Page 22 of Vine

I made her laugh, at least. “I dunno. Maybe because I’m scared that she’s going to be as wonderful as I remembered. And then what?”

“Then you find a job in Australia and fuck off out of here! Simple!”

Another huge sigh. “That sounds like an awfully Big Gay Adventure, Casp. What if it goes wrong?”

“What if it doesn’t?” I put on a cheesy voice. “It’s not about the years in your life. It’s the life in your years.”

She huffed a laugh. “Jonas’s desk calendar?”

“I couldn’t possibly comment. But you should do it.” We turned through the big gates into the driveway. “What could possibly go wrong?” I added. “I followed my heart onMy Big Gay Adventures, traipsing after Leigh into television, and look how well that turned out.”

“Caspian? I’m never going to fucking ask your advice ever again.”

“You won’t need to. You’ll be too busy scissoring your way across Australia. Go to bloody Amsterdam, woman.”

The last time I knocked on a man’s front door at seven-thirty in the evening clutching a gift, I earned a three-day sexual marathon followed by a marriage proposal. I’d be gobsmacked if this visit followed the same pattern, though, oddly, it still felt a little like a date. Perhaps because I’d already slept in the guy’s bed.

Max out of his waders made a pleasant change. Not that I had a problem with rubber, in the right setting, but fadedjeans stretched around thighs as big as my chest topped with a navy knitted sweater lent him a much less threatening air. More like he was on day release from an open prison instead of having absconded from a high-security one. Almostcuddlyif one ignored the intensity of his dark expression.

“Hi!”

I received a curt nod in lieu of hello, but I’d take it, seeing as the tool belt and its sharp implements were somewhere else. With my best smile, I held out a plastic bag containing my gift. “A little something for you. To say thank you. I hope you like this brand. I have it in England sometimes. It’s very good. Not full of palm oil, like some of them.”

Another nod. Taking the bag from me, he opened it and peered inside. Hesitating on the doorstep, seemingly forgotten, I unzipped my coat, dropping a not-so-subtle hint. For a brief second as he held out his giant hand for it, his soft, brown-eyed gaze latched onto mine. Yep, I could easily lose myself for a few hours in those beauties.

Wrestling myself out of my coat and scarf, which seemed to be tangled up in my sleeves, wasn’t awkward at all. I’d suddenly forgotten how undressing worked. He hung my old wax jacket on an empty coat peg like it was Versace couture.

“A drink,” he barked, after closing the door very deliberately behind me and shuffling off towards the kitchen area. I followed.

“So, Max,” I began brightly as he unwrapped the mugs. “Have you lived here long?”

“Three years, two months, and thirteen days.”

“Oh! That’s… Well, I like what you’ve done with the place.”

“Huh.”

With the precision of a Scandinavian architect, he made a place on the shelf for his new blue mugs while I hovered anxiously nearby, not sure what to do with myself. Then, taking down two different mugs, he spooned three precise heaps of hisown chocolate powder into each. I could have done with a glass of something alcoholic, but apparently, I was getting my daily calorific requirements all in one handy sugary drink again.

Dogs were reliable ice breakers, but Max’s was frustratingly disinterested and asleep in his basket, so I studied my surroundings while we waited for the milk to boil. Still the same layout as my own temporary digs, but all similarities ended there. During my last visit, the blue walls had snagged my concussed attention; this time, my eye was caught by all the bits and bobs lying around. A row of miniature shell collages lined a shelf above the fridge; a herd of intricate seahorses framed a shark, its dorsal fin a purple fan of mussel shells. More creations hung from the walls: a mirror encircled in driftwood, a heart fashioned from frayed rope, more shell designs.

“Wow! Is this all your own work?”

“Yeah.” Max nodded without turning from the stove. An uncomfortable silence took over. Never had the phrasea watched kettle never boilsfelt so apt. Bone tired, I was still recovering from whatever viral load had assaulted me. Perhaps I should have stayed on the doorstep, handed him my gift, and said goodbye.

Max’s movements were careful and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. Maybe he did, or maybe I’d become so used to the pacy whirl of city life and my own inner perpetual overdrive that normal felt like a freeze frame.

After several centuries came and went, the chocolate was mixed to his satisfaction, and I traipsed after him again, this time to the lounge area. He pointed to a plump leather armchair.

Aligning both steaming mugs on the low table between us, he settled into the more worn seat opposite with his hands wedged under his thighs, as if to stop them escaping. The table itself was a work of art, the base a cluster of sculpted driftwood logs moulded into the shape of a tree stump, then topped with a circleof toughened glass. The kind of bespoke item folk paid a fortune for in Chelsea. I ran my hand around the bevelled edge. “This is amazing. Did you make this, too?”

“Yeah.”

With his dark eyes focused on the patterned rug separating us, he stayed perfectly still, unbothered by the lack of conversation. Floorboards fidgeted more than him. For a long minute, the only sound was his slow, easy breathing. Any quieter and I’d hear the vines growing. Was it something I said?

If I thought the silence was awkward, it had nothing on my attempts to fill it. Like an internet browser with eight tabs open and all of them frozen, I scratched around for something suitable. “Have you always lived on the island, Max?”

“Yeah.”

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