‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I won’t say anything.’
But now I’m feeling dejected and a little small. Like I want to stop time, rewind the last half a day and start it again. This time I’d say something different at the restaurant. I’d steel my nerve and tell him that even though it’s only two days in, I don’t want my trip to end. I’d tell him I don’t want to leave because it leaves an air of uncertainty. I’d tell him the truth; that I’ll miss him when I don’t get to see him every day. That my real life doesn’t seem so appealing anymore, and I’d rather be a part of his, and that’s a conflict in itself, because I love my life back home. I look out to sea, at the faint strip of land on the horizon. What’s after that? Nothing for miles and miles. Just ocean.
‘Now I feel as if you’re upset about something,’ he says, and fleetingly, I think we’re both a bit silly.
‘I’m not, really. Maybe all this has just caught up with me. And I feel like you might be a bit off with me. I’m sorry.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I was just trying to explain.’ He’s turned to face me now. He wraps his arms around my shoulders and I breathe him in. He’s the only thing I know in America. I’m so desperate for things to stay nice between us.
‘I wish I was better at this,’ I admit. I’m floundering. I finally settle my arms around his waist, slide my hands underneath his t-shirt, rub my thumbs over his skin.
‘You’re fine at this,’ he says. ‘But seriously, I can just tell Trav to leave it.’
‘I don’t want you to do that,’ I say, looking up at him. I really don’t. I want it to be simple and easy when we see each other, because there isn’t anything really simple or easy about long distance.
‘Let’s go home,’ he says, breaking away and I like the way he refers to his home as if it’s mine, too.
But something occurs to me on the walk back up the beach. I hadn’t given it any conscious thought since before we met, but it’s an idea so well formed in my head that I wonder if it’s been floating there all along and has only just bubbled up to the surface. Or maybe I didn’t allow myself to think about it in case somehow it broke the spell. Because the thing is, none of it makes sense: us meeting in London, and my being here now, when his locked-down Facebook profile and the way he’s so adamant about being anonymous suggests he didn’t want to be found. So when I did find him, why did he let me in at all? You don’t just wake up one day and decide to be open with strangers on the internet, do you?
It’s later on when we are lying in bed that I broach it because unlike my big feelings, now that I’ve thought it, I can’t not say it.
‘So, I have a question.’ I’m lying on my side with my arm underneath my head. ‘Why did you add me back? On Facebook.’
He looks over at me from his phone. ‘Really?’ he says. ‘You’re asking that?’
‘I really am,’ I coo.
‘Honestly? At first I wondered if you’d got the right person.’
‘Yeah, I remember you saying. But it didn’t occur to you that I could have been a Franko fan?’
‘Not really, no. No one has ever done that before.’
‘Really? Not even anyone from Germany? You were massive there.’ I am genuinely surprised and I can’t hide it. He sniggers.
‘Not even anyone from Germany.’
‘Okay,’ I roll over on to my front and bend my knees so my feet make a tent of bed sheets. ‘So knowing what I know now about how private you like to be, why did you keep talking to me once you knew I liked your band and definitely did mean to find you? Why did you choose to open up to me? How come we ever chatted again after the first time? I mean, it went so horribly, I convinced myself that was it.’
‘You thought it went horribly?’
‘You didn’t think it went horribly?’
‘Not really. I got a nice picture of you out of it. I still have it on my laptop.’
‘It was awkward, what with you asking me if I did a lot of online stalking, and the s’up hot stuff message Rachel sent. I was mortified.’
He smirks. ‘It was because you were so far away and it didn’t feel real. You were just someone on another computer halfway across the world, and I figured I could just stop it whenever I felt like it. Like, if you encroached too far into my life, or it stopped feeling good I could just cut you out of it with a couple of clicks.’ He’s looking at the ceiling and drumming his fingertips on his chest.
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘Brutal.’
‘But,’ he says, quickly, ‘the point is that I didn’t. The point is that I couldn’t.’
‘But you were the one who made it real. You came to London for those gigs. You didn’t have to meet me. You didn’t have to even tell me. How would I have known? If anything, it was you who encroached on my life. You made this happen. You were the catalyst. You crossed over into my reality far more than I could have ever crossed over into yours.’
‘I mean, you have to admit the whole Kitten Tricks thing was pretty serendipitous…’
‘What if I’d said no?’
‘Then I’d have done the shows and come back and… I don’t know. Carried on as normal, I guess. Anyway, are you complaining? Would you rather I hadn’t wanted to hang out with you?’
Answer the question, I think. ‘Course not. Don’t be silly,’ I say. ‘You can be so evasive, you know that?’
He looks at me for a few seconds.
‘Curiosity, more than anything, I guess. I was having a quiet day and you came online and I figured I’d say hi and then you’d realize you didn’t mean me at all and that would be that. And it’s like I told you the other night; you didn’t seem like you wanted anything from me. It was when you said you’d leave me alone. That’s when I wanted to carry on talking to you. I found you intriguing. I don’t find many people intriguing.’
Is this what reluctant fame does to a person? Makes them mistrusting and a little bit cynical and shut off? I’d hate it, too, I think. Hate people knowing my business. Hate the expectation to be a role model. Hate growing up in public the way he had to. I’d be one of those famous people who loses the plot and ends up getting arrested for something ludicrous. My mugshot would be all over the tabloids, sallow and sorry. Mum would talk about rehab and Dad would be grave about the entire thing.
‘Anyway, going back to your question,’ he says, ‘I think you should just go with it.’
I don’t say anything. I just nod. He reaches over and flicks off the light and moonlight casts a white glow against the wall. He snakes his arm around my waist and I still can’t quite get over the fact that all this is happening. I feel as if it is all just some kind of wildly realistic dream and that tomorrow morning I might wake up in my bed in Shepherd’s Bush. I don’t want that, and in fact, the longer I am here the less I ever want to wake up in my bed in Shepherd’s Bush ever again.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
From: Marie Michaels
To: Cassie Banks, Lauren Rivers, Mandy Michaels +6 more
Subject: Hen do
Hello hens,
First of all, thank you all so much for getting back to me. Cassie, Lauren and I are so excited to give Rachel the send-off she absolutely deserves.
Here’s the plan: We’ll meet at her flat at 4pm on the day (Sat 6th October) for some fizz, general chilling/girl time/getting ready. Then we’re going for a meal at her favourite restaurant. They’ve been amazing and have put together a special Italian wedding menu. Sort of like a tasting menu. I went to try it when we booked and it’s excellent. After this, we’re heading over to Vauxhall for a night at the ROLLER DISCO! Rachel was obsessed with roller skating when she was younger. She always said she was going to audition for Starlight Express when she grew up. She never got round to that, but she’ll love this instead.
So, please bring:
1) some fizz for the afternoon.
2) something nice to wear for the meal. But also,
3) the most roller skatery outfit you can cobble together for the disco. We will be providing n
eon accessories and leg warmers, but otherwise, go as kitsch and cute as possible.
The meal is £55 per head, plus drinks, and that’s all booked. Cass is sorting out the roller disco, so she’ll be in touch about that.
See you soon,
Marie
* * *
From: Marie Michaels
To: Cassie Banks, Lauren Rivers, Mandy Michaels.
Subject: Fwd: Hen do
Hi all,
Cass, can you book the roller disco please? Everyone who is coming is on my other email, so you’ll have numbers/contacts.
I’ve also copied in our cousin Mandy, because she’s kindly offered to do make-up for us all.
Lauren - Just checking you have all the accessories.
Hope you’re having a good time in the US banging that pop star of yours like a drum?
Marie x
* * *
From: Lauren Rivers
To: Cassie Banks, Marie Michaels, Mandy Michaels, +6 more
Subject: Re: Hen do
Hi ladies,
I have decorations for the table at the restaurant, and heaps of vulgar penis-themed accessories, including straws. Bit realistic. Definitely gross. Also chocolate dicks with mint fondant inside. Think filthy After Eights.
I’ve also got neon snap necklaces, leg warmers, confetti, loads. Can’t wait to meet you all.
Lauren xx
* * *
From: Mandy Michaels
To: Cassie Banks, Lauren Rivers, Marie Michaels +6 more
Subject: Re: Re: Hen do
Happy to do a make-up sesh before we go out and defo before we go skating.
But more to the point, Cassie is shagging a pop star? Anyone good? Details please?!
Mandy Michaels
Professional makeup artist
* * *
From: Cassie Banks
To: Mandy Michaels, Lauren Rivers, Marie Michaels +6 more
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Hen do
He’s not a pop star anymore. His name is Jesse and he used to be in a band called Franko.
Cass x
* * *
From: Mandy Michaels
To: Cassie Banks, Lauren Rivers, Marie Michaels, +6 more
Subject: OH MY GOD
I just Googled him. Cass, are you shagging a 19-year-old? Does he still have those highlights? I know someone who can fix that for him. You total cougar though. Respect!
Mx
Mandy Michaels
Professional makeup artist
* * *
From: Cassie Banks
To: Mandy Michaels, Lauren Rivers, Marie Michaels, +6 more
Subject: Re: OH MY GOD
1 attachment: CJ14.jpg
No Mandy, he’s not 19 anymore. Those are old photos you’re looking at. Here’s a recent one. Come. To. Mama.
Cass x
* * *
From: Marie Michaels
To: Cassie Banks
Subject: Roller Disco?
Have you booked this yet?
* * *
From: Cassie Banks
To: Marie Michaels
Subject: Re: Roller Disco?
It’s all in hand Marie. Also I am on holiday.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cassie
On Saturday morning, we take a drive down the coast for brunch: strawberry French toast and coffee and fresh orange juice, eaten outside in the sunshine, overlooking the sea. I love the calm of the waves below. The white crests peak and disperse. The morning sun reflects off the water.
‘There are whales out there somewhere,’ Jesse tells me. He waves his fork towards the water, and I stifle a laugh.
‘No shit,’ I giggle. ‘The ocean is where they tend to hang out, no?’
‘No, I mean close by. You can get on a boat and go whale watching. It’s a thing.’
‘Can we do that?’ I ask. I want to see whales.
‘Sure. I think you probably have to make an advance booking though, so it might not be today.’
‘Have you been before?’
‘Nah,’ he says, shaking his head.
‘Not your thing?’
‘It’s not that. It’s just one of those things you vaguely think might be fun but never actually get around to doing.’
‘Well then we definitely must go,’ I say. I like the idea that he’s never done it before. Now, whatever happens between us, every time he thinks of whales, he’ll remember we went whale watching together. In some small way, I’ll be imprinted on a synapse in his brain forever. ‘Next week?’
‘For sure,’ he says. He seems more himself today, and I’m relieved.
‘Do you want a bite of this?’ I say, cutting off a corner of my French toast. ‘It tastes of America.’
‘It tastes of America?’ he laughs. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I think it’s the cream and the syrup. To a British person, this is America summed up in a mouthful.’ I push my plate towards him.
‘That’ll be the Cool Whip,’ he says, chewing.
‘You mean Cool Hwhip,’ I say, mock Stewie Griffin.
‘You’re eating hair!’ he says, continuing the line from Family Guy. We laugh. We’re hilarious. We can make off the cuff jokes about things we’ve never once talked about and both get them. If that’s not a sign from the universe that we’re meant to be, then I don’t know what is.
‘You know, back home,’ I say, pulling my plate back and loading up another forkful, ‘we call this eggy bread.’
Jesse screws up his face. ‘Well that’s disgusting,’ he says.
‘Why?’ I laugh. ‘That’s basically what it is.’
‘Because… eggy bread. No. Ew. Crazy Brits.’
‘Wait, what? It’s bread dipped in milk and eggs and fried. It’s literally eggy bread. My mum used to serve it with ketchup.’
‘No, Cassie, she didn’t.’ He’s shaking his head.
‘She absolutely did. Kid breakfast.’
He balls up his fist and presses it against his mouth. ‘Sacrilege,’ he says. ‘French toast should always be eaten sweet.’
‘Good job it was actually eggy bread then. Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it,’ I say.
‘Think I’ll take your word for it,’ he says. ‘You want another coffee?’
* * *
We’re back home via the grocery store early in the afternoon, and I put on my bikini, grab a beach towel and my sun cream.
‘I’m going to lie on the beach and work on my tan,’ I say. ‘Come, too?’
‘Yeah, will you get in the water?’
‘I daresay.’
But it feels freezing in the heat and I can only take it up to my knees. Instead, I go back for my book and sit on the sand. Jesse definitely thinks I am a wimp. He got straight in without even a flinch, and I watch him swim about from behind the pages of my novel, taking full advantage of my sunglasses to hide the true extent of my perving. His hair is sticking to his face, and sometimes he pushes it back. I like the way he moves in the water. I want to get in, but I’m not sure I can handle the temperature. I lie back and close my eyes.
He’s back a few minutes later, standing over me and dripping all over the place. Cold splashes land in perfect droplets on my legs and my stomach and my shoulders. His skin is glistening. Sopping board shorts and sand cling to his legs. Hot damn.
‘You’re coming in,’ he says, as if I have no say in the matter.
‘I do want to but the thing is, I’ll actually freeze.’
‘You actually won’t. Look, if that little kid can do it,’ he points to a tiny child in a pink wetsuit. She’s trotting in and out of the waves, white blonde hair stuck to her chubby face. She scoops a handful of sand, turns, and throws it into the water. Her mother claps. ‘Then so can you.’
So I try again, and this time I inch in slowly until a wave sloshes over me. Frigid water laps at my hips. I turn to leave again but this time Jesse’s having none of it.
‘Come on. Come for a swim. It’s… refre
shing.’
‘It’s baltic,’ I say.
‘I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘I mean, I’m pretty sure you’ll make it worth my while whether I get in the sea or not… so… not much of an incentive.’
‘You just have to take the plunge, Cassie.’ He picks me up and wades further in, as if carrying ten stone of wriggling female in cold water is no big deal. He’s definitely stronger than I gave him credit for.
‘Je-sus,’ I howl, clutching him. The water’s higher now, up to my chest. My nipples are like bullets. He must be able to feel them. He drops me in with a splash and I’m shocked at how cold it is. My lungs feel like they are being sucked into themselves as I surface, eyes wide and blinking salt water off my eyelashes. It’s not deep, I’m barely in up to my armpits.
‘Your face!’ he laughs, swimming out a little deeper. ‘Swim now, it’s the only way to warm up.’ I follow him out and he’s right. It is refreshing and I do warm up. After a minute or two of frantic breast stroke, I am calm and serene in the ocean. It’s not so cold when only your head is poking out of the water. I am like Ariel and he’s my Prince Eric. I swim over to him.
‘See, it’s alright isn’t it? Once you’re in,’ he says.
‘Definitely not terrible at all,’ I say, but even so, I’m looking forward to lying back on the sand and feeling the sun warm my skin.
‘You’re hot in that swimsuit,’ he says, copping a bit of a feel under the water. Saucy man. Eric never said that about Ariel’s seashells. We’re deeper now, the waves are carrying us up and down.
‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ I say. Then we start something that really should have been saved for somewhere a little less public. Something that definitely does not happen in The Little Mermaid. For a couple of minutes we are all touchy-feely hands and gaspy breaths. My bikini top gets pulled down, and he’s definitely into my bullet nips. I really hope it’s not too obvious that we’re having sex in the sea, but then also, I sort of like the risk of getting caught.
Call Me, Maybe Page 18
