I catch sight of myself in a pane of glass as we’re herded off the plane. I’m dishevelled. Robert Smith has nothing on me. My ponytail looks like a bird has taken up residence in it, and my eyeliner is smudged. I pass through immigration as quickly as I can and they ask me questions about my trip. Who I’m visiting. Where I’m staying. The things I’m going to do.
‘He your boyfriend?’ the immigration agent asks, looking over my ESTA form, and I’m surprised. Seems a little personal.
‘I… er… maybe?’
‘You want him to be?’ he says, not missing a beat. I blush.
My passport is swiped and stamped, my fingerprints are taken.
‘Welcome to the United States,’ he barks, apparently satisfied. ‘Next!’
I grab my passport and hurry to the ladies’ room, lock myself in the cubicle and sit down on the toilet. I’m so nervous I’m shaking. I change my t-shirt and shake my hair loose. I reapply my eye make-up in the mirror. Push my toothbrush around my mouth to get shot of any lingering remnants of aeroplane food. Pout at myself in the mirror and spritz a little perfume on to my neck. I’m still not looking my best, but at least I no longer resemble a member of The Cure.
I push my Wayfarers into my hair, take a deep breath, and head out to arrivals.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cassie
I don’t see him at first. In fact, I’m a little confused. Arrivals appears to be little more than a wide corridor between baggage reclaim and the exit, not really like at other airports I’ve been to, and not really what I was expecting. People are dotted around, leaning against walls, crouching on the floor, looking at their phones, and there are a couple of people with placards, but not nearly as many as you see at Heathrow. And as I squint around I think this is not the romantic airport scene of my imagination. This is not like the beautiful beginning of Love Actually, and for a second or two I wonder if I’m even in the right place, but the only other doors lead outside.
And then he calls my name from the left and I turn towards the sound and beam, literally beam, when I see him. My heart is fluttering. He looks relaxed and chilled and happy to see me, and just absolutely gorgeous. A pair of Aviators are folded over the neck of his t-shirt, and the first thing I think is that it’s cute that we match with our Ray-Bans. And he’s so much better than I remember and I hurry over, close the gap between us, slide my free hand over his shoulder and hook it around his neck. He smells delicious, of suncream and aftershave.
‘Hey, you,’ I coo. Just like that, the nerves have melted away, but the butterflies haven’t. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close.
‘Hey, you.’
We kiss. I drop my case. It clunks to the floor and a woman with mousy brown hair and a visor whines at me. The handle caught her foot, but I don’t care.
‘Just you wait til I get you home,’ he says, eyes glinty. We both know what’s happening when he gets me home. Jesus, I hope the traffic is light. He picks up my bag and takes my hand. ‘Let’s go.’
I follow him out into the bright California sunshine to where he's parked, and as we walk I look down at our linked-together hands and I like the way they look. Like they fit perfectly, as if they aren’t meant to be held by anyone else.
‘Were you waiting long?’ I ask, as I slide into the front passenger seat of his car. A silver Honda, probably not top of the line, but definitely not at all shabby. He flicks on the air conditioning.
‘Nah. Twenty minutes max. I was tracking your flight.’ He shoots me a sideways glance as he reverses out of the space and tucks some of his hair behind his ear, and that movement, as small and normal as it is, is lovely. I want to remember it forever.
‘That’s very sensible,’ I say. He laughs, and pats my knee.
‘You’re so very British,’ he says. Then he presses a button on the steering wheel and the car fills up with the end of a Don Henley song. He taps out the beat on the steering wheel and I try hard to be inconspicuous with my staring.
‘Ahh the classics never die, right?’ he says, when it has finished.
He gets straight onto the highway and we head south. The road curves around and the cluster of LA skyscrapers whips in and out of view. The roads are wide and flat. The signs point to places I’ve heard of. Long Beach. Huntington Beach. Anaheim. Santa Ana. And it occurs to me that even though I submitted his address on my ESTA form, I don’t know much about where it is. Seal Beach, California. A town in Orange County. South of LA. I forced myself not to look it up. I want to see his place with brand new eyes.
Half an hour later we pull into a side street and he stops in front of an off-white rendered house with painted trims. The trims have definitely seen better days and could do with another coat of paint, but still, it’s charming and I like it.
‘We’re here,’ he says, switching off the engine. He hits another button on the dashboard and the boot clunks open. ‘Home sweet home.’ We retrieve my bag and I look up at the house whilst he fumbles around for a front door key. So this is where he lives. It’s not what I’d imagined, but now the things I have imagined have disappeared, instantly overwritten by reality and never to be recalled again. There’s a mesh-panelled screen door and a long, wide window to the left of it with white Venetian blinds, and a plant with big, shiny, waxy leaves directly under. It’s all so, so normal. Definitely not the Beverly Hills mansion of my teenage daydreams; there are no pillars, no driveway with a fountain in the middle. No driveway at all, in fact. He’s parked on the street, which is little more than a glorified alleyway. There isn’t even really any pavement. The doors open right up on to the road. He’s got the key in the lock now. He’s going inside and I’m following. It’s nice and cool in here, and I take a look around as my eyes adjust to being inside. It’s all open plan. There’s a kitchen to my left with brushed chrome appliances and glossy white cupboards, a coffee machine, one of those fridges with a water dispenser that also makes ice and a sink under that window with the blinds. There are a few bits and pieces on the sides but not all that much. A breakfast bar separates the kitchen from the rest of the space and there’s a stack of paperwork and unopened post on it.
Further in there’s the navy blue sofa he was sitting on when he first sent me that photo, and it’s big and squashy-looking. A cream throw is chucked, jauntily, over the back of it and an enormous TV hangs on the wall opposite, its cables hanging down towards the socket. A low, oval, sixties-style coffee table is positioned on a stripy rug. He’s hung two basses on the wall to the left of the TV and they’re the first things I’ve really seen that give any insight at all into what he does. But as soon as I’ve clocked them, I begin to notice other things; a big black amp pushed against the wall underneath, a flight case leaning up against the breakfast bar, a box of cables on the shelves behind the sofa. And there, hung on the wall, is a framed platinum disc and inlay booklet from Franko.
‘This is pretty cool,’ I say, walking over to it. There are sales details and the release date under the disc. ‘Five hundred thousand sales in Germany. Jesus.’
I don’t know if that’s a lot in the grand scheme of things. To me, five hundred thousand of anything seems pretty vast.
‘Hmm, that old thing,’ he says, dismissively. ‘I guess.’
‘No, it really is,’ I say gently, but I don’t press it because I’m getting that same vibe that there’s more to the demise of Franko than he’s let on. He’s looking out the back doors now, fiddling with one of the bracelets on his wrist, and I follow his gaze from across the room. Outside is a narrow decking area, and beyond that is a sand dune, and he really wasn’t kidding when he said he could go out to the beach whenever he liked because it’s right there, outside the house.
‘Christ on a bike!’ I exclaim. ‘You never told me the beach was right there. Is that the actual Pacific Ocean out there?’
‘You never asked,’ he says, shrugging, but he’s smiling at me, and any discomfort surrounding that platinum disc has evaporated. ‘And yes, tha
t is the actual Pacific Ocean.’
‘Look, I get that this is normal for you, but I live in a Victorian terraced house in West London. It’s full of cracks and it’s spidery in autumn, and there’s textured wallpaper everywhere. What’s more, I have to get on a train to get to a decent beach, and you have it right here. So… allow me a little amazement.’
‘Alright, I’m sorry,’ he laughs. ‘We can go out there later. There’s a pier a little way up the beach, it’s nice to walk along. But right now,’ he holds out a hand for me, ‘come on, I’ll show you the rest of the place.’
We go up the stairs and back on ourselves. ‘Bathroom,’ he says, pointing to a closed door. ‘Spare room,’ he nods towards another door, this one open just a crack, and then we’re at the end of the hallway and there’s only one room left to go into. ‘And this is –’
‘Yep, mmhmm,’ I say. It doesn’t really need any explanation, because now he’s got me home and I don’t need to wait any longer. He puts my case on the floor, takes my face in his hands and we’re kissing again. We’re kicking off shoes and grappling at clothes and our hands are everywhere, because this is apparently how things start with us. We fall on to his bed, and it’s big and comfy. And for a split second I wonder how many other times this has happened in here between him and someone else. Did they tug at each other’s clothes the frenzied way we are now? Were his hands all over her in this room the way they are now all over me? I know I’m being crazy but I don’t want to think about that. So I push him backwards and make a giant theatrical show of positioning myself between his legs and pulling down his pants and letting my hair fall over my face as I dip my head. Sixteen-year-old me would be in total awe of twenty-nine-year-old me. Hell, twenty-nine-year-old me is pretty impressed. It’s been a long time since I did this and I’m a little out of practice. Still, I must be doing alright because when I look up at him he is watching everything I’m doing, and I think, if the look on his face is anything to go by, that he’s enjoying it.
‘Don’t look at me,’ I say, suddenly feeling scrutinised.
‘Why not? This is so hot.’
‘I’m shy.’
He starts to laugh. ‘Cassie, you’re so not shy.’
‘Right now I’m a bit shy,’ I say, but I’m smirking and I can’t help it.
‘Alright,’ he says. ‘I won’t look.’ He closes his eyes, and I carry on for a bit. And then he starts shifting a little, ‘Oookay, Cass, you have to stop now.’
‘Aww, you had enough?’
‘Um, definitely not, but all this is going to be over way too soon otherwise.’
I know, buddy, I think. I can taste it. I crawl up the bed towards him, lie on my side and lean my head on my arm. We’re looking at each other now. I’m studying him intently, committing everything to memory. Etching it on to my brain. Noticing things that I didn’t before. Like, how his bottom teeth are just a little bit crooked, and how one eye has more green in it than the other. How they’re still the same eyes I looked into when I was sixteen, and I felt all this then, too, but nowhere as intensely as right now. He runs his fingers across my shoulder and down my arm and his fingertips have a hardness to them. He rolls over and opens the drawer of the nightstand.
‘So, you might be interested to know that I'm on the pill,’ I say, casually. Staring up at the ceiling, drumming my fingertips together. Immediately he stops. Looks back at me. Quirks an eyebrow.
‘Oh yeah? That is super interesting to know. I’m very interested in that piece of information.’
‘Yeah, I thought you might be,’ I say. He slams the drawer closed and moves on top of me and we start to kiss again and don’t stop as I reach back and grab hold of one of the slats on the headboard of his bed and the tendons in my wrist flex.
Afterwards, the day catches up with me and I can’t keep my eyes open. I’m trying, really I am, but my body thinks it’s early in the a.m. and I’ve got that post-shag endorphin rush happening.
‘Why don’t you take a nap?’ Jesse says. He’s stroking my hair, and that’s not helping with the lethargy. It feels nice though, and I don’t want him to stop.
‘I feel like I should just power on through.’
‘Just a little one to take the edge off. I’ll wake you up in an hour or so. We’ll get some dinner. Then we’ll go down to the beach.’
‘Okay.’ I’m yawning again. ‘Stay with me a while?’
‘Sure.’
He’s warm. He smells good. He puts his arm around me. I close my eyes to blink but I can’t open them again.
He isn’t there when I wake up, but it’s still light outside and the clock on the nightstand reads 18:23. For a few seconds the unfamiliarity of it all throws me, and I look around the room properly for the first time. There’s a window above me, panoramic, with the same white wooden blinds as in the kitchen. A chest of drawers sits to my right, on top of which is a stack of books, a laptop, an iPhone docking station and Bose speakers. In front of me are built-in wardrobes with mirrored doors. There’s a door to the left and I get out of bed and push it open and it’s another bathroom. I pull on my clothes, and lock myself in, because obviously now I’m going to snoop and I can’t have him catching me. There are towels in the cupboard under the sink. Toothpaste and mouthwash, and only one toothbrush in the cabinet above it. A packet of Tylenol, another of Advil, shaving stuff, soap. In the shower is shampoo and body wash and I open them both and sniff. The body wash is one of the brands marketed towards men. Ferny and sort of earthy, and now it will forever remind me of him. I’m satisfied. There are zero traces of girl in this bathroom. I pat some cool water on my face and muss my hair before going back downstairs. He’s sitting outside with a bottle of beer, tapping away at something on his phone. He looks up when I slide the door open.
‘Hey. I was just thinking about coming to get you.’
‘Was I asleep for ages then? I didn’t know what time it was after we… you know.’
‘No, I just figured you were probably a bit worn out.’
I snort. ‘Modest,’ I say.
‘From the flight,’ he laughs. ‘Do you want something to drink?’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’ I pull the sleeves of the cardi I fished out of my bag over my knuckles and pull out a chair and he makes a move to go inside. The air is warm but still has that fresh beachy smell to it. People are walking their dogs along the path between the back of the house and the sand and beyond it I can hear the ocean. I’m going to climb that dune later on. And stand at the top and look out to sea. Breathe in the air and secretly contemplate the fact that if Rachel and I hadn’t Facebook-stalked Jesse back in April, I wouldn’t be here in California right now. I’m going to look at the view and think about how funny life is. He’s back now. He hands me a bottle and I pull my legs up on the chair.
‘Are you hungry?’ he says. ‘Shall we get some dinner?’
‘I could eat,’ I say.
‘Do you feel like going out?’
‘Hmmm… Yeah?’ I don’t really want to and he can tell. My energy levels are taking a nosedive. Tonight what I really want is to relax with easy food, take a paddle in the sea, and then hit the hay.
‘Would takeout be better?’
‘God, yes. Much. Takeout sounds pretty perfect actually.’
We eat off our laps whilst watching TV, and it’s like we’re living out the random conversations we had on Facebook before any of this started, about the things we like to eat and what we watch on telly. I don’t know if he remembers, and I don’t say anything about it. It’s comfortable, though, sitting here with him, eating soba noodles and drinking beer. It feels good. Sometimes I glance up at the platinum disc on the wall, though, and when I do, I’m reminded of exactly who I’m here with, and all the things that have happened between us, and how none of it would have done if he wasn’t who he is, despite what Rachel said about things being written in the stars. He’s holding my hand now, and my heart is hammering in my chest. I’m so besotted with you, I think. So, completel
y, unequivocally and hopelessly besotted.
Afterwards, we take a walk along the shoreline. We climb over the sand dune up towards the pier and we look back at the houses with their lights on, and out across the dark sea towards the oil platform off the coast. And further up towards Long Beach. On the way back, I take my sandals off and let the water wash over my feet and my ankles. Not for long though; it’s freezing.
‘I like being here,’ I say. I’ve hooked my thumb through the belt loop of his shorts and he has his arm slung loosely around my shoulders.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘I like you being here, too.’
‘What are we doing tomorrow?’
‘Whatever you feel like doing. How’s the jet lag?’
‘Not too bad thanks,’ I say. ‘Why? Are you planning on shagging me senseless again when we get back to your house?’
‘What do you reckon?’ he says.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Cassie
It’s Thursday, my first morning in California, and I wake up to a cup of coffee being placed on the nightstand and the feeling of weight on the edge of the bed.
‘Morning,’ he says. ‘Wake up, Cass.’
I rub my eyes and try to look cute, stretching out and sighing, and hope I wasn’t snoring or sleeping with my mouth open or dribbling. He’s dressed in a slightly stretched out t-shirt and sweatpant shorts and he looks like he’s been out already. ‘Hey. What time is it?’
‘Nine-fifteen.’ He notices me eyeing up his clothes. ‘I’ve been out. Went for a run.’
Call Me, Maybe Page 15
