Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
B y the time we land in Tuscany, three flights, thirty hours, ten wines and four chocolate puddings later, I still haven’t managed to get my head around what has happened.
Ben, or Thomas , as he’s suddenly calling himself (what a douche), has slept easily on each of the flights, like a devil who creates shit storms for his own happiness, then sleeps like a log.
I, on the other hand, have regressed dramatically. With everything that happened in the past two weeks, I was not feeling in a good place, and my motto of keep it together, Gemma wasn’t working. While flying somewhere over Darwin with Weasel sleeping peacefully, I felt my anxiety rise and it has stayed there ever since.
I didn’t get the job of my dreams. My boyfriend is at home cleaning his ceiling. And the guy who did get the job of my dreams and who makes my skin crawl is now pretending to be my boyfriend at Lulu’s wedding.
To make matters worse, I’m about to lie to my family, which makes me feel insanely guilty, and I’m about to have to touch that cretin, after he has stolen my promotion, right out from under me. I’m prepared for any of this. And I can’t even pretend to be okay about being in the same room as Weasel, let alone pretend to like him. Horrible. Horrid.
Weasel, freshly showered and perfect in his out-of-the-office attire, looks like a country club model. I could snap a photo of him in his white trainers and a simple white cotton T-shirt and blue shorts, and put it straight on the cover of Vogue Italia . He tosses back his beautiful blond locks like he’s in a slow-mo movie, but still he says nothing, like he’s just waiting for me to bust. But I won’t.
This is a game of who cracks first, and I’m not going to lose.
In the long taxi ride from Florence airport to the wedding venue, I try to remember I’m in Italy. Italy . And I’m not going to let him spoil it.
Out the window, in the dusky pink evening, is a perfect view of Florence and off in the distance the rolling hills of Tuscany come closer and closer, our car bumping over cobbled stones as we turn this way and that.
We stop at a traffic light, next to a small café, where a beautiful lady sits by herself enjoying a sliver of lemon tart, her profile so strong and captivating she could be a bronze statue. I wind down the window and smell garlic and the woody scent of pizza crusts cooking in ancient stoves. There’s something different about evening here. The summer glow runs over the stone buildings, green courtyards, dangling lines of fairy lights, the laughter, and everything feels easy. I start to unwind.
It's magical and perfect, and I vow to stay silent and pretend Weasel doesn’t exist. But there he is, so calm and certain in that front seat, and I want to know why. Why did he come? It’s eating me alive. Twenty minutes into the taxi ride, curiosity gets the better of me.
‘I want to ask you a question, Ben.’ I look at him. ‘Or should I call you Thomas?’
‘Oh, Gemma, have you been thinking about my name the entire time?’
No, I was too busy eating puddings and contemplating a return flight to Sydney.
‘My middle name is Ben. But I guess even you have already figured that out.’
‘Oh, Thomas Benjamin. TB. A virus that almost wiped out the world. How perfect.’
I think I catch a small smile playing across his full lips. ‘Is that the question?’ He turns slightly and looks at me.
‘That’s the first question.’
‘Of how many?’ He’s clearly enjoying this, smelling like Christmas over there, whilst I just got a whiff of my own plane BO.
‘Of however many I want.’
‘I decline to participate in the Spanish Inquisition.’
‘Don’t worry, if I had a time machine, I wouldn’t send you back to the Inquisition. I’d send you to 1347.’
‘Oh how lovely, the bubonic plague.’ He smiles. ‘You know, darling, you really should get your rest. You get terribly grumpy when you don’t get your sleepies.’
I want to kick his seat. I want to kick him . Instead, I wind down the window even more, letting the early evening Italian air stream in, taking in cool breaths. Somewhere far off it smells like jasmine and summer and wet earth.
Finally, I say, ‘Why did you come?’
He pauses for a second and smiles. ‘When Ruby told me about your situation, I thought, well … two birds, one stone. I want to sign an author over here, and I want to see what my junior editor gets up to.’
God, he riles me. Junior editor. But there’s something even more alarming that makes me feel sick. ‘Ruby told you about my situation ?’
‘Well, yes. She was in a state of desperation as she couldn’t find anyone to come and help pretend that you’re not single. It’s not a great world for a woman of almost forty years of age, is it?’
I want to gut him. Gut him like a fish.
‘I’m not single. I have a boyfriend, Adam.’
‘Yes, and here I am. Adam, at your service,’ Weasel says. ‘But why this name? Will you be going by the name Eve?’
I roll my eyes. ‘No, I have an actual boyfriend. Called Adam.’
‘And he’s not here because…’
I try not to react. ‘Because of work.’
‘Putting work above his girlfriend,’ Weasel says, and the look he gives me over his shoulder is one hundred per cent smugness.
‘Do you always say the meanest thing you can think of?’
‘Do you always say the nicest thing to everyone else, even if it’s a lie?’ Weasel counters.
Ugh, I can’t actually believe someone as offensive as this is allowed to exist in 2023.
‘Well, Ben, or Thomas, whatever your name is, let’s not forget that you wanted to come here and pretend to be my boyfriend.’ I shake my head. ‘That is another level of sadistic.’
‘And inviting a stranger to be a plus one at your sister’s wedding isn’t masochistic?’ Weasel raises his eyebrows at me.
‘I was hoping for just one of the seven billion people on earth who isn’t a wanker.’
He clenches his jaw slightly. And I feel a tad victorious. Must remember that one.
‘You know, Gemma, I could be the most horrible boyfriend,’ he taunts.
I resist the urge to whip my drawstring from my pyjama pants and clothesline him from behind. ‘You wouldn’t .’
‘I could…’
‘You’re just so arrogant.’ I shake my head. ‘I mean, who says, “ I could be the most horrible boyfriend ”?’
He’s still unfazed. ‘Oh, are we doing observations? Oh your kids are lovely, Charlie. ’ His mimic is so off, it’s laughable.
He runs a hand through his perfect hair. I hate his hands. I hate his hair.
I gasp. ‘Oh God! Something’s in your HAIR!’
He quickly pulls down the visor, urgently searching every strand. I snigger.
Weasel snaps the visor up. ‘ So funny.’
‘I rather think so,’ I say smugly.
The driver looks at us strangely, like what is happening?
I should be embarrassed, and I slightly am. But also, I’ve won this round, and victory feels sweet. I hardly ever have the upper hand, so I’m not going to say another word. It looks like Weasel isn’t going to either, but he keeps running his hands through his hair as if to check there isn’t really something in there. As he does, light reflects off his watch. Large, chunky titanium. Expensive . He never wears that at work.
Suddenly, I realise this is the first time I’ve ever seen him outside the office and I know nothing about him. Not where he lives, not what he likes (probably voodoo dolls), not what he looks like out of work clothes. Underneath his shirt, he could be a couch potato, be sporting a dad bod, or be a muscular god. I hope it’s the first, because then he’ll have one less thing to be smug about.
I must have closed my eyes thinking about Weasel because when the driver wakes me, we are in the middle of a large, circular driveway complete with a beautiful old fountain idyllically trickling water and a thick row of roses, bright white, making the air smell so sweet. In front of me stands the tallest, most amazing hotel I’ve ever seen. Everything seems perfect, particularly because Weasel has disappeared without a trace.
This’ll turn out to be what was otherwise known as the calm before the shit storm.