Chapter 17
MEGAN
When I get back from the spa, I head straight up to my room to sit on the balcony in the late afternoon sunshine and set up my laptop on the table out there to go through some work emails.
Technically I’m meant to be out of office, but everyone on my team knows that doesn’t mean much.
I’ve been trying to stay on top of things when I get a spare moment out here, but I didn’t get a chance during the camping trip and as much as I tried to catch up last night when we returned, the emails are piling up.
Grimacing at the number waiting for me from Cameron, I manage to reply to a few and then pick up my phone to make a call when a movement in the vineyard below catches my eye.
It’s Nico wandering down the path towards the caveau, his hands in his pockets.
Watching him, I lower my phone into my lap and accidentally drop it on the ground.
He must hear the clatter that it makes when it lands because after I straighten from picking it up and anxiously checking it over, I realise he’s turned to smile up at me over his shoulder.
He lifts his hand and gives a small wave.
‘Oh, hi!’ I say out loud, even though he probably won’t be able to hear me from down there, but giving my all to the performance that I’ve only just noticed him.
Waving back with my hand holding the phone so he sees I’m busy, I quickly bow my head to focus on my emails again, my cheeks burning, my shoulders tense. When I have the guts to look up again, he’s continued down the path.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ I whisper to myself, annoyed at the physical reaction I have whenever I see him. The butterflies, the heart racing, the bewildering self-awareness.
It’s distracting. And disrespectful. I’m here to say a final farewell to my dad, not to develop a crush on a sexy chateau manager. Or redevelop I should say. You’re supposed to grow out of these things, aren’t you?
I used to fancy a boy in my school year called Oliver Landon when I was about thirteen.
He was great at sports, clever and popular with light blue eyes and blonde hair that was swept to one side.
To cinch the deal, he played guitar. I made up stories in my head about him noticing me one day, writing songs about me, taking me to concerts where I’d stand backstage with a VIP lanyard as he crooned to his adoring fans, and I felt giddy at the dream.
None of those things happened, obviously.
He dated Imogen Stewart, who was also sporty, clever and popular – the perfect match.
Anyway, I saw Oliver Landon a few years ago when I was at a restaurant with Marisa in south London.
He was sat two tables along. I didn’t recognise him at first, but he seemed so familiar.
He was wearing a fedora hat. When I worked out who it was, I was immensely pleased that our destiny had not been entwined as I had once wished.
Partly because he was being an arsehole to the waiter, but mostly because of the fedora hat.
That’s how childhood crushes are meant to go. You grow up and look back on them with fondness and embarrassment, laughing at yourself for being so na?ve. But with Nico . . .
It’s different.
I haven’t yet spotted him wearing a fedora hat which helps, but he also seems to have become an even better version of himself and he was already pretty great to begin with.
He’s got this calm aura. I don’t know. That sounds stupid.
He radiates something that makes me feel safe when I’m with him.
Like no one will laugh at me. As in, he won’t laugh at me.
I can be whatever. And he seems happy to see me when I walk in the room.
That’s a nice feeling. When someone lights up like that.
He does it to everyone, it’s not just me.
That’s who he is. He likes people. He likes making connections, I think.
I guess it’s a good thing he works in hospitality. He makes everyone feel welcome.
All this thinking is making me flustered and tense, which is annoying because I’ve spent the day working hard on relaxing. Which, by the way, is near impossible when your mother is there doing things like trying to encourage your childhood dream.
I don’t know how to act when she does that. I never wanted her help. I don’t need her help. For god’s sake, I’ve proven that, haven’t I? I’ve made it this fucking far without her personal investment in my career or relationships. And I’m doing great.
You know what the most annoying thing is about Mum?
As soon as you meet her, you want to be liked by her.
You can’t help it. You want her approval because she’s fun and brilliant and hilarious and beautiful and when she pays you attention, you feel valued and significant, worthy of being noticed by someone like that.
She’s magnetic. That’s how Dad described her once and he was right.
He said it in a kind way, but I think it’s more dangerous than that.
You can end up putting everything you’ve got into something, not because you like it, but because you think it will help her to notice you.
I keep trying to remind myself of that and all the times she’s let me down so I can keep a level head on this trip.
How she rarely showed up for me. How she was too self-involved, too focused on her relentless craving for fame and attention, to show interest in me and my dreary life.
I can’t get caught up in her magnetic bubble.
Then something happens, like a vulture steals her bra and I find myself laughing harder than I’ve laughed in years, or she says she’s proud of me while lounging by the pool and I have to excuse myself before I start crying because, against all the sensible thoughts in my head that tell me ‘actions over words’, I appreciate her saying it.
Work emails. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing. Going through my work emails.
I try to force my brain to focus on what I’m reading, but it’s resisting. I have to stand up and move back into my room, placing my laptop and phone down on the side table and deciding to have a shower first instead. I’ll feel refreshed and ready to work.
Feeling much happier once I’ve scrubbed all those aromatherapy oils off me no matter how essential they claim to be, I throw on a summer dress and dry my hair before applying some tinted moisturiser, mascara and a nude-pink lip balm.
When I’m finished, I feel calmer than I have done all day.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I share a smile with my reflection: how is it possible to be more stressed after a day at a spa than a night camping in the Pyrenees? What is wrong with me?
A knock on my door makes me jump. I quickly grab my phone and open my laptops with my emails up so if Mum is here to ask me to join her for a sunset cocktail or something I have my excuse ready to go.
Sorry, I’m working, see? I can’t cope with any more deep chats with her today.
I swing open the door and start. It’s not Mum. It’s Nico.
‘Hi!’ I say, genuinely and pleasantly surprised.
‘Hey,’ he says back, the familiar smile creeping across his lips. ‘Sorry if I’m interrupting your work.’
‘No. No, you’re not.’ I move my hand holding my phone behind my back. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Actually, I wondered if . . .’ He falters, frowning a little as he thinks. ‘I wondered if you might be able to help me. But now I’m here, I . . . uh . . . you’re a guest, you’re here on holiday, I shouldn’t disturb your evening. I’m sorry.’
‘No! You should! I mean, you’re not. Disturbing anything.
You’re not disturbing me.’ I smile at him, already flustered and a little bit sweaty despite being freshly showered.
‘Also, not sure you can describe my current situation as a “holiday”. It’s more like a .
. . really strange dysfunctional family memorial in another country. ’
He nods slowly. ‘Okay. That’s true.’
‘So, how can I help?’
‘My aunt and I disagree on the wine to supply at the black-tie ball. I need a taster who isn’t biased to come help me decide.’
I lean on the open door and fold my arms. ‘You want me to come taste a load of wine? Is that what you’re asking me to do?’
‘Yes,’ he says with a smile. Fuck, those dimples.
I exhale. ‘Wow, Nico, I don’t know. That’s a very big ask.’
‘It is, it is. I could provide cheese and charcuterie too? Would that help?’
‘Hm. I suppose that might help.’ I sigh dramatically. ‘You know what? I’m feeling generous today. I’ll do it, but only because I’m an extremely charitable person.’
‘I always said that about you. You do God’s work.’
‘A modern-day saint.’
His grin widens. ‘Are you ready now?’
‘Yeah, let me put on some shoes.’
‘I’ll wait out here. Take your time.’
Closing the door, I take a moment to try to get a hold of the sparks of excitement coursing through my body, making my hands tingle and my heart flip.
Tossing my phone on the bed, I grab my sandals and sit down to put them on, before treading into the bathroom to spritz my wrists with perfume.
Checking my reflection once again, I grab my room key and go to open the door again where I find Nico waiting, leaning against the wall of the corridor, his hands in his pockets.
He straightens when I appear and his face lights up.
His face lights up with every guest, I tell myself so I don’t get excited.
But I think it’s too late anyway.
I don’t realise I’ve forgotten my phone until much later in the evening when he gets up to go to the bathroom and I reach for it to busy myself. Surprised at myself, I make do with looking out at the view instead, tapping my fingernail on the base of my wine glass.
***
2011: Fifteen years ago