Chapter 20
20
I generally consider myself to be quite a boring person, and anything that makes me interesting never really seems to impress anyone. For starters, telling people I live in Canary Wharf usually earns me a few raised eyebrows and impressed nods. But that all changes when they actually see my shoebox of an apartment. They would be more impressed if I lived, I don’t know, literally anywhere else. Living in what people regard as a small home, in a nice area, seems to give some people the ick, almost like they find something offensively inauthentic about it, like they feel like they’ve been mis-sold someone well-to-do, who they imagined in a penthouse.
And then there’s my job. You’d think people would be impressed by the fact that I write books for a living, right? Wrong. Telling people I’m a writer mostly results in them looking at me like I just said I’m an aspiring wizard or I’m trying to manifest an income with the phases of the moon. It’s like they instantly imagine me as some penniless, self-published writer, typing away on an old computer in a messy bedroom (hey, my laptop is relatively new!). Which is hilarious, because the self-published writers I know are the ones raking in the big bucks, while I’m sitting here with my traditional publishing deal, struggling on, with no real freedom over what I get to write, or when (or where, it turns out) I get to write it.
Honestly, when people find out I write books, they just assume it’s a silly little hobby, not a real job. A self-indulgent act of creative whimsy. It’s only when they find out that my series did pretty well that they start to take me seriously. Not that I find it easy to tell people about my success; I tend to let them think I’m just another struggling writer instead. Ironically, I am struggling right now, but for completely different reasons.
Generally speaking, my day-to-day life is peaceful to the point of dull. I mean, sure, I manage to embarrass myself on a regular basis, and I keep myself entertained with a steady stream of ill-timed jokes, but nothing really exciting happens to me. Until this week, that is. This week has been like stepping into an alternate universe where everything that can go wrong will go wrong, in the most spectacular fashion, and with a healthy dose of massage oil over the lot of it.
I’ve been bouncing from one ridiculous situation to the next, constantly thinking to myself, I can’t believe this is happening or I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s like living in a sitcom, only without the laugh track to make me feel good about my jokes or better about my life choices.
Take right now, for instance. Here I am, standing at Caleb’s door, at the chalet he’s staying in, knocking and waiting for him to let me in. I can’t believe I’m here, or that this is happening, because this sort of thing never happens to me – and yet I feel like I’m uttering that phrase every few minutes.
‘Hello,’ he says, greeting me warmly as he opens the door. ‘Come in, it feels freezing out there.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, stepping inside and immediately feeling the warmth of the place.
This chalet – the honeymoon chalet, no less – is gorgeous. It’s got this large open-plan living space with a roaring fire that is practically insisting on romance. The décor is what you’d expect (or dream about, even) from a contemporary chalet in the Alps: lots of wood, plush furnishings, and views from every window, from every angle, each like a different postcard from the same stand. Looking out over the trees, and the snow, and the sky – nothing is moving. It really is like gazing at a work of art.
‘Wow, this place is really nice,’ I tell Caleb, trying not to sound too envious of how the other half live. ‘I’m staying in the old chateau, in the grounds. It’s nice, but it can be cold, and the hallways are a bit creepy. This is way more my scene.’
Well, if I could afford this scene, it would be.
Caleb smiles.
‘Yeah, it’s not like that here,’ he says. ‘Not lonely at all – even though I am on my own. I feel like I’m in the heart of the resort, living in luxury, but still with plenty of privacy. This place guarantees it for its guests, so that’s a bonus.’
I nod thoughtfully. Imagine having to worry about your privacy like that. As a writer, even if some people have heard of me, no one spots me in the street. I don’t have to worry about being stopped for a chat or a photo, being hassled, either in a well-meaning way or worse. Caleb must get mobbed wherever he goes, so places like this must be a nice break from real life for him. I guess, for all the good stuff he’s got going on, I have to feel a bit of sympathy on that count.
‘Well, as fun as it is here, there are still less distractions at the chateau than there are back home, which is good seeing as though I’m supposed to be here to finish my book before Christmas,’ I tell him – still not all that confident I’ll be able to do it.
‘How’s it going?’ he asks me.
‘Don’t ask,’ I reply.
Caleb opens his mouth, as if he’s going to say something, but something suddenly pops into my head and I just have to ask…
‘Hey, what was in your hamper?’ I ask curiously.
‘Erm, just romantic stuff,’ he says casually.
‘Like what though?’ I reply.
‘Oh, nothing special,’ he says. ‘Chocolate, rose petals, bubble bath.’
‘What?’ I squeak. ‘Are you serious? You got chocolate!’
‘I already ate it, obviously,’ he says. ‘Sorry. Didn’t you get any in yours?’
‘The closest thing I got to chocolate was flavoured lube,’ I tell him in disbelief.
‘What flavour?’ he asks with a curious smile.
‘Oi, I’m serious,’ I reply, stifling a laugh. ‘Mine was full of sex stuff. I opened it in front of people, it was so embarrassing.’
‘Ah, come on, there’s nothing embarrassing about a bottle of lube, it probably just looked like lotion or something,’ he reassures me.
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you’re right,’ I reply, but then I shift my tone. ‘And the big purple dildo that I flashed to everyone at the dinner table, I’m sure that probably looked like something else too – an effing penis!’
Caleb cracks up.
‘I don’t know what’s funnier,’ he says. ‘You whipping out a wanger at the dinner table, or the fact you say “effing” – I do know, it’s the dildo, but it’s all hilarious.’
‘It’s a force of habit,’ I tell him. ‘I use it in my books a lot of the time, because some people don’t like too much swearing.’
‘Really?’ he replies. ‘I love a good fuck.’
I flash him a smile.
‘And using the word too,’ he adds cheekily.
‘People say that swearing isn’t very creative, or it’s for people with a limited vocabulary, but just think about how versatile that one word really is. Fuck you – angry. Fuck me – shocked.’
‘Let’s fuck – horny. Fuck it – resignation,’ Caleb adds. ‘Hey, this is fun.’
I laugh, because it really is.
‘Let’s fuck with him – mischievous,’ I add. ‘Let’s fuck him up – violent.’
‘You’re so fucking awesome – compliment,’ Caleb says.
‘But you can substitute them for “eff”,’ I point out. ‘Don’t eff with me – threat.’
‘Oh, but the real thing just sounds much more impactful,’ he points out.
‘Well, I hope you enjoyed your free fucking chocolate,’ I joke.
‘Well, I’m not saying anything about what you got,’ he adds with a laugh.
‘I suppose you got this place for free too,’ I muse as I glance around the chalet.
‘Actually, no, I’m paying for my stay,’ Caleb replies. ‘I’m sure dropping my name helped me bag a last-minute booking, and they did offer me the chalet for free, but the catch with freebies is that you have to promote them. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here – and they did, so I thought best to book it with no strings attached. I figured if you were helping me out, well, if any photographers managed to sneak in, they’d see you weren’t Annabelle, and the jig would be up.’
‘Does it really have to be Annabelle in your photos?’ I ask curiously. ‘If they just want you to plug products on a romantic break, surely you can do that with any girl?’
Caleb pulls a face, as though he’s mulling things over again, but then he seems to land on the same conclusion.
‘I think because I made the deals while I was with Annabelle, and we were basically everyone’s favourite couple on Instagram, brands might not want to see me peddling romance with someone new,’ he points out. ‘No one even knows we broke up, so it might seem like I’ve moved on really quickly, or like I’m cheating on her – the optics would be all wrong. The brands might pull their deals, and I’d lose out on a lot of money.’
I wonder just how important money is to Caleb. It seems like it’s very important, although I guess money is important to everyone. Living isn’t getting any cheaper. And money is the reason I’m here, so I really can’t judge him, can I?
I was never a fan but I certainly saw a lot of Caleb and Annabelle online. They were Instagram’s sweethearts. Everyone loved them – except for me. Personally, I was always sick of seeing their smug, loved-up faces everywhere (although, thinking about it, that’s probably something that goes hand in hand with being so single for so long). If I hadn’t met Caleb, I probably would have felt a weird relief at their break-up, to not have to see their seemingly unrealistic, blissfully happy life, but I did always view their relationship cynically, like it was one big marketing ploy. Sitting here now, hearing what Caleb wants me to do, doesn’t exactly change that, but I do get the sense that he actually liked her. Plus, any break-up sucks, right?
‘Okay, so, what’s the plan?’ I ask, ready to get down to business.
Caleb motions for me to sit down on the sofa by the roaring fire. I oblige, sinking into the softness, while he retrieves a suitcase from the other side of the room. He drags it over with a grunt, unzips it, and starts pulling out items like a magician pulling endless random items out of a hat.
‘So, here’s the deal,’ Caleb begins, spreading out a collection of clothes, accessories, and random gadgets on the coffee table. ‘I have bags full of products and whenever I fulfil my end of the deal and share something on my socials, I get paid. Each product pays a different amount. For example…’ He rummages through one of the bags and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. ‘I have a selection of items from a well-known trendy adult store, and products like these tend to pay higher.’
I blink at him, unable to hide my surprise. Not that you make more money from stuff like that, just at the sight of him dangling handcuffs in my direction.
He quickly waves his free hand, as he stuffs the handcuffs back in the case.
‘We don’t have to do anything like that, I’m just saying,’ he adds.
I let out a sigh of relief. Well, I’ve seen my fair share of things in the romance hamper, but if I couldn’t even bring myself to wear nipple tassels in my own company, I’m not sure playing sexy dress-up with Caleb is going to feel like a casual walk in the park.
‘So, do you think we can really pull this off?’ I ask him, changing the subject, although probably not choosing the best words. It’s ironic that, even though I’m a writer, I always seem to put my foot in it with my choice of words.
‘So long as we don’t get your face in the shot, no one is going to be able to tell the difference,’ Caleb insists. ‘Unless you have any secret tattoos – you don’t, do you?’
‘Only the one of Vincent van Gogh’s Starry Night that covers most of my back,’ I reply with a completely straight face. ‘But don’t worry, it won’t be a copyright issue, because in mine all of the stars are replaced with breasts.’
Caleb stares at me, wide-eyed.
‘I’m joking!’ I quickly insist. ‘No, no tattoos. I’m too indecisive, and too much of a baby – at least I think I am.’
‘Oh, you’re cracking jokes?’ Caleb teases with a grin. ‘I forgot you make those. That’s all good then. The gig is yours.’
I muster up some faux enthusiasm – although, if I’m being honest I’m actually incredibly curious about the process, and am oddly looking forward to playing at being an influencer, even if it’s only for a few days.
‘So, when do we start, boss?’ I ask.
‘When are you free?’ he replies.
‘Well, I’m having dinner with the other writers this evening,’ I reply. ‘So, tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow sounds great,’ he says.
‘What will you do tonight?’ I ask, curious about his plans.
‘Oh, I’ll find something to amuse myself,’ he replies with a shrug. ‘Did you know they have a nightclub here?’
‘Wow, really?’ I say, genuinely surprised. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Yeah, they have all sorts,’ he tells me. ‘Maybe we can do some exploring together.’
‘That would be great,’ I say, wondering if they have anything else I should make the most of while I’m here, on my free trip, hanging out with the king of freebies.
‘Yeah, I know how to treat my fake girlfriend,’ he jokes.
‘Oh, please,’ I reply, playfully holding up my hand in a stop motion. ‘I’m more like your prop girlfriend, if anything. Right, well, I’ll get going. See you tomorrow.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ he replies with a smile. ‘Maybe we can take you to get your nails done in the morning.’
‘What’s wrong with my nails?’ I ask, offended for a split second, but as I glance down at my dark purple nails, now chipped and in need of some serious TLC, I can see where he’s coming from.
‘You’re going to be holding lots of things in your hands,’ he points out. ‘The nails always have to be on point.’
‘I bet they don’t for the men,’ I clap back, eyeing his hands.
Caleb holds out his hands, and okay, he does actually have really nice nails for a bloke. They don’t look like they’ve been manicured, necessarily, but they’re neat, with just enough shine to not be suspicious.
‘Fair enough,’ I say with a laugh as I head for the door. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ he replies, still grinning.
I head back out into the cold – boy, it always feels worse, when you’ve been warm for a while.
Okay, truthfully, I am actually really looking forward to this weird little project. It will be nice to have an interesting life for once, even if it is only for a few days – and it isn’t technically my life.