Page 23 of Vine

That deep booming voice again; there was no other sound like it. I could wrap myself up in its softened vowels and take a nap.

“That’s nice.”

His forearms were on point too. Sturdy, like they could move mountains. I imagined I’d feel quite at home in between those, too.

“Yeah. I’m lucky.”

Another drawn-out silence ensued, tension stringing the air like cheese wire. As potential television-show interview material, he was a hard pass. I’d give him another minute, gulp down my drink, then make my excuses. Lifting my mug to my mouth, I took a big sip, scalding my tongue but keen to get going.

“I’m m-m-making these today,” he said. And swallowed drily, like the words pained him.

Thesewere several halved oyster shells laid out on a sheet of newspaper in differing stages of completion. The hollowed insides of some were painted white, either with a first or second coat, and drying. The remainder had intricate designs paintedonto the white backgrounds—a blue lighthouse, the island outlined in green, a cheerful orange lobster, a delicate blush-pink seahorse.

“May I?”

He nodded again, and I picked one up, fully aware of his eyes on mine. “So beautiful. Do you sell them?”

“No.” Our fingers brushed as he took it from me, firmly placing it back with the others, as if I had designs on stealing it. “I… I d-do them for f-friends. These are for Éti.”

“You’re amazingly talented.” Maybe Éti was a girlfriend or a sister.

“Yeah. I am.”

I laughed. “Modest, too.”

Was he pleased at the compliment? It was hard to tell. Unperturbed by the fits and starts in conversation, he leaned back in the armchair, big thighs spread, sipping his chocolate. His half-lidded, contented expression reminded me of a monk I interviewed, years ago in Ireland, when Leigh and I did a shoestring travel programme. (It got axed after six episodes, as they aired it opposite a famous actor swanning around the stunning houses of his celebrity mates. We pulled in less than 400,000 viewers).

Anyhow, the monk had been ancient; he’d grabbed my hand in his gnarled wrinkly one and waffled on about bringing my energy level down to something softer, to lay down my panic and imagine I had no fingers, no toes, no tongue, or some such bullshit. And as he’d made a cross sign on my forehead with eyes full of pity, my irritation had flared. What did he know about negotiating love, a career, and modern life, having spent fifty years praying in a monastery more than thirty miles from the nearest Tesco?

Unlike the monk, no matter how odd Max's company, there was no denying its soothing qualities. Taking his cue, I drankdeeply of my own chocolate, savouring the melting warmth while endeavouring to embrace the quiet. The more I sat, the more I realised I wasn’t expected to fill the gaps in conversation, so I stopped trying. Which meant I slightly lost track of time, but fifteen minutes or more passed by in utter silence.

Somewhere behind me, the dog sighed in its sleep, and the fridge whirred on and off. A trickle of water sounded overhead, running down the roof into a drainpipe. Restful, humdrum sounds, normally lost under a buzz of chatter, traffic, social media messages, a blaring radio.

A couple of times, my eyes drifted closed. The day had been a pressure cooker of bad tempers: my own, Leigh’s incessant whingeing about his bad back, and Jonas sniping about anything and everything but most of it directed at me. Between takes, I’d escaped into my gatehouse, only to tie myself in knots fretting about the future, about the breakfast telly thing. Even there and alone, I couldn’t find a minute’s peace. A rational part of my brain instructed me to write a list of all the pros and cons the new job offered, while another part insisted on doing battle, rushing all the negatives onto all the positives until the whole lot coalesced into a seething mass of panic and I had to reach into my dwindling stash of acute anxiety meds to calm down enough to venture back on set.

Yet, with a hot mug of Max’s sweet chocolate cradled between my palms, the softness of the cushion behind my back, and the even rise and fall of his chest opposite, it felt like someone else’s tedious, neurotic day. Or yesterday, and I’d slept twelve hours in between.

Putting down his own mug, Max picked up one of the bare shells and began sanding the edge, each rhythmic scritch of the abrasive paper efficient and effective. It was almost as if he’d forgotten I was there.

“I should probably go,” I managed.

Behind my hand, I stifled a yawn. Perhaps I should add drinks with Max to my nightly bedtime ritual, because something was certainly encouraging my usual pile of anxieties to fall away.

“You can stay a while longer,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “Nicer here than at yours.”

There was no arguing with that. Warmer too. And so very, very peaceful. Drowsily, I tipped my head back, deciding to wait until he’d finished the current shell he worked on, then make my excuses.

A boom of thunder woke me, dry mouthed and disoriented and with a crick in my neck. And the dawning sensation that, once again, I’d slept at Max’s house and with Max watching over me. A woollen blanket had been tucked around my knees.

At least I still had my clothes on, but for fuck's sake. I was an utter embarrassment. And a total fucking mess.

More thunder rolled, closer this time, the clap making me jump. Anxiety skittered through my belly, sharper and brighter than the bolt of lightning heralding it, which was impressive for someone a tiddly bit scared of thunderstorms.

“It’s fine,” rumbled Max, like he’d poured olive oil between his vowels. “A storm’s only hit the house once.”

That wasn’t terribly reassuring.

“Burned the old house down,” he added, like I’d wanted to know.

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