Page 44 of A Very Happy Thanksgiving
“And he’s…sunbathing?”
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on any more than you do.”
“He doesn’t exactly look distressed.”
“Yes, I can see that,” I snapped in a whisper.
Snapped because I’d flown my ass all the way to Indonesia to save a man I hadn’t spoken with in a decade, and he was sitting in the sunshine reading a paperback. Relief warred with irritation.
“So, should we rescue him, or what?”
If it hadn’t been for the chain attached to Marc’s ankle that snaked away into the darkness, my answer would have been “Or what.” Was this a setup? And where was Serena?
Nothing about this made sense.
“Guess we’d better call it in.”
And prepare for the inevitable “I told you so” from Emmy.
CHAPTER 17
Marc
If it weren’t for the intense humidity and carnivorous flying beasts that dive-bombed him every seven seconds, this might almost have felt like a vacation. Marc couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to just sit in peace with a book, no ringing phone, no PA asking questions, no expectations, no guilt. He’d gotten through over a hundred pages of the spy thriller already, and it wouldn’t make a bad movie. Maybe he should call someone about that?
He slapped at a mosquito. These bugs were the Olympic athletes of the insect world—fast, determined, eyes on the prize. He was beginning to think Serena had the right idea. She’d used moth-eaten cushions to build a makeshift couch in the barn-slash-gazebo, out of the heat of the sun and protected by mosquito nets. Light filtered in through gaps in the roof and woven walls, because like everything else around here, the gazebo had seen better days.
Serena didn’t want to come outside, partly because of the bugs, but also because the Whispers in Willowbrook script called for her to be pale as fuck—there was even a joke about her getting out more in the opening scene—and the director would no doubt be irritated if she showed up pink. And Marc had to think positive—they would be going back to Malati to finish filming. After he split with Phae, negative thoughts had plagued him for years, sending him spiralling into a darker and darker place until his agent gave him an ultimatum: get therapy, or she’d quit. Since Margaret had made his career, he’d picked the therapy. And he wasn’t going back to the darkness, not literally, and not metaphorically.
Katie—who seemed to be their designated chaperone—had opted to sit in the gloom too. When Marc called her a ghoul, she’d snapped back, told him that her mom had died from cancer, cancer that had started off as a small, seemingly innocuous mole on her back. So he’d felt like a shit and been forced to apologise. Anyhow, the girls were inside, and he was outside with a paperback and plenty of sunscreen.
“Do we have any bug spray?” he called to Katie.
“There’s some in the house.”
“Well, could you get it? I’d go myself, but…” He jingled the chain on his ankle.
“Why don’t you just unchain us?” Serena asked. “We’re not going to run off and die in the jungle.”
“I doubt you’d die—there’s plenty of water around, and you could forage for food.”
“Knowing my luck, I’d eat something poisonous. That’s if I didn’t get chomped by a lion first.”
“There are no lions in Indonesia.”
“Thank goodness for small mercies, eh?” Marc said.
“Only tigers and leopards,” Katie continued. “Although statistically speaking, you’re more likely to get killed by a mosquito. Did you take your malaria pill this morning?”
“Of course I did. Can you fill up the water jug when you go get the bug spray? Hydration is important.”
Katie huffed as she pushed herself up off the cushions, and Marc gave a shrug and returned to his book. If she didn’t want to keep running errands, then perhaps she shouldn’t have joined a kidnapping gang?
She’d barely made it up the steps into the main house—shack, whatever you wanted to call it—when the bush twenty yards from him began moving.
Huh?
What the actual fuck?
