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He waited until my humiliating snivelling slowed to an occasional humiliating snuffle. And then he spoke again, continuing from where his text messages had finished. “The proper name for Siberian salmon is a taimen fish. Russians call them river wolves because they hunt in packs, like real wolves. But they don’t go on land, obviously. They mostly eat other, smaller fish, but they can also chase birds, such as ducks, if they are very hungry. Have you cut yourself today.”

“Yes.”

“Have you always cut yourself.” He asked in that strange, urgent way I was getting used to, the sentence like one big, unified word that would disappear if he didn’t hurl it out. French vowels fell into each other anyhow; Max took it to a whole new level.

I sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly before replying.

“Yes. I started when my dad died. I was fourteen.” I wiped my hand across my nose. “He died of cancer. I was at boarding school, and my mum found a new man quite quickly afterwards.”

“Was your dad nice.”

“Yes. He was.”

There was a pause except for Max’s steady breathing. And then, “My mum died of cancer too. When I was nineteen. Breast cancer. She had the BRCA2 genetic mutation.”

“I’m… I’m sorry to hear that, Max.”

“I stopped speaking when she died,” he divulged, so loudly I moved the phone from my ear. “I have an autistic spectrum disorder, along with 1-2 percent of the adult population of France. But I’m not ill. With my disorder, I mean. I’m happy.”

Even as tears dribbled down my cheeks, he managed to make me smile. “I know. And I think… I think your …um… disorder is one of your biggest strengths.”

“Sometimes,” he agreed cheerfully. “My dad’s girlfriend, Colette, has helped me a lot. She’s a psychologist. She could help you too.”

I didn’t tell him I’d seen enough psychologists to fill a psychologist’s entire waiting room.

“When are you coming back. I want to see you.”

“You don’t want to see me, honestly. I’m a mess. I…I…” I pictured Max, lying back on his blue pillows, Noir warming his feet. Surrounded by the essence of his simple life: his shelves of books, his whittling, his driftwood and his favourite mugs. The rich fullness of it, in contrast to the weight of my emptiness. “You’re great, Max. You have… so much to offer. You don’t need me coming along and disrupting all that, then buggering off again.”

“I decide what I need. I’m autistic, not stupid.”

He was far from that. “I know. Sorry.”

“And I know what I need. You. And I want you to stop cutting yourself. Promise you won’t do it again tonight.”

Promise was too big a word; I knew because I’d made so many to myself only for them to burst as easily as a balloon on a rose thorn. If Max knew me better, he’d have not asked. I compromised. “I’ll try my very hardest. But only if you tell me more about Russian salmon.”

CHAPTER 13

MAX

Seeing as I wasn’t obsessed or stalking, I didn’t own a single photo of Caspian. After he ended our call, I really wished I did, so I could look at him. He’d confided some very important information about himself, the types of things people kept private unless they really liked you. According toPerfect Peach,you couldn’t wear a mask in a healthy relationship, which I thought was the author being sniffy about sadomasochism until Colette explained it was a metaphor. The author was making the point (badly, we both agreed) that although it took courage, it was important to let your lover see your insecurities. Next time I saw him, I needed to explain to Caspian that I didn’t have any. Otherwise, he’d assume he was the only one of us sharing.

If I couldn’t have the real Caspian to hold close and comfort (and maybe make my penis more comfortable too), then a picture of him was the next best thing. So I searched him online, via the name of the television show the production company had given me when they leased the vineyard.

And then wished I hadn’t. As did my phone screen, my latest pot for Colette, my favourite blue mug, dozens of half-paintedoyster shells, my bookcase and every book stored on it, and my floor. Even Noir, cowering in his basket.La mer Caspiennemight have dropped one mask, but it had been hiding another, and one he had no intention of ever sharing with me.

After my rampage made me feel no better whatsoever, I did what I always did. I climbed behind the wheel of my favourite blue tractor and drove off.

I evaded Nico until the following afternoon. By then, my rage had spiralled to pain, though I still grasped a part of it, like a red-hot coal, ready to lob at my brother when he finally caught up with me. The pain part sat behind my rib cage, a dull achy thing. I’d lob that at him too, if I could.

Swinging his long legs up, Nico settled himself on the tractor bonnet as though he was planning on staying a while. When I was younger, he’d track me down, then squeeze onto the driver’s seat alongside me. I’d grown too big for that. But not too big he’d stop coming to find me when things got a bit much, although sometimes I’d make it tricky for him and find a quiet spot I’d not used before. Late last night, after I ran out of things to trash, I hadn’t been in the mood for games and parked up at a regular haunt, overlooking a quiet stretch of beach outside La Couarde.

He handed me a cigarette. Neither of us smoked regularly anymore, but it was part of the ritual. We both lit up, and I blew out a long stream of smoke.

“Do you feel like telling me what’s wrong?”

“Nope.”

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