Chapter 9
NICK
After Delaney leaves, I give myself a good talking to – Get your head out of your arse, James – that sort of thing – then crack open the laptop. It’s been a few months since I’ve read Where the Road Ends and in the wake of Saira Qureshi’s rejection, I want to come at it with fresh eyes.
It stings to get rejected for something because it’s not commercially viable, but I suppose it would be worse if she thought it was rubbish. And yes, agents do sometimes couch a rejection in lies, but I’ve had enough of those to know the difference.
I skim through the screenplay, pausing at my favourite scenes and reading them properly.
Saira called it a ‘thoughtful two-hander’ and that’s exactly what it is.
Inspired by my favourite film of all time, Before Sunrise, it’s about two people who meet unexpectedly while she’s on holiday in Edinburgh, his hometown.
They spend an entire weekend together – seeing the sights, talking nonstop about their lives, families, dreams…
diving into the ways they’re both stagnating, which is why she took herself on holiday – to break the cycle of sameness.
And because they’re convinced they’ll never see each other again, they’re completely honest. It’s only when he takes her to the airport that they realise they’ve fallen in love – but neither will admit it to the other, because…
totally bonkers – who falls in love in a weekend?
And their goodbye is heartbreaking because it’s unclear what’s going to happen after she returns to Colorado.
When I get to that scene, I read it three times, tearing up each time. It’s a good thing Delaney left for the morning. She must already have me pegged as a moody bastard – wouldn’t want her to think I’m a big sook as well.
But the scene is good – the whole screenplay is good. If only I could convince someone to take a chance on it.
It’s in the back of my mind that Delaney’s a producer – of course it is.
But considering our situation and that we’re practically strangers, I wouldn’t want to bring it up out of the blue.
That would be out of order – impolite, even – and I could burn the opportunity.
If it comes up organically, fine. If not, I’ll find some other way to get it back out there.
I stare at the screen, the letters swimming as my mind chews on something. Maybe it needs a tonal shift – an injection of danger. What if they got caught up in something illegal and they’re on the run for most of the film?
I ponder this, seeing several scenes play out in my mind’s eye, but it’s all wrong. The film says what I want it to say as is.
I’ve just closed my laptop when Pippa calls – good timing on her part, but I’m not sure what to say to her. Especially as she doesn’t know that I know about the wedding.
‘Hey, Pip,’ I answer with forced cheeriness.
‘Hi,’ she replies, curter than usual. ‘Any news?’
For a moment, I have no idea what she means – what news? – but then I get it. She’s asking if there’s any progress on me travelling to Iceland.
‘It’s not looking good,’ I reply. ‘Pretty much everything south of you and north of me is at a standstill.’
‘Fuck,’ she says breathily.
It’s worse than I thought – Pippa rarely swears and when she does, she’ll say ‘bugger’ or ‘bollocks’, or if she’s feeling particularly pissed off, ‘shite’ – a favourite from her time in Scotland. But then again, she did plan a wedding that won’t be going ahead.
‘Nick? You there?’
‘I’m here. Sorry, Pip, I know you had your heart set on this holiday,’ I say, choosing my words carefully. I’ve given her the perfect opportunity to correct me, to tell me that this isn’t just a holiday gone awry – and that our families are in Iceland – but she doesn’t.
‘Isn’t there any way you can get here? Any way at all?’ she pleads.
‘I don’t see how, Pip,’ I say gently. ‘I’d have to convince someone with a boat to take me to the mainland, somehow get myself to Bari, then take half a dozen flights east, flying all the way around the world and approaching Reykjavik from the west.’
There’s a beat, then, ‘Can’t you do that then? You could be here the day after tomorrow.’ Like Dan said – she’s postponed a day, assuming I’d find a way to get there. ‘Please, Nick,’ she adds.
God, I hate that I’m not there – not to get married, but to sort this out.
Was it misguided planning a surprise wedding? Absolutely. But Pippa’s heart is bigger than all of Europe and she’ll have done it out of love.
Only I am not going to try to get to Iceland for the day after tomorrow.
Even if I wanted to get married in two days, which I don’t, there’s no way I’d make it in time.
The journey I described, with all the connections and wait times, would take several days – at least. And it would cost a mint – far more than we can afford. If it was even possible.
‘I’m sorry, Pip, but I doubt that would work.’
She sniffs, and I wish I could reach through the phone and give her a hug. ‘Okay,’ she says eventually, her voice small.
‘You’re going to take advantage of being there, right?’ I ask brightly. ‘See the sights?’
‘I s’pose.’
‘Hey,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood, ‘don’t forget, according to True North, this is your dream holiday.’
‘And southern Italy is yours,’ she says drily.
Delaney and I had the same realisation yesterday, so it makes sense that Pippa’s thought of it too – another layer to excavate when we return to London. I’m so not looking forward to that conversation – especially if she doesn’t tell me about the wedding and I have to confront her.
What a fucking mess.
But there’s little I can do about it now, so I’m going to follow my own advice and explore Capri.
‘Try and have a good day, Pip. Send me some pics from Reykjavik, yeah?’
‘Okay. Bye, Nick. Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
We end the call and I spin the phone in my hands, staring out to sea. It’s easy to get lost in the random undulations of the water, the white caps utterly mesmerising – the same sort of beautiful turmoil as staring into a fire.
Should I be moving heaven and earth to get to Iceland?
Even if the answer’s yes, there’s no way I’d agree to get married under these circumstances. It’s too rushed, too ill-considered, and my mum would kill me. It would also mean breaking Pip’s heart at the altar, which would be far worse than her believing external forces have ruined the wedding.
Ironically, Mount Etna erupting may have been a good thing.
I don’t have time to ponder this further, because Delaney bursts onto the balcony, carry bags in each hand.
‘Hey!’ she says.
‘Hi – got the shopping bug, I see.’
She looks down at her haul, her cheeks flushing, which I shouldn’t find cute, but do.
‘I’ve probably gone a little overboard,’ she says. ‘I’ll probably never wear half this stuff. At work, I live in jeans and tees, and I’ve bought this dress that’s so not me… Hey, can I show you?’
‘Sure,’ I reply.
She dumps all the bags on the other sun lounger and takes out a carefully wrapped package, tearing the tissue paper like a kid at Christmas. The paper falls to the tiles, and she holds a very pretty dress up to her shoulders.
‘It’s real Italian linen,’ she says, looking down and swaying from side to side. ‘I never usually wear anything this… feminine, but I’m a sucker for seafoam, so…’
‘Seafoam?’ I ask.
She looks up. ‘The colour.’
‘Ah.’
She shoots me a self-deprecating smile. ‘Sorry,’ she says, carefully folding the dress and putting it back into its carry bag. ‘I’m using you as a proxy girlfriend. I’m sure you don’t give a shit about women’s clothes,’ she adds with a laugh.
Only she’s wrong. I have given a shit in the past – with Pippa. But I’m not about to bring her up. Besides, it’s not the dress that’s captured my attention. It’s the idea of Delaney in the dress.
‘I’ll probably return it. I packed a couple others that I can—’
‘Well, we do have that dinner at the chef’s table,’ I say, interrupting.
‘True.’ She traps her bottom lip between her teeth, but this time it’s more contemplative – it’s doubtful she’s in danger of drawing blood.
‘Maybe keep it for now,’ I suggest. ‘You might change your mind.’
She looks at me, the corners of her mouth curling up. ‘That’s exactly what my best friend, Megan, would say, so good job on the proxying.’
‘Happy to be of service.’
She glances at my watch. ‘Oh shit, we should get going. We’re supposed to meet the skipper at the marina soon.’
‘Right – sorry.’ I get up and follow her inside. ‘So, do I need to bring anything?’
‘Bring whatever you’d take to the beach,’ she says, packing her things into a canvas bag.
‘Your bathing suit, probably a hat, sunblock – actually, I’ve got some you can use, and they’ll have towels on the boat for us, so…
’ She stops and looks over to where I’m rummaging through my duffel. ‘Do you have a beach bag?’ she asks.
‘Er, no – I’ve only got the duffel.’
‘You can put your stuff in mine then,’ she says. ‘Plenty of space.’
‘You sure? I’ll wear the hat, and I can carry these,’ I say, holding up my swim shorts.
‘You’re not carrying them,’ she insists. ‘Gimme.’ She wiggles her fingers at me. I toss them over and she stuffs them into the bag. ‘Okay, that should be everything… Oh! Don’t forget your motion-sickness pills,’ she says, spying them on the bedside table.
‘Oh, right.’ I grab the packet, popping out a tablet and swallowing it dry.
‘Let’s bring the whole the packet – just in case,’ she says, dropping it into the bag. ‘Ready?’ she asks, heaving the bag onto her shoulder.
‘Only if you let me carry that,’ I say, reaching for it.
Delaney looks at me for a moment and I’m positive she’s going to refuse – Pippa almost always turns down my offers of help – but then she breaks into a grateful smile and hands it over.
‘Sure – thanks.’
And that smile shouldn’t warm me through – just like I shouldn’t think she’s cute or enjoy playing proxy for her best friend – but it does.
Two days out from my would-be wedding day.
Shit.
* * *
Delaney chats to me all the way to the marina, and I do my best to hold up my end of the conversation, only I keep getting distracted.
By her.
The funicular ride becomes an entertaining commentary on everything she sees: a cute dog wearing a bow tie; an elderly couple holding hands as they stroll; a rooftop bar where people are dancing; a falcon riding an updraft; a street performer with a puppet…
When we catch sight of a red Vespa winding its way down the hill, she exclaims, ‘It’s so Capri!’ and I can’t help but laugh, sharing the joy.
This is so different from travelling with Pippa, who sets these ridiculously high expectations, leaving her constantly disappointed when reality differs from what she’s imagined. Pippa would never just drink in her surroundings, finding a dozen things to get excited about on a short funicular ride.
But it’s grossly unfair to compare them. There’s so much I love about Pippa – and nobody’s perfect.
Delaney walks half a step ahead as we make our way through the throngs to the marina and, as she seems to know where she’s going, I happily trail behind.
‘That’s us,’ she says, pointing at a sleek motorboat. It wouldn’t look out of place in a Bond film shot on the Grand Canal in Venice. It’s beautiful.
‘Wow,’ I say, and she grins up at me.
‘Nice, huh? Told ya True North was going all out. Hey,’ she calls out to the skipper, a distinguished-looking bloke who’s holding a sign with our names on it. ‘We’re Delaney and Nick,’ she adds, gesturing between us.
‘Buongiorno,’ he says, a friendly smile settling on his tanned face. ‘Welcome aboard.’
He signals for us to take our shoes off, which we do, then holds out a hand to Delaney, helping her onto the boat. He turns to me, offering his hand.
‘All good,’ say, figuring I can manage on my own.
But the moment I step onto the boat, one foot still on the pier, the wake of another boat makes this one rock.
Under normal circumstances, my balance is excellent – I’ve walked a tight rope across a canyon – but these are not normal circumstances.
I have almost zero experience climbing aboard a small boat and there is a torturously long moment where I’m straddling a widening gap between the boat and the pier.
I’m a micro-second from doing the splits when the skipper grabs my hand and gives it a hard yank.
I tumble into the boat, landing on my arse.
He and Delaney look down at me, both suppressing smiles.
‘Way to make an entrance,’ Delaney teases. ‘And I thought I was a klutz.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I say, getting up and steadying myself.
‘Maybe you should sit,’ she says, pointing to the bench seat along the stern.
‘Good idea,’ I mutter, duck waddling over and plonking down.
Delaney sits next to me and the skipper takes the helm, then looks over his shoulder. ‘Okay?’ he asks.
‘All good!’ Delaney replies, and we motor away from the pier. When we clear the marina, the skipper opens up the throttle. Delaney shrieks with boisterous laughter and I laugh along with her.
It’s going to be a fun afternoon.