Page 44 of You Had Me at Chateau
I generally consider myself to be quite a boring person, and anything that makes me interesting never really seems to impress anyone. For starters, telling people I live in Canary Wharf usually earns me a few raised eyebrows and impressed nods. But that all changes when they actually see my shoebox of an apartment. They would be more impressed if I lived, I don’t know, literally anywhere else. Living in what people regard as a small home, in a nice area, seems to give some people the ick, almost like they find something offensively inauthentic about it, like they feel like they’ve been mis-sold someone well-to-do, who they imagined in a penthouse.
And then there’s my job. You’d think people would be impressed by the fact that I write books for a living, right? Wrong. Telling people I’m a writer mostly results in them looking at me like I just said I’m an aspiring wizard or I’m trying to manifest an income with the phases of the moon. It’s like they instantly imagine me as some penniless, self-published writer, typing away on an old computer in a messy bedroom (hey, my laptop is relatively new!). Which is hilarious, because the self-published writers I know are the ones raking in the bigbucks, while I’m sitting here with my traditional publishing deal, struggling on, with no real freedom over what I get to write, or when (or where, it turns out) I get to write it.
Honestly, when people find out I write books, they just assume it’s a silly little hobby, not a real job. A self-indulgent act of creative whimsy. It’s only when they find out that my series did pretty well that they start to take me seriously. Not that I find it easy to tell people about my success; I tend to let them think I’m just another struggling writer instead. Ironically, I am struggling right now, but for completely different reasons.
Generally speaking, my day-to-day life is peaceful to the point of dull. I mean, sure, I manage to embarrass myself on a regular basis, and I keep myself entertained with a steady stream of ill-timed jokes, but nothing really exciting happens to me. Until this week, that is. This week has been like stepping into an alternate universe where everything that can go wrong will go wrong, in the most spectacular fashion, and with a healthy dose of massage oil over the lot of it.
I’ve been bouncing from one ridiculous situation to the next, constantly thinking to myself, I can’t believe this is happening or I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s like living in a sitcom, only without the laugh track to make me feel good about my jokes or better about my life choices.
Take right now, for instance. Here I am, standing at Caleb’s door, at the chalet he’s staying in, knocking and waiting for him to let me in. I can’t believe I’m here, or that this is happening, because this sort of thing never happens to me – and yet I feel like I’m uttering that phrase every few minutes.
‘Hello,’ he says, greeting me warmly as he opens the door. ‘Come in, it feels freezing out there.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, stepping inside and immediately feeling the warmth of the place.
This chalet – the honeymoon chalet, no less – is gorgeous. It’s got this large open-plan living space with a roaring fire that is practically insisting on romance. The décor is what you’d expect (or dream about, even) from a contemporary chalet in the Alps: lots of wood, plush furnishings, and views from every window, from every angle, each like a different postcard from the same stand. Looking out over the trees, and the snow, and the sky – nothing is moving. It really is like gazing at a work of art.
‘Wow, this place is really nice,’ I tell Caleb, trying not to sound too envious of how the other half live. ‘I’m staying in the old château, in the grounds. It’s nice, but it can be cold, and the hallways are a bit creepy. This is way more my scene.’
Well, if I could afford this scene, it would be.
Caleb smiles.
‘Yeah, it’s not like that here,’ he says. ‘Not lonely at all – even though I am on my own. I feel like I’m in the heart of the resort, living in luxury, but still with plenty of privacy. This place guarantees it for its guests, so that’s a bonus.’
I nod thoughtfully. Imagine having to worry about your privacy like that. As a writer, even if some people have heard of me, no one spots me in the street. I don’t have to worry about being stopped for a chat or a photo, being hassled, either in a well-meaning way or worse. Caleb must get mobbed wherever he goes, so places like this must be a nice break from real life for him. I guess, for all the good stuff he’s got going on, I have to feel a bit of sympathy on that count.
‘Well, as fun as it is here, there are still less distractions at the château than there are back home, which is good seeing as though I’m supposed to be here to finish my book before Christmas,’ I tell him – still not all that confident I’ll be able to do it.
‘How’s it going?’ he asks me.
‘Don’t ask,’ I reply.
Caleb opens his mouth, as if he’s going to say something, but something suddenly pops into my head and I just have to ask…
‘Hey, what was in your hamper?’ I ask curiously.
‘Erm, just romantic stuff,’ he says casually.
‘Like what though?’ I reply.
‘Oh, nothing special,’ he says. ‘Chocolate, rose petals, bubble bath.’
‘What?’ I squeak. ‘Are you serious? You got chocolate!’
‘I already ate it, obviously,’ he says. ‘Sorry. Didn’t you get any in yours?’
‘The closest thing I got to chocolate was flavoured lube,’ I tell him in disbelief.
‘What flavour?’ he asks with a curious smile.
‘Oi, I’m serious,’ I reply, stifling a laugh. ‘Mine was full of sex stuff. I opened it in front of people, it was so embarrassing.’
‘Ah, come on, there’s nothing embarrassing about a bottle of lube, it probably just looked like lotion or something,’ he reassures me.
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you’re right,’ I reply, but then I shift my tone. ‘And the big purple dildo that I flashed to everyone at the dinner table, I’m sure that probably looked like something else too – an effing penis!’
Caleb cracks up.
