Right then, you’d better go,’ Monica ushers him out the door and clicks it shut behind them. I release my fingers, letting the envelope drop to the bed. I curl up in a tighter ball and fall immediately back to sleep.
3 pm
After tossing and turning for a few hours, I wake, dripping with sweat. My sadness seems to have exacerbated my body’s innate inability to cope with Mediterranean heat. My bed is even more of a wet mess now, but I decide to deal with that later. I leave my room in search of Monica.
‘Hey Mon, hi Tim,’ I greet my colleagues. They are standing comfortably shoulder to shoulder as they roughly chop courgettes. ‘Can I talk to you, Mon?’ I ask.
‘Sure,’ she replies. ‘Tim, can you give us a minute, please?’ Tim gives me an understanding smile as he lays down his knife and leaves the still-hot cook tent.
‘I need a favour, Mon. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to,’ I start. ‘I really can’t do the tour tonight. I think I’m coming down with something. I don’t feel good. And I’m so fucking tired. Could you do it? Or Tim?’ I plead.
‘No worries, Bella,’ she replies immediately, almost as if she’d be expecting my request. ‘I understand. Just tonight, though, right?’
‘Yes, just tonight. I’ll sleep it off today and be better by tomorrow night, promise.’ I try to believe in myself.
‘Tara has been asking about doing the Monaco run next season. I think I’ll give her a shot, see how she likes it. Yes, it’ll be a good experience for her,’ Monica states confidently.
I don’t share her confidence, but I’m not really in a position to argue.
‘I’ll go and tell her now so she has some time to study up before 7 pm.’ Monica covers the chopped courgettes with a tea towel and heads off in search of Tara. ‘You go lie down,’ she says over her shoulder before disappearing out of sight.
Even though another wave of exhaustion hits as soon as I reenter my room, I can’t stand to lie down on those sheets one more time.
Aside from having patches damp from my tears, they harbour Jock’s scent.
The scent of the cologne he always wore, expensive probably, but clean and warm, with something deep underneath, like spice or leather or maybe both.
The smell that used to make me feel safe.
Now it just makes my chest ache. I bury my face in the pillow anyway, breathing him in like an idiot before tossing it back on the bed.
Fresh sheets are what I need. Fresh sheets for a fresh start.
Ducking back out of my room, I head for the campsite laundry, select a set of freshly laundered powder blue sheets with matching pillow cases and grab a couple of clean towels for good measure.
After placing the fresh linen and towels on my dresser, I drag the thin blanket off my bed, dropping it on the floor temporarily.
Sliding my pillows from their cases, I release them onto the floor in a separate pile for washing.
As I pull the top sheet off, something falls to the floor and slides under the bed.
Adding the top sheet to the washing pile, I scoot under the bed to retrieve the fallen item.
The white envelope almost glows in the gloom under the bed, calling for me to save it.
I reach under, grab it and pull it out. Sitting back on my feet on the cabin’s wooden floorboards, I turn it over in my hands.
It’s thick paper, a good quality envelope.
Expensive probably. On the front in neat handwriting is my name, Bella McLeod, and the address of the campsite.
I wonder if Jock wrote it himself or got some minion to take dictation for him.
Maybe he has a letter that he just carbon copies to send out to his rejected bird women?
I’m not ready to read it, so I reach up and place it on my bedside table. While I’m on the floor, I scoop up as many screwed up balls of used tissues as I can, and throw them in the waste paper basket and get on with making my bed.
6.55 pm
Pulling aside the small net curtains, I peer out of my cabin window.
Tara, dressed to the nines, is standing beside the open door of the coach.
Each passenger that approaches, she engages with.
The passengers are laughing, looking happy and relaxed with her as they head off to Monaco.
I wonder briefly whether Brain will try his motorway trick and if Tara will have the balls to stop him.
Too tired to really care, I flop back on my bed, enjoying the sensation of clean sheets on my skin that smell of only laundry powder and not loss and sadness.
For the 900th time, I glance at the envelope.
This time, I touch it, testing my emotional strength.
It neither zaps me nor drains me. I pick it up, hold it up in my hands, turning it over a few times.
Ever so slowly, I lift the envelope’s flap, a millimetre at a time.
I note that the paper inside matches the envelope.
I slide the letter out without opening it.
I lay both on my chest for a moment and stare at the ceiling, taking a couple of deep breaths.
Here we go, Bella. I give myself a pep talk.
Dearest Bella,
I’m not sure I’ll be able to express how very sorry I am that you had to find out about my job the way you did.
My life has been crazy since Dreamstreet hit the big time. I never thought a boy like me from a small town in Scotland would be playing to crowds of tens of thousands of people and touring the world.
When you become famous, everyone wants something from you. No one prepares you for that. You become a business, a commodity. Lots of people rely on you for their income, and when you are their cash cow, they put their needs in front of everything else. Because of that, I’d stopped trusting people.
That’s why I didn’t tell you, Bella. I wanted to, so many times I wanted to, but I also wanted to be sure you loved me for me, and not because I’m famous or rich.
Then we got in so deep I didn’t know how to tell you.
I would have soon, Bella, I promise I was going to, but someone on the Rock Star crew decided to make me their cash cow too and sold me out to the tabloids.
I’m so sorry, Bella, I never wanted to hurt you.
As chapter 10 in Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus advises, here is a love letter.
Anger – “I feel angry that someone in my inner circle, whom I should have been able to trust, betrayed me.”
Sadness – “I feel sad because you got hurt.”
Fear – “I’m afraid that I’ve lost you.”
Regret – “I’m sorry that you had to find out about my job in such a shocking way.”
Love – “I love you because you are the light of my life. You ground me. You see the real me. You’re intelligent. You’re funny. You are so, so beautiful when you eat.”
I want to be with you forever, Bella. If you want that too, please meet me at our bench seat this Friday at 8 pm with all your belongings.
The Rock Star will sail us back to Scotland, where we can start our life together.
If you’re not there on Friday, I won’t contact you again, but I will never forget you, Bella.
X Jock
I fold the letter neatly, place it back in its envelope, set it on my bedside table and dissolve in another flood of tears.