Page 55 of Vine

“So maybe it does. Maybe I’m what you need. Your medicine.”

“What, two spoonsful of sex three times a day on an empty stomach?”

“No.” He raised himself on an elbow. “I don’t mean sex. I mean me. You’re calm here with me. You relax. You laugh. So you should stay. I’m going to make you stay.”

“You can’t imprison me and hold me to ransom, Max. People will come looking.”Perhaps.Although I doubted anyone would cough up the cash.

He pouted. “This isn’t a joke,la mer Caspienne!” Two brown eyes flashed with annoyance, and I smoothed a hand over his bicep.

“I know. And I’m not joking. Not really. I do feel better here. You do calm me.”

“So stay. Stay until the end of filming. Give me a chance to… to…” He flopped back down.

“To what?”

“To show you how good it can be. So that you don’t leave even when filming finishes,” he mumbled. “So you want to stay here and prune vines. So that every year you sit on my lap on thebeach in the summer and wear my hat when it’s cold in winter. And drink my hot chocolate, then sleep for ten hours and six minutes in my bed.”

“That’s… um, that’s a lot to ask of me, Max.”

I had no idea of the time, except that the sun was poking through the cracks in the shutters, and a car or two had crunched up and down the gravel drive. Voices in the distance signalled the TV crew were doing their thing. Today, or tomorrow at the latest, I’d have to leave Max’s warm bed and his cosy home and join them. I’d have to apologise to Emma, then hold my head high against the curious gazes of the crew. I’d have to reach a level of détente with Leigh and Jonas.

Like a live, slippery thing, a familiar swell of nausea, absent for the last twelve hours, undulated through my gut and I rested my forehead against Max’s solid chest. So real and clean, in a way the rest of my life wasn’t. And he was here, offering me freedom, if only I had the nerve to seize it.

“I’ll come back later,” I promised. “And I’ll stay every night until the end of filming if you’ll have me.”

We showered separately. As Max explained (I managed to keep a straight face considering what we’d just done), the bathroom was a private place where a man did private things, and respecting that was important. So, using my privacy, I took my time, putting Max’s surprisingly fancy toiletries to good use, while Max took Noir out for his morning wee and then made us hot chocolate. One day, maybe, he’d trust me with a caffeinated drink. Hearing the rattle of crockery as I left the bathroom, and with nothing more than a towel around my waist, I wandered towards his tiny kitchen in search of my lover, his dog, and my usual dose of sugary sustenance.

And stopped dead in my tracks, my brain stuttering as I processed the domestic scene. A pan of something had been placed on the gas ring. While waiting for it to boil, a slim, dark-haired woman idly gazed out of the window, washing a couple of plates.

A very, very famous slim, dark-haired woman.

Diving back into the bedroom, I located my lover sprawled across the bed with a big, sappy grin on his face and a hand shoved down his underwear, fondling himself. He withdrew hastily, his cheeks flaming. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

My brain kickstarted back into action. “Max, you weren’t supposed to see me taking a razor to my left wrist; I think we’ve gone way beyond secrets. More importantly, there is a world-famous soccer player doing the washing up in your kitchen. And I think she’s stolen your dog.”

“Aah, for fuck's sake.” He gave a huge, annoyed puff, like he was blowing down a house made from straw. “Éti,” he hollered, without moving from the bed. “This isn’t an emergency, either! Go away!”

I didn’t know what response I expected to elicit from him, but not that one. Fuck me. “That’s Éti?” I thumbed in the direction of the kitchen. “The woman you keep banging on about?Éti Salvador? TheÉti Salvador? And you didn’t think to mention that?”

“Éti Salvador-La Forge,” he corrected, like it fucking mattered. “Brother’s wife. And it wasn’t important. She’s retired now, anyway.”

Not important?“But still as famous as Jesus.”

He actually considered for a second; I half expected him to trot out a statistic. “Probably. But she’s breaking the rules.Again.”

“Max, my darling.” The woman in question appeared in the bedroom doorway, unperturbed, a tea towel slung over hershoulder and a sweet smile on her all-too-familiar face. “Just so we’re clear: is that ‘go away’ before I finish the washing up or after I’ve dried and put it away too?”

“After drying. And put the mugs on the shelf in the right order this time. Caspian’s here.”

Superfluous information, seeing as I hovered half-naked not two feet from Max’s megastar kitchen skivvy. Candidly, she appraised my puny pale body, and the good humour infused into my bloodstream from my injection of vitamin Max leached away. All my cuts were on show. I saw the moment she registered them, and her amused expression switched to something else.

My chest tightened. I might as well have wielded a neon flashing sign above my head readingfucking hopeless lunatic here. This very famous person, whose opinions were valued very highly by Max, would point that out to him.

And, all at once, I knew above anything else I didn’t want that to happen, because I had become a lot fonder of Max than my hopeless lunatic mind was letting me believe. In a too late effort to conceal them, or perhaps an idiotic means of holding myself up, I hugged myself.

“Caspian. Good to meet you. I’m Éti.” Her voice was a cool low breeze, sweeping through me and cataloguing all my flaws. Though her eyes were kind. “This slugabed is my favourite brother-in-law.”

“Only,” pointed out Max.

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