Page 25 of Vine

“Honestly, Em. I must have the fastest case of Stockholm Syndrome ever. I’m going to google it and see.”

“Mmm?”

The weather had finally turned over a page. While summer was still light years away, the wind and rain were interspersed with patches of weak afternoon sunshine, occasionally warranting a removal of coats. For the first morning in a long time, I woke with two patent nostrils. Even more excitingly for everyone else (although an end to the daily updates on the state of my sinuses probably thrilled Emma more than I’d ever know), shiny green stuff sprouted from the vines. Leaf buds!

“Hear me out. I spend one night with the guy, 99 percent of it unconscious. Then, every time I catch sight of him, I can’t work out if he’s a) stalking me, b) plotting my untimely death either by snake-assisted asphyxiation or a gutting with a sharp chisel, or c) that hunky Max is a figment of my overactive, overcaffeinated imagination, and everyone is playing along because you all feel sorry for me. And, as if that wasn’t enough, he looks like he’s just emerged from the Australian outback after going walkabout for six months. And yet… I kind of fancy him? Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

“Um… perhaps that you’ve not had any for over a year?”

During the long winter evenings, as predicted, Emma and I had ticked off a few intimate secrets. My sexual drought was no longer one of them.

“Oh, and he’s drugging me with organic hot chocolate. Did I tell you that? His conversation, or lack thereof, literally sends me to sleep.”

The late-night hot chocolate and snooze-fest had happened three times now. As had the blanket, the walk home afterward and the cheek kiss. This morning, I examined my stubbled, ordinary cheeks long and hard in the bathroom mirror, trying to ascertain their attraction, whether they held any special attributes. Nothing sprung out.

“Is he into you? Or even gay?”

“Maybe.” I shrugged. “It’s hard to tell what he is, to be honest.”

“He’s had several opportunities to kill you, though, and not followed through.” Emma sounded both surprised and impressed. “So I think we can scribble serial killer off the list.”

“Super, now I shall sleep much easier tonight. Especially as he has a key to my gatehouse. He changed the bulb in the porch so I wouldn’t trip in the dark. And he holds my hand and walks me back across the yard.”

She smiled. “That’s very cute.Love is in the little things, according to Jonas’s desktop calendar.”

“Hah! He’d know. I’ve seen his dick.”

“Why don’t you have a holiday fling with him, if he’s game?”

“Who, Jonas?” I shuddered. “No thank you. Been there, done that. Or, rather, wasdoneby that.”

“No, Max, you idiot. It might take your mind off everything.”

“What, like I should hire a gondola for the afternoon and invite him to come under my blanket?”

I waggled my eyebrows at her, and she chuckled. “Maybe he has one waiting and ready. Maybe he’s whittled it out of a log he found lying around on the beach. Like Robinson Crusoe.”

Having seen Max’s other creations, I wouldn’t put it past him. “Hi, Max. Is that a gondola in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?”

“I think you should consider it, though,” she said. “You like him, and he’s very different to Leigh. What have you got to lose?”

Over the last couple of days, a combination of green leaves on the vines and Max’s weird brand of voodoo had me feeling almost normal. And now Leigh was spoiling it, wandering into my hexagonal refuge uninvited and making himself comfortable on the tatty sofa. Makingmeuncomfortable. “Jonas has suggested we leak to the press that we’re not together. In the run-up to the show. You know, drop the odd rumour here and there hinting we’ve been battling relationship problems. You might have been ‘overheard’ saying how heavy a toll some of our more stressful projects have been on you.”

My stomach shrank in on itself. “Jonas can get to fuck.”

Before, Leigh had agreed we’d wait until our media careers were over, or at least going through a lull so we could separate without fanfare. He hadn’t foreseen a problem; Jonas wasn’t loudly out anyhow, so they weren't desperate to parade their new relationship in front of the cameras.

So what was the deal? If it was purely to improve the show ratings, then they could take a hike. My mental health was way more important. To me, at any rate.

“I knew you’d formulate a measured, mature response.”

“Sorry, Leigh, but what did you expect?What an excellent idea! Let’s splash my mental health crisis all over social media!”

“Jeez, Casp. That’s not what I’m saying. You don’t fucking listen. All I’m saying is…” He dropped his voice, as if Jonas was crouched outside under the window with a mic and a zoom lens. I wouldn’t have put it past him. I caught him snapping me again yesterday as I snuck in my lunchtime dose of venlafaxine. And not for the first time. “If, after this project, you and I are going into another venture together, then it makes sense, doesn’t it? What if we suddenly hit the big time? With this breakfast show, for instance? At some point people are going to find out.”

“Yes, I agree. But when they do, I want it to be on my terms, not Jonas’s.”

Even I thought I sounded whiny.

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