Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
G loriously alone for the first time since I arrived, I take a long, hot shower, and snuggle into a fresh bathrobe, knowing I don’t have to be anywhere this morning. This is what a holiday is meant to feel like. I stand by the window and breathe in the delicious smell of summer jasmine, and it reminds me of Australian Christmases, hot, humid and flowery. Outside is just sky and earth, meadows and vineyards, all shades of green and brown. I stroke the window, imagining a country life, time to breathe, to make bread, to write . What an endless source of delight it would be to live here.
An hour later Weasel is back at my door with two large coffees and a brown bag that smells delicious, like pastries and butter. My starving stomach grumbles.
‘Welcome. I think it still smells in here, so I won’t feel offended if you just leave the food and go.’
‘This? This isn’t for you.’
I feel the embarrassment light up my cheeks. ‘It isn’t? I just thought…’
He grins. ‘I’m joking. Stop apologising, Gem. It’s for us . And it smells better in here than it did last night.’
So many thoughts swirl around my head. How did it smell last night? And Gem . And breakfast, like we were an us.
Just in case, as Weasel pulls out plates for the pastries, I slip into the bathroom, pick up my perfume, and spray aqua watermelon scent, wafting it with my hand. When I come out, I can tell he knows exactly what I’m doing.
‘That’s not going to do a thing.’ He looks at me, amused, a smile still playing on his lips. ‘But I like that you tried. It’s cute.’
Cute. I don’t know how to respond to that, so I busy myself picking up all the towels and sheets and then bundle them up and shove them into the corner of the room. Weasel cranks the rest of the windows open, the ones I couldn’t reach, which needs some force, and I watch his muscles flex as he does it with such confidence. He then calls down to room service and asks if they could come up and do a deep clean. This man who brought breakfast. Who held me when I was sick last night. Who cleaned my room. Who is this guy?
He pulls out what looks like a small crostoli , a crispy fried pastry, dusted with sugar. I shake my head.
‘Perhaps you want a plain bagel after last night?’
‘Maybe.’ I take the bagel and chew a piece thoughtfully, willing my stomach to accept the fluffy carbs coming its way.
The coffee is glorious, strong and hot, and the name tags only take half an hour, thanks to Weasel, who seem to have perfect handwriting. What can’t he do? What fazes him? Nothing, it seems.
Weasel is sitting on my sheetless bed, his tanned muscular legs in white shorts, his eyebrows drawn together in contemplation. I steal glances at him, the curve of his cheek, the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, a small hint of stubble, meaning he hasn’t shaved – of course he hasn’t, because he’s been with me all morning.
I’m bunched up on the small chaise, in denim shorts and a white singlet top, doing an awful job. I bite the end of my pen, cursing silently. My little attempts are wobbly, like I’ve done them with my left hand, and I know Lulu would rip them up, and then snap at me like a viper.
‘It’s the S’s I just can’t get right. I shall have to seat Sarah Simpson and tell her, her name is now Arah Impon. Or that her nametag was eaten by the crocodiles in the moat or flying monkeys.’
‘Very Wizard of Oz .’
‘Which makes me Dorothy.’
‘With Lulu as the Wicked Witch?’
‘Or Marla. Tough call. Which clearly means you’re the Tin Man.’
‘What? I’m not. I’m at least the Lion.’
‘Tin. Creaking,’ I say in a tinny, robotic voice. ‘Need heart.’
‘A heart ?’ He slightly moves his eyes, sizing me up. I can’t tell if he’s about to blow a fuse. I kinda want him to, lose it because I can’t imagine that, but on the other hand, he did look after me last night.
‘I’m sorry?’ I say coyly before he can get mad.
He tips his head back and laughs.
‘No. Keep going. I really like this version of you.’
‘Version? I’m not a computer game.’
‘I mean this side of you.’
I try not to smile, but my mouth twitches, and a warmth spreads under my skin.
He rolls his eyes in a teasing way. ‘God, Gemma, so pedantic. You’re exactly like Hermione, you know that?’ He puts on a high-pitched, annoying voice. ‘It’s not wingardium levioosa. It’s wingardium leviosaaaa.’
I’m quite chuffed with that analogy. ‘Without Hermione, Ron and Harry would have been screwed. Their corpses would be somewhere deep below in the dungeon with the Basilisk. And poor JK would not be a billionaire.’
He laughs. ‘True.’
‘Also, words are important because I’m an editor. And so, apparently , are you.’
‘Chief editor, actually.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Insufferable. I believe I deserve an award for hanging out with you in a room so long, without considering murder.’
‘Considering?’ he grins. ‘Surely, once or twice.’
I almost laugh. ‘Okay, without substantial planning and plotting.’
He looks around the room. ‘The cushion?’
‘Too obvious. It’s got to be slow and painful.’
‘The butter knife in the kitchenette.’
‘Perfect, only make sure it’s in the bathroom. Could be messy after many stabs.’
‘Wow. Okay, the award of creepy serial killer ingenuity goes to Gemma.’
I stand up, grabbing my hairbrush, and, holding it aloft like an award, say, ‘I shall accept this half-compliment award with a bow, and thanks to Toto my little dog.’
‘If only you were like this in front of your family.’
Ouch . It feels like a dig, but when I look at him, it doesn’t seem to be. I can see he’s bantering with me, not challenging me. It kinda feels like something has shifted in him too.
‘I could also demand that you be nice to everyone, but we all know that Rome was not built in a day.’
‘I’m nice to your family. They love me. And it was built in one thousand two hundred and twenty-nine years.’
‘You’re acting. There’s a difference. Oh, and I’m in no need of a history lesson.’
‘Am I acting?’ he says, as though butter wouldn’t melt.
‘ Aren’t you?’
I feel a flush spread quickly around my chest. Isn’t he? But I don’t want to open that Pandora’s box. Before he can answer, I quickly add, ‘Stop interrupting me, Weasel . I have to concentrate.’
‘Got it, little viper.’ And he winks, because apparently I also have a nickname now.
I go back to the name tags, but no matter how hard I try, I keep on screwing them up. ‘Seriously, how do you do the S’s?’
He waves me over to where he’s sitting on the bed. In order not to watch him upside down, I have to sit next to him. His muscles flex as he picks up the pen. I lean over his shoulder, careful to keep a polite distance. He draws a perfect S, with little careful calligraphy strokes at either end.
‘Easy.’
Somehow, I think not.
‘Your turn.’ He hands me the pen. Intently I write an S, hoping it wows.
‘Looks like it’s being murdered,’ Weasel says, laughing.
‘Perfection is over-rated, calligraphy nerd,’ I say as I slap him lightly on the arm, as though this is who we are: jokesters, friends. My hand hits a wall of muscle, biceps and triceps, and I can’t help but notice his T-shirt is soft cotton, and stretches across his tanned arms. I look away because I’ve never cared about muscles, ever, until now .
‘Can I…’ He holds out his hand, letting it hover over mine. I give a slight nod, which says okay. His broad shoulders brush mine as he inches closer. I can feel his warmth right next to me. I can make out the rise and fall of his chest. He needs to shift a bit to get his hand in the right position on top of mine, and it’s warm, and heavy, and solid and secure.
I let his hand guide mine, and I feel the warmth, as he – we – draw an almost perfect S. I also hold my breath the entire time, half because I’m nervous, and half because I don’t want my breath to smell like bagel.
‘And that’s how S’s are made.’ He winks. ‘Looks like we’re done.’
He runs his hand through his blond hair and it goes back perfectly into a soft wave. This mission needs to be aborted because if I stare at this guy any longer, I’ll think about his lips again and how he kissed me that first day, softly, tentatively, then more intimate, with hunger. This guy is so handsome, it hurts .
‘So, what’s our plan? Do we go on enjoying the wedding festivities? Or grab our suitcases and head for Rome? Milan? I hear Naples do a good pizza.’
In the last few hours, I’ve managed to forget about the entire flock of people who’ve been introduced to Gem-man. And now I have to face them. Pretend I’m okay, say, no worries, and chuckle or smile as we all have a good laugh at Gem-man. But what’s the alternative? Tell them I felt hurt, that it was horrible?
I know if I said anything, Mum would be disappointed, as she hates any sign of tension, and Dad would pretend nothing has happened, and Lulu would declare I’ve ruined the entire wedding. And where would that leave me then?
‘I’ll just pretend nothing ever happened.’ I know how it’s going to go: I’m going to face everyone and smile. Back in Sydney, after this entire shitshow was over, I can collapse into my bed and cry a tornado, and then maybe I’ll prick my hand on a loom and sleep for ever.
‘What are you thinking about right now?’
God, nothing gets past him.
‘A loom, if you must know.’
‘Well, Sleeping Beauty, afraid you can’t sleep for a hundred years. Maybe you’d feel better if you told Mia and Lulu how you felt?—’
I sigh and give him a pointed look and, to his credit, he stops talking.
‘So how about this boat cruise? Are we going?’
‘Everyone on a tiny little ship in the middle of a harbour talking about how funny last night was? I’d be forced to jump off the side and swim for land.’
‘Even if it’s shark-infested?’
I laugh. ‘I don’t think anything would stop me.’
‘I’d have to stop you then.’
I feel a warmth spread to my cheeks, images of him holding me back with his broad arms. For a split second I glance at him, and I can see his eyes locked on me. A moment of tension seems to simmer between us. Quickly, I look away.
He finally adds, ‘Because if you drowned, who else would check the wedding centrepieces for floating dead fish?’
‘Well, there’ll be doves at the wedding.’
‘Doves then.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting that there will be dead doves; such a bad omen. Lulu will roll in her bridezilla casket.’ I roll my eyes and we both laugh.
I hadn’t thought that there was much chance that Weasel and I would get along. Or laugh together. Until now. It feels really nice.
I try and keep my voice steady. ‘I guess it’s the couples spa or we can just do our own thing.’
‘I guess it’s the spa,’ Weasel says. ‘Can’t let down your mum and dad.’
Again I think about the fact that the spa requires us to be dressed in next to nothing. That makes me wonder what he might look like in his swimmers. Would he wear boardies? Or a Speedo? I hoped boardies. Budgie smugglers are just too, too … out in the open . As if they announced, Here’s my penis. With a thin bit of material on the top. What you going to do about it?
Not look , I tell myself, definitely not look .
He has a small smirk on his face. ‘What are you Gemma-dreaming about right now? Because your cheeks are pink. I could swear … are you blushing?’
‘No,’ I add hotly. ‘Sick. Fever. Remember?’
He shoots me a look to say, Yeah, right , but thankfully lets it go.
He heads to the bathroom. The tap goes on as he washes his hands, and I hear him clear his throat. ‘Uh, so this note in here…’
Oh bloody hell. The Adam List. My stomach drops.
‘Is this…’ He pokes his head out the bathroom door. ‘Something we should talk about?’ That cheeky little smile is back.
I’m blushing with embarrassment. ‘It is not. Don’t pry. No one likes a pryer.’
His smile is charming. ‘Shall I just leave it there then?’
I stride into the bathroom, past him, grab the list off the mirror, and crumple it, putting it in the bin at the end of my bed. ‘It was just a reminder of my very wonderful boyfriend, but I don’t need the reminder, do you know why?’
‘Because he’s not that wonderful? Otherwise he’d be here.’
Ugh. That takes the wind out of my sails a bit. ‘No, because it’s in here.’ I double-tap my heart for impact, but then realise how silly that feels, and how … I’m not sure it’s true. He hasn’t really been on my mind much in the last day.
Weasel raises his eyebrows. ‘Is this the guy who told you emotions are just annoying things that get in the way?’
‘I … uh…’
‘And you say I don’t have a heart…’
‘Well, maybe … sometimes … it appears…’
‘Like…’
I lie back on the bed. ‘Fine. Like last night. I appreciate you looking after me. I am grateful.’
He grins. ‘Good, because I was starting to think your plane behaviour was normal.’
I started to laugh. ‘Whatever do you mean? I was the perfect companion.’
He raises his eyebrows once more. ‘You wore pyjamas in the business class lounge with a gummy bear in your hair. I thought you were going to get deported.’
I pretend to be gutted. ‘Shunned from all fashionable events for ever. Whatever would one do on race day?’
‘Please, you’d never be invited in the first place.’
‘Because they’d seen me hanging out with you?’
I have to admit, this banter makes me fizz from the inside, like parts of me I didn’t know existed have come alive.
‘I put your brazenly awful behaviour down to the fact you had zero sleep and you gorged on too much red wine and pudding.’
‘Wait, how do you know about the pudding?’
‘I know everything.’ Weasel grins.
‘Stalker.’
‘Pyjama-wearer.’
‘Well, if we’re talking about bad behaviour, can I just say the last four months, at work, well … it hasn’t been the ultimate work experience.’
‘Not a platinum VIP Chief Editing experience?’
‘Not even bronze. Actually, going to work with you is like receiving a lump of coal for Christmas.’
He laughs and I catch him looking over at me, those arctic blue eyes searing into my soul.
‘You tired, little viper?’
‘Yeah. Maybe.’ No, not with you beside me so close.
He rolls towards me and perches on his elbow. And now he’s even closer, and I can hardly breathe. I refuse to look at him. He pushes a lock of hair off my forehead, and I hate that he’s done that, because now I’ve felt his fingers on me, warm and soft, large and protective. I will replay it later, even though I don’t want to. ‘And now?’
‘Now.’ I can only repeat what he’s said because my brain is mush.
‘What are we doing?’
I don’t know if he means at eleven in the morning, or What are we doing, us laying here? So all I can do is shrug. His eyes linger on my eyes, my lips, my hips.
I have to dig deep, from the deepest parts of me, some sort of willpower, because frankly, I have a boyfriend waiting for me at home, and our life is … well, it’s perfectly fine. I refuse to get caught up in the whirlwind of weddings and cocktails and a handsome man.
‘I don’t know. Pretending to be a couple. Going to a wedding tomorrow.’ It’s the right thing to say, but it leaves me feeling confused.
I can’t read his expression. ‘You know, I thought, after last night, we could call a truce.’
‘A truce?’
‘Yeah, maybe it’s time for us to start to actually get along. Be friends. Stop fighting or play-fighting. And actually enjoy our time in Italy. We could even have fun with this fake relationship, give Aunty Janice and your family what they want, proper The One stuff.’
I make a motion of slitting my throat. ‘You’re one to talk about The One. That’s so not you.’
‘You’re right, it’s not me.’ He grins.
‘Thank God.’
‘But I do know how to be a great boyfriend. Promise. I’m not emotionless.’
It’s a dig at Adam, and I know it. The temperature cools between us. I take the chance to slide off the bed and grab a can of Coke from the mini fridge.
‘So you actually can have feelings for people despite not having a heart? What a medical miracle.’
He laughs and sits up on the bed. ‘You’ll be amazed at what I can do.’
There it is again. The womaniser in him, the flirt. But that stuff doesn’t work on me, and he knows it.
I suppose it wouldn’t hurt my ego if Weasel, this handsome man, were to pretend to love me. I would have second thoughts, if he wasn’t a player, but I’m sure he probably does this all the time, so it’s not as though this will end up being tense or weird. I was going to ask him, but think better of it. I don’t need to know his sordid history or body count, which is likely to be in the hundreds.
Taking my silence for hesitation, Weasel picks up the side of the white sheet and waves it a bit.
‘A-ha, so you’re surrendering?’
‘Not exactly, just making your bed.’ He winks. ‘Say the word, Gemma.’
‘The word?’
‘Truce.’
I pause as one last part of me hesitates, still not sure I should give in. My brain quickly analyses the last twenty-four hours. He started the edits and looked after me. He was probably up half the night at least. And maybe he doesn’t want my career to be over, given that he seemed genuinely offended I even suggested that.
‘Gemma, c’mon. We could just enjoy the next two days: a bit of wine, great cheese, some wonderful Italian vineyards… We could even take part in one of those Gemma daydreams you seem to have … which is probably you on a Vespa, imagining you’re Audrey Hepburn in Italy in the Fifties.’
Damn, he’s good.
‘You forgot the scarf.’
He smiles. ‘So? Let’s be the best couple, better than any other couple in any book we’ve read.’
‘Better than Henry and Claire in The Time Traveller’s Wife ?’
‘A thousand times. We’ll blow them out of the water.’
I feel part of me relenting; I have to admit it has appeal. ‘I suppose it would be easier. But NO kissing or … bits. I am, after all, in a committed, real relationship.’
‘No kissing,’ he readily agrees. ‘Believe me, Gem, that’s not difficult.’
I don’t know why, but that statement slightly bothered me. ‘Fine, truce.’
‘We can’t really go around saying truce. Maybe we need a code word?’
‘How about “Weasel”?’
‘A hard no on that one. C’mon, we’re editors, this should be easy.’
‘Pineapple,’ I said, thinking of my favourite pizza topping. ‘Besides, I think I read somewhere it’s the safe word a lot of people use in sex dungeons.’
He laughs. ‘Pineapple it is.’
He smiles at me, then looks down at his cup of instant coffee. ‘Right, well, I’m going to hit the gym. Do you want to come?’
Him saying that feels … nice . A warmth spreads across my chest and I gather myself. ‘Why would I want that?’ I tease.
‘Now, now, Gemma. Testing the truce boundaries so soon?’ he says with a large, gorgeous grin on his face. My new … friend .
‘Fine, fine,’ I say, smiling but pretending to grumble as he walks towards my hotel door. ‘I take it back.’
He pauses at the door, a teasing look on his face. ‘Say it, Gemma.’
‘Pineapple,’ I shout. There’s no response, so I call out, ‘Your turn!’
‘Pineapple,’ he calls back before the door slams shut, and I can hear him laughing to himself and that makes me smile.