Page 15 of Vine

“Kaa,” he agreed. Not a French word. Maybe we weren’t in France after all.

The mug of hot chocolate wasn’t bottomless. When I reached the bitty dregs, the man pulled it away from me, exchanging it for two white tablets which he tipped into my palm along with a glass containing an inch of water. “Now this. Dolipranes.”

Paracetamol. I eyed them dubiously while my throat screamed to swallow them. They looked like paracetamol, just as I assumed the clear liquid to be water. I sensed two brown eyes staring at me. “Dolipranes,” he repeated. “1000 mg. For fever. And injuries.”

Fuck it. I swallowed them, wincing at the intense bitterness. Yep. Paracetamol, not poison. I guzzled my cold-water chaser, a balm against my poor throat.

“Good boy,” his voice rumbled.Boy? Fuck, was he addressing me or the dog? Because,ahem, while I couldn’t deny I had an attraction to, you know, big hulking giants with laps I could get lost in, the whole daddy thing was a stepwaytoo far.

A meaty hand landed on my forehead. “Very hot. More chocolate.”

God, no. I’d have diabetes before the morning was out. Was it still morning? I levered myself up. “Thanks,” I croaked, “but I should be going.”

The hand moved from my forehead to my chest, pushing me down again like I weighed nothing at all. “Too ill.” The big head shook. “Need more chocolate and rest.”

My sleepover was see-sawing towards a kidnapping. “I need to use the bathroom,” I blurted. Perhaps once I was out of bed, I could locate my clothes and the front door. And all that hot chocolate had to go somewhere. “Please?” I added hopefully.

He passed me a towel, and I awkwardly shuffled around in the bed, covering my nakedness with it. When I stood, two things became overt. One: smacking my head against hard surfaces—not once, but twice—did not agree with me. And second, my legs had turned to sponge. If my strange rubbery friend hadn’t caught me, I’d be banging my noggin for a third time. Using the facilities while he hovered outside the open door, then crawling back into bed, exhausted every ounce of energy I had left.

“Soup, not chocolate,” he decided, based on nothing but the sway of my legs and the alabaster tinge to my skin, as far as I could tell. Who was I to disagree? I’d hardly be pampered back at the ranch: Emma had plans to spend a day visiting a winery on the mainland. My own modest plans had been to scout out thebird sanctuary over at Les Portes, while Leigh and Jonas could go fuck themselves. Again.

Anyhow, despite numerous suitable sharp tools at his fingertips, so far, my kidnapper seemed in no hurry to bump me off. Indeed, from the steaming bowl of tomato soup delivered on a tray to my sickbed, he had designs on fattening me up first.

Except for my slurps, I ate in silence under the watchful gaze of my captor. “Nice,” I croaked, although I could hardly taste it, what with my blocked nose. Halfway through, I broke out in a sweat, like the hot soup was leaking through my pores, and he took the bowl from me.

“Sleep again now.”

If I’d been in my right mind, I would have protested. But I wasn’t, so I didn’t, and snuggled down again. Deep inside, a dazed part of me acknowledged it had been a long time since I’d felt so cared for. A feeling magnified much later as I drowsily, feverishly tossed and turned. My saviour placed a cold compress on my brow and stroked my ordinary-sized soft hand between his massive coarse mitts.

Like a good bottle of wine, a whole afternoon slipped by. When I woke, briefly unsure of my whereabouts, the man was hovering over me. He held out a bundle of clothing I recognised as my pyjamas and jacket, now dry and neatly folded.

“Dress. Now. You have to go.”

His change in demeanour felt like whiplash to my poor battered head. As he issued his commands, he nodded rapidly, his fingers twitching as if playing air guitar. For a moment, I found myself in the unusual situation of being the least anxious person in the room. Until his eyes flicked down to where my bare arms rested on the duvet and then away just as quickly, like he couldn’t bear to look. Hot embarrassment skittered over me. My latest razor wound was covered in a fresh dressing Ididn’t recognise. Muddled, unhappy teenagers cut themselves; affluent, successful thirty-somethings didn’t.

“Dress,” he repeated. “Need to go to work.”

The situation would have been comical if it hadn’t been so odd. My new friend made a deliberate pantomime of steadfastly studying the wall and not, you know, my pale naked dangly bits. I sat on the edge of the bed and eased my aching body back into clothes. Glancing around for the first time since I’d arrived, I realised where we were from the shape and dimensions of the room, although the similarity between the two gatehouses stopped there. This one made me feel like a goldfish in an aquarium, looking out. Blue walls, blue furniture, blue kitchen. All covered with colourful stuff—ropes, cloth, sticks and stones, sea glass. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry to get rid of me, I’d have absorbed my surroundings more.

As soon as I got to my feet, much steadier than earlier, the man marched to the door and flung it wide, the blast of cold air in stark contrast to the snug colourful den. A big hand, gentle but firm, almost pushed me through it. At least the rain had called a temporary ceasefire.

“Bye then, and, um… thank you,” I said inadequately.

I think I heard a muttered ‘bye’ as the door slammed shut behind me? Although it might have been the wind.

By my calculations, it was early evening, though ripped pyjama bottoms, snot, and a bloodstained coat were never a good look at any time of day. No one else had noticed my absence, or especially cared if they had. Over one corner of the vineyard, a small marquee had been erected, ready for a new day of filming tomorrow. A couple of guys were half-heartedly setting up boom lighting under the shelter.

Staggering into the kitchen, I collapsed into the nearest chair. “Okay, so I now need to grow my hair, change my name by deed poll, and emigrate to Cuba. Like, today. Although Cuba might not be far enough. Perhaps I’ll join a space mission. How far away does one need to travel to outrun utter mortification? Asking for a friend.”

“Caspian!” Sending a plate splashing back into the sink, Emma hurried over. “My God, are you alright?”

Dabbing at my puffy lips, my finger came away with crumbs of dried blood. The taste of tomato soup still lingered. I hadn’t yet been blessed with a mirror, but the skin around my right eye had a tight, tingling feel, as though it would be happier with the lid closed. “Been better, since you asked.”

She hovered over me. “What the hell has happened?”

I swallowed, painfully; I still had a sore throat. Outside, rain diligently fell from a gloomy grey sky; the temporary respite was over. “If I told you I’d been abducted by aliens, it would be no less believable than the truth.”

“My God, your pyjamas are all torn! I assumed you were still at the bird sanctuary. Or driven into the village afterwards or something.”

---