Page 19 of Vine

“Did he walk back home unaided when he woke? Did his head seem okay then?”

It had been more of a brisk trot, really, and he’d glanced back at me a couple of times, like he was nervous, but I nodded. “Yes, he said thank you and walked just fine. He even patted Noir and told me what a nice dog I had.”

In a fluid movement, Éti stood, reminding me she was an athlete and not a seamstress. She only came up to my shoulder, but she had a way of filling a room anyhow.

“I’ll tell you what I think you should do,” she said, which was exactly what I’d hoped, because I’d visited her for sensible advice, not to be a dressmaker’s mannequin. “Pop along when they’re out working the vines and see how he is. You’re the owner—you have every right to visit.” She laughed. “You never know. You might find yourself starring on film!”

Ohmon dieu, no. “They don’t know me. They don’t know I’m the owner. They probably think I’m just a strange person living in the gatehouse.”

“Aah, yes, quite possibly.” She flashed me the chipped-tooth smile. “Those two positions aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive.” Her eyes levelled with mine, and I looked away. “That’s me teasing you. I love you just as you are.”

“I know.”

I liked Éti teasing me; not many people did. It made me feel normal. She sighed, a happy sigh. “Sometimes, Max, usually after I’ve spent a week in Paris, I come back here and think you’re the sanest person I know.”

As did adorable comments like that. She tapped my fingers, just as they started to twitch. “Now I think about it, it would seem odder if youdidn’tcheck up on him. After caring for him so well. Wouldn’t it?”

I’dloveto. The man had a small birthmark in the shape of an upside-down scallop shell below his right nipple, which distracted me when I was pulling off his socks. “Yes, definitely. I should check up on him. See him again.”

That came out too eagerly, and Éti, being Éti, picked up on it. She cocked her head. “And…aah… this man. Is he, you know…” Her calm fingers stroked across my fidgety ones. “Attractive?”

I’d tried my hardest not to look at his cold, pale body while he slept, but it burned a hole in my mind. I shuffled my feet. “Yes, but you have to unpin the dress now. I have to go.”

Smiling, Éti removed the dress without complementary acupuncture. I hurried to the door, eager to get back home now I had a plan. And to avoid more questions because Éti was the only person alive who knew I was gay, even though we had never talked about it.

She called after me. “Max, my love?”

“What.” I waited impatiently because walking out when someone was still speaking was rude.

“Can you… could you…” She screwed her face up a bit, as if trying to find the right word. I knew exactly how that felt. “I want you… would you tell me if you think you are becoming… um… fixated on this man? I promise I won’t tell Nico. Just so that we can… um… make sure it doesn’t happen?”

“I won’t!” My voice was loud, too loud. That happened when I was annoyed. “I don’t do that anymore!”

“Please don’t shout at me, Max,” she said mildly. “You know I’m your biggest fan. I just want to be sure everyone else appreciates your assets too. And don’t slam the door behind you, my love, even though you want to.”

A few days passed before I plucked up the courage to accidentally bump into him. When I did, I slunk along the farthest row of vines from the filming vans, but the nearest to my house. I took Noir, to give the impression I was no different to any other normal person out walking my dog. Dogs were useful props, according toPerfect Peach, for blending in and striking up conversation.

The lady spotted me first, the busy blonde who instructed all the others how to prune the vines. She seemed to know what she was doing; I’d watched her at work yesterday from my kitchen window. Turned away from me, my man stood a couple of feet apart from her, and I was pleased to observe he wore trousers more suited to the weather conditions. From my very casual and not at all stalkerish observations over the last few days, the two appeared to be friends.

Spying and fixating were very different things. The author ofPerfect Peachwould not approve of fixating, whereas familiarising yourself withthe rhythmsof a potential partner were okay. So yes, I might have occasionally spied on the man, but only in a neighbourly way. For instance, when he was outside in a public space, and only when I didn’t have important things to do. And never with my binoculars. Whereas if I was fixated on him, then I would have followed him every time he disappeared off in the car with one of the camera crew. And told my dad I was ill so I could stay home from work. I would have recorded everything he wore too, alongside a list of everything he should have been wearing instead to keep himself warm. Because,honestly, in this exceptionally cold February, the coldest since 2012 when recorded temperatures dropped as low as -5 degrees Celsius? With a wind speed peaking at 23.2km/h? The man was a danger to himself.

A canvas tent had been erected beyond them, foolhardy given the incoming forecast, and another pair of men were huddling in it, doing nothing, while a couple of other people unpacked some lighting equipment.

The lady tapped my man on the shoulder and said something to him in English. He twisted to look. I had to pay close attention to read people’s faces, and I didn’t always get it right, but on this occasion, I didn’t think he was cross. Or, thankfully, forever maimed because I hadn’t looked after him properly. All his limbs were working fine. The woman didn’t seem too pissed off, either.

When I spoke, I tried to look him in the eyes—Perfect Peachstressed the importance of regular eye contact—but they were such a distracting shade of blue. I had to compromise and focus on his left earlobe instead. “I should have taken you to the hospital. Sorry I didn’t. And there will be a sharp frost tonight, only the fourth in the last sixteen months, so you need to shore up the roots along this outer row. And don’t go outside in your pyjamas again. It will be too cold for pyjamas; the estimated temperature range overnight will be between -2 and -4 degrees Celsius even without taking the wind chill factor into consideration. According to my meteorological app. You should download one.”

I made my mouth do a smile, ensuring he could see my teeth because my sister Zoë once informed me that they were quite nice, and she hardly ever complimented me on anything. Before I left the house, I’d practised. The words too, except the part about the frost. That just came out, in one big word salad. Partly because up this close, and vertical, not horizontal, the man wasquite short and not especially hardy-looking. Not a man suited to battling frost.

A yellow bruise bloomed under his eye, but the eye was fully open, and his lip was back to a normal size except for the edge of the lower one, which had a cold sore. His brain must have been working okay too because he was trimming stems with a blue pair of secateurs and still owned eight fingers and two thumbs. Though, even without rain drops falling on them, his smooth cheeks were pale. This many days later, I still felt an urge to run my nose across one and smell it, or maybe kiss it.

To distract myself, I motioned towards the secateurs. “Keep your left hand out of the way when you cut with your right. Like she does.”

People had turned to watch us. Was I making a scene? I didn’t think so, but I backed off, in case I was standing too close. I did that sometimes. I knew he understood French, because he’d obeyed when I’d told him to put his clothes back on and go home. Anxious I’d be late for work, I’d rushed him out of the house. (And, also, him lying in my bed naked had made my penis grow erect, and I panicked he’d notice.)

Everyone fell silent. Was he waiting for me to speak again? People were always quick with advice aboutinitiatingconversations—Perfect Peachdedicated two entire chapters to it—but in my humble opinion, finishing them could be equally as awkward. “Your secateurs; they’re sharp, so be careful. And dry them when you’ve finished with them, maybe oil them. Don’t leave them out to rust in the frost.”

The man seemed taken aback at my useful advice. His mouth flopped open, but the woman appeared very chilled. Recognised a knowledgeable fellow country worker, no doubt. “He won’t,” she replied, in heavily accented French. “I’ll make sure of it.”

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