Chapter 33
DAY SIX
CHLOE
There are things I know I’ll never be. I’ll never front a band or win the Nobel Peace Prize or take part in the Olympics.
I also never thought the day would come when I could become a hiker.
Although my fake jog the other day led to me sprinting for my life from a benign snake, there was something about the experience which called to me: being in nature, the colours, the way I could walk off my feelings, both physical and emotional. It was cleansing in the very best way.
I don’t deny that I’m also hiking now as a way to counteract the sexual tension coursing through me.
Last night, I had sex again. With Ben. The sort of sex that makes me shiver to recall it, eyes wide in disbelief that sex could be so good.
‘Good’ doesn’t feel like the right word for it.
Magnificent. It’s the attentiveness, the commitment to the moment, the way he watches my reactions.
But then, it’s so many other things too.
I hear him tell a teenager to respect her mother and not run her mouth off and I wonder how he knows exactly what to say: why is that such a turn on?
The way he always searches for my hand and squeezes it tightly.
The way he hints at words like ‘forever’.
To not add fuel to any fires, I didn’t spend the night in the cottage.
I unlocked the door, I crept back to my room, I crawled into my bed and curled up in a ball, smiling, content, but missing him almost immediately.
And so I hike. When I set off this morning, Ben had already left for his market run so I went alone.
I’m carrying onions with me because I read on the internet that apparently snakes don’t like them.
I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m confronted by a snake – throw one at it?
– but for now, they’re in my rucksack with my journal, some pens and a large bottle of water.
This morning, I’ve decided not to go anywhere near that olive tree, just in case there’s a snake nest there, but I opt to rest and take stock on a small collection of flat rocks.
A rickety wooden fence separates me from the cliff and ocean.
It’s exposed but the sun is pale, not too high in the sky yet, and a few uncharacteristic clouds drift like steam trails in the sky.
I close my eyes and sit cross-legged as I take in the white noise of the sea below.
Is this what meditation feels like? My soul feels light, quiet.
I reach into my bag to get out my phone to take a photo and I see a few notifications pop up.
One is a selfie of George and his boys sticking their tongues out.
We miss you, Aunty Chloe!!! Xxx
I send a message and a selfie back.
Back late on Monday. You want anything from duty-free?
Arlo wants thirty packs of Marlboro Lights and one of those giant bottles of Smirnoff.
Done xx
While my phone is open, I check on some other messages, spam and notifications until I reach one that piques my interest.
Hi Chloe, please ignore the informal approach via text but I recently heard you are moving on from Scope Associates via a colleague and I was wondering if you were available to have a chat about your future?
I think we could be a very good fit for you and your design skills.
I will email too but please feel free to reach out at any time. Gabi Dyson.
My eyes widen. I know that name, why do I know that name?
I do a quick Google search and when the results pour in, I juggle my phone in shock like a hot potato.
Gabi Dyson is one of the most amazing mentors in architecture; she’s won industry awards for that, but she also works at Zaha Hadid, the holy grail of architects, the inspiration for everything I do.
When did she send this message? Yesterday morning.
When I was naked on a beach. Without thinking I initiate a phone call.
‘Hi, Gabi Dyson.’
As soon as she answers, I realise I’ve rushed into this. I should have waited until I was indoors or had better reception.
‘Hi, Gabi, my name is Chloe Raymond. I’m just replying to the kind message you sent yesterday, I apologise for the delay in getting back to you, I’m abroad at the moment.’
‘Oh yes, Chloe. Hello, how are you? Where are you?’ Gabi’s voice is warm, unassuming.
‘I’m actually on holiday. In Ibiza,’ I tell her.
‘Gorgeous, which part of the island?’
‘North, at a beautiful farmhouse retreat. It was much-needed,’ I tell her.
‘I don’t doubt it. So… you got my message?’
‘I did. And thank you. It was also needed,’ I say, sighing with shock that I am having this conversation at all.
‘Well, I like to keep my ear to the ground, find out where the talent is hiding. I was there on the morning of the Spooner Group presentation. I glanced over a lot of the tenders. Your design work is outstanding.’
My face freezes at the compliment. ‘I, thank you—’
‘You were truly wasted with Julian. He’s a relic of the industry,’ she says. ‘When are you back?’
‘Late Monday.’
‘Then come in on Tuesday. We’ll chat. I’ll confirm via email. It’s lovely to talk to you, Chloe.’
‘You too, Gabi. Thank you, sincerely, for the opportunity.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye,’ I say.
Gabi hangs up and I sit there for a moment wondering if that just happened.
Is it the heat? Did I hallucinate it? I’m glad I bought that suit now.
I jump up and do a little celebratory dance, letting out a scream that echoes off the side of the cliff.
And then, just like magic, a picture flickers up – another selfie of my nephews with George – and a strange feeling overwhelms me.
Because for the past few days, I’ve been swept up in something here.
Ben. I still have no idea what it is or where it’s going.
The passion and lust are maddening. But in that small screen in front of me is a grounding reminder that there is a life for me beyond this quiet corner of the world.
I was uncertain about my career before but it’s like Gabi has burned a route to how it can survive.
In two days’ time, I’ll go back to London.
My home. I was born there, my family is there, my flat is there, my professional future is there.
I put my phone away, feeling revived. That phone call was energising, reminding me of another sort of passion, a career I worked so hard for, doing something I love.
Love. I ponder on that word for a little too long as I look out on to the ocean again.
It’s still early when I get back to the villa; I notice that the shutters of everyone’s windows remain closed.
I have a thin veil of sweat on my body so I’m considering having a swim when I notice that the kitchen is a hive of activity.
Miguel is in there and the counters are overflowing with produce.
It’s only one extra body come to stay, Ben, don’t go overboard.
I peer my head around the door to see Ben furiously kneading some bread on the counter.
I look away because it’s forceful and mildly sexy.
‘Morning,’ I say.
Ben looks over to me, curious at my get-up. ‘I thought you were still in bed?’ he says, not taking his hands off the dough. ‘You went for a run?’
I’m not quite ready to tell him the truth about that. ‘Yeah, to catch the best of the day, the sunshine,’ I say. I just received amazing news, I think. News I want to tell everyone, that I know he’ll be happy about, but it doesn’t feel like the right time to tell him.
‘I thought I had more onions,’ Ben says, frowning as he frantically opens drawers and cupboards.
I take off my backpack and sheepishly offer him the five onions I’ve hidden in there.
I didn’t know how many snakes I would encounter.
He shakes his head, taking the onions, but doesn’t question it.
He’s obviously too deep in some sort of mad cooking flow state to engage in a conversation.
‘Can I ask what’s going on?’
Miguel, who’s furiously chopping tomatoes, stops for a moment.
‘So, I got a call this morning, someone is getting married in a lovely villa near Miramar, all beautiful and set up but they got some fancy caterers from Mallorca and they cancel last minute. Terrible. It is a small wedding but first thing I think, Ben. I call Ben.’
I look at Ben who is frantically making notes on a piece of paper.
He puts the pencil behind his ear and folds his arms, looking into space.
‘The bread can prove on the way to the venue, I can cut the ham there too… Forty covers so I’m going to need more olives…
I need the clams there by eleven so I have enough time to clean and soak them. ’
I stand and watch for a moment. This is a Ben I’m not used to. Big and bossy but running on adrenaline, responding to pressure that wasn’t there before. It transforms him into someone I don’t quite know.
‘Yes, chef!’ Miguel says, saluting into thin air.
Ben does not reply but continues frantically kneading his bread.
‘A wedding?’ I ask Miguel. ‘That’s quite a big thing.’
‘I told this one, no pressure. I can find a restaurant last minute I am sure but you know him…’
That’s the problem, I don’t really, Miguel.
Ben’s knife chops furiously at the onions, like a blur across the chopping board. ‘Chives, I forgot fucking chives.’
I flinch to hear him swear, to hear his anger.
‘He is a hero. It is a wedding, Miguel, he say. We can’t have people feel sad or disappointment on the happiest day of their lives. I can help. We will save the day. And he put on his cape and fly into town to buy peppers.’
I laugh but it’s like Ben didn’t hear any of that. I go over to Miguel.
‘My boy is magic, you know,’ he says.
I know. But it’s to the point where he sometimes doesn’t feel real.
‘I’m sorry that I’ll have to abandon you ladies though. The fridge will be stocked with picky bits. I’ll get breakfast and lunch done before I go and—’
‘A question,’ I ask, moving closer to the counter to distract Ben from his intense cooking trance. ‘How are you cooking for forty people with no help? How are you going to serve it all? Pour drinks? Are you going to be like that kid from Ratatouille with the roller skates?’
He stops for a moment to laugh at the Ratatouille reference. ‘Miguel was going to be my waiter.’
I look over at Miguel who shrugs.
‘I can help too. I’m no waitress or chef but I could—’
‘We can too,’ says a voice from the stairs. I turn and see that Zara, Bella and Jess have descended for breakfast.
Ben looks at all of us in turn. ‘Guys, it’s your holiday. You didn’t sign up to work. I took this on—’
‘It wouldn’t be work. It would be like a cooking workshop,’ Zara says. ‘Plus, Bella has to pay you back for all the stress she caused yesterday.’
‘I do?’ she says, looking horrified.
‘Yes,’ her mother replies sternly.
‘I’d quite like to see how you make stuff,’ Jess says.
Ben scrunches his face up, not quite believing that we would offer our services up like this. ‘You’d all do that?’
‘We’d do it for you,’ I say. He looks me in the eye and smiles, a look of relief that we’re here. I’m not sure why though. Because I’ve never cleaned a clam in my life.