Page 19 of You Had Me at Chateau
‘Well, I’m proud of you for going,’ she tells me. ‘And it really is a shame that Caleb isn’t single. I saw him on Amy’s phone – phwoar.’
I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mum say phwoar before.
I hook my arm with my mum’s as we head back to the lounge.
I just need to get to France, get my book finished, and get back here to my family.
Well, whatever is left of it.
8
Have you ever had a dream so vivid that when you wake up you briefly forget what’s real and what isn’t? Like, one minute you’re trying to write your Academy Award acceptance speech with Ryan Gosling kissing your neck, and the next, you’re face down on your pillow, drooling. That’s me right now. I can’t even remember what I was dreaming about last night, not really, but as I stir awake, the fog lifts and the reality of my life sets in. Shit. I’m going to France. Actual France, the country, tomorrow, with barely a couple of weeks to go until Christmas. If it were any other time, under any other circumstances, I’d be buzzing. I mean, who wouldn’t want to jet off to France and sip champagne by the Seine (I know that’s not what I’m doing, but I’m a writer, and that sounds better for the purposes of my rant)? But everything about this trip just feels wrong.
Still lying face down on my pillow, I fumble around on my bedside table, slapping it with the flat of my hand until I manage to grab my phone. I roll over and hold it up in front of my tired eyes, squinting at the screen. Unsurprisingly, there’s the usual stack of notifications from various apps that I wake up to every morning. But when I check my emails (which, admittedly,is probably not the healthiest way to start the day, and yet I always do it), there’s nothing from my editor about the trip. Supposedly, Jen was sending my flight and hotel information through, but nope, nothing, nada – I wish I knew the French word for ‘nothing’ so I could say that too. Oh, imagine if she’s changed her mind! If she’s had a rethink, or better yet, she’s read my new manuscript and decided that yes, she does like it, and it does work, and I can save myself the stress of heading off on a trip when what I really want to be doing is getting into the festive spirit, and getting a head start on my ‘season’s eatings’. Any other time I would be jazzed to have this opportunity, but not at Christmastime, not when I have a book to write with a gun to my head.
I drag myself out of bed and fire up my coffee machine. Yes, I know that it’s a cliché to say I’m powered by coffee, but I really am. I feel like my brain doesn’t even start to function until I’ve had at least one cup, and I need at least two before I can do anything. I always turn on my coffee machine before I even turn on my laptop, it’s that important to the process. My laptop, which is on my sofa, can wait a few more minutes.
I really like living in the city in my apartment but it’s oh-so tiny. I rent a one-bed aimed at young professionals – although, hilariously, I feel like neither of those things. I live in Canary Wharf, which often makes people jump to the conclusion that I’m doing very well for myself and living in a swanky pad. The reality is, I’m not exactly in the heart of it (although I can see it from my window, and it’s a stunning view), so it does feel more like I’m on the outside, looking in. Instead, I’m in the equivalent of the cheap seats, in a building with as many apartments squashed into it as possible.
The place is sleek and modern, all right angles and neutral tones, with big windows that let in lots of light, but my tiny kitchen seamlessly blends into a little living area. You knowthose small IKEA showrooms, where they have compact living spaces that showcase a bit of everything? I live in one of those. I don’t even have any separation between the spaces because it’s not even a real one-bed apartment; it’s a glorified studio, except they’ve put the sleeping area around a corner, so at least it feels like it’s in a different room.
It’s a cosy nook pretending to be a bedroom, with barely enough space for my double bed and bedside tables, but I make it work. The living area (sarcastically) boasts a two-seater sofa bed that doubles as my guest bed (not that I have many guests) and a coffee table that’s perpetually covered in a mess of books, notes, and the occasional forgotten mug of coffee (or two).
My brother, Tom, on the other hand, lives in the posh bit of the Wharf, in a genuinely swanky place, with a bedroom door and everything. Not only does he have an actual bedroom, but he has a walk-in wardrobe and an en-suite bathroom. His kitchen isn’t an afterthought squeezed into the corner; it’s a proper kitchen with an island and every appliance you can think of. I mean, if you needed any stronger sign that he’s ‘made it’, the man has a built-in air fryer, for crying out loud. A girl can only dream.
That’s where I aspire to be, but the reality of moving there isn’t as close as it looks from my window.
Seeing the twinkling lights of the financial district and the shiny, sleek, luxurious buildings while I’m hanging out here in my (seriously) small corner of the world can be either inspiring or depressing, depending on my mood.
As I grab the milk from the fridge, I hear my apartment buzzer.
‘Hello?’ I say, my voice croaky, probably because it’s the first time I’ve used it today.
‘Morning, Miss Page. It’s Paul from reception,’ Paul – our building’s concierge – says, his voice coming through the tinnyspeaker, sounding almost as crackly as my own. ‘There are some flowers here for you.’
Flowers? For me? My heart skips a beat.
‘I’ll be right down,’ I reply, trying to keep a lid on my excitement.
I throw on a tracksuit in record time, nearly tripping over my own feet in the process, and pull my hair into a messy bun (messy because I did it quickly, I don’t mean the stylish kind). Flowers! I can’t remember the last time someone sent me flowers. Actually, has anyone ever sent me flowers?
I race down to the lobby, my mind buzzing with possibilities. Maybe it’s an apology bouquet from Ray? Maybe Amy had a word with him? Then again, even after only spending a short amount of time with him, I can tell you that he doesn’t seem the type. Perhaps they’re from a secret admirer? Imagine that! Although that seems even less likely, doesn’t it?
As I step into the reception area, I see Paul standing there, holding the biggest bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen. The arrangement is so enormous I can’t even see Paul, just his legs poking out from behind an armful of summery flowers in every colour of the rainbow.
‘Wow,’ I blurt.
‘Whoever he is, marry him,’ Paul jokes, peeking around the edge of the bouquet.
I laugh, my cheeks flushing a little as I notice a few residents passing through the lobby giving me curious smiles. I’m not used to being the centre of attention – well, not for positive reasons, at least.
‘Thanks, Paul,’ I say, taking the flowers from him. They’re surprisingly heavy, and I’m almost afraid I might drop them. ‘These are beautiful.’
‘Enjoy them,’ he says with a smile.
I make my way to the lift, trying to suppress the grin spreading across my face.
Once inside my apartment (my flowers take up about 75 per cent of my free space) I set the enormous bouquet on my kitchen worktop, the vibrant flowers instantly brightening up the tiny space, but then I can’t wait a second longer to tear open the tiny envelope, to see who they’re from.
