by Beth O'Leary
‘It’s amazing,’ he says, inspecting the joins. ‘Is it hard?’
I shake my head. I’m feeling so much I’m sure he must be able to see it all radiating off me.
‘It just takes patience,’ I manage.
‘Ah, I’d be dreadful at it.’
I laugh. ‘Yeah, you’d be crap.’
He kisses me on the cheek again. They’re still burning hot.
‘So? Where’s my tat?’ I say, moving away. It’s that or burrow into his chest. The emotions are getting too big.
‘Really?’ He grimaces, rubbing one hand up and down his arm. ‘Do I have to?’
‘I showed you my train!’
‘Your train is adorable. My poems are . . . pompous self-indulgence.’
‘I bet they’re brilliant.’
He shakes his head. ‘Nope. Drivel. Really, Addie, they’re tripe.’
‘Come on. I know you’ve got your notebook in your pocket.’
‘That? I’m just pleased to see you.’
I lunge for him. He runs, darting through into the kitchen, down to the courtyard, through to the gardens. I catch up with him on the lawn and tackle him. He shrieks as we go barrelling into a rosemary bush.
‘Christ!’ he says, laughing, breathless. ‘Are you secretly a rugby player, too?’
‘Built for it,’ I say, fumbling for the pocket of his jeans. ‘Are you going to let me steal the whole book, or read me one?’
‘Read you one, read you one,’ he says, rolling out of the bush and brushing himself down. He holds out a hand to help me up, then pulls me over to the bench set on the edge of the lawn. The view’s amazing from here. The vines are so perfectly spaced on the hills, like green pinstripes.
Dylan leafs through his notebook. I set my legs across his lap and nestle close.
‘A short one?’ he says in a small voice.
‘OK. A short one.’
He clears his throat and begins.
Before I Heard Her Name
All that time – poised
In the dark, waiting,
Questless, undone, unmade –
And it wasn’t a guiding star at all.
It was a heart, mine.
She had it even then,
Before I heard her name.
My eyes prick. I don’t get what it means, not really, but I don’t think that matters. I know he wrote it for me.
‘Addie? Ads?’
I swallow. I hide my face in his neck. ‘I love it,’ I whisper. ‘I love it.’
Dylan
For the first time, we spend the night in my suite instead of Addie’s flat. The grand house makes her look smaller than ever, her fine-boned hands trailing up the oak bannister, her tiny shoes left at the bottom of the stairs; she seems a little skittish, dancing out of my grip and treading so lightly you can hardly hear she’s there at all. Once we’re in bed, though, she’s herself again: fierce and beautiful, heavy-eyed, plaintive when I make her wait.
Tonight, I plan to tell her I love her. It’s risky, certainly – there’s a very real chance I’ll scare her away. She’s always retreating then returning, disappearing to the village for hours and then curling up catlike beside me when she comes back; unzipping that suitcase and then trying to zip it closed again like she wishes she’d never given me that glimpse of herself. She ebbs and flows, my river sprite.
Addie lies with her head on my chest, her legs tangled in the dark blue coverlets, her hair spilling across my arm. I stare at her, aching with it, loving her, loving every freckle that leaves its tiny kiss on her cheek, and I have to tell her, I have to, it’s burning on my tongue.
‘Addie, I—’
‘Holy shit.’
She moves so fast she’s up and flattened against the bedroom wall before I’ve even processed what she’s said.
‘Addie? What? What is it?’
‘There! Out there! A face!’
‘Outside? We’re two floors up!’
My heart starts to beat faster. I’m not good at this sort of thing. I’m not the man who slips out of bed in the night to investigate the noise downstairs, I’m the one who says, It’s probably nothing, and stays under the covers, quietly quivering.
‘I one hundred per cent saw a face,’ Addie says. She’s very pale. ‘It was right up against the glass for a second, then it was gone.’
I edge off the bed and reach for my boxers, tossing Addie her dress. She slips it on with shaking hands.
‘I swear I saw it,’ she says.
‘I believe you.’ I don’t want to believe her, particularly, but any hope that she’s joking evaporates as soon as I see her terrified expression. ‘Maybe it’s Terry joshing around?’
‘It wasn’t Terry.’ Addie rubs her arms. ‘Where’s the key?’
‘What?’
‘The key to the doors,’ she says impatiently. ‘To the balcony.’
‘Oh, good God, no, you’re not going out there,’ I say. ‘Absolutely not. What if there’s a murderer out there?’
She stares at me blankly. ‘What’s your plan, wait for him in here?’
‘Yes! No, I mean, it’s safe in here! There are walls and locked doors between us and the murderers!’
Addie half laughs at that. Her jaw is set now and she lifts her chin. ‘I’m not waiting, trapped in here. That’s way worse. Dylan, sweetie, come on – give me the key.’
She’s never called me sweetie before, and I’m not sure I like it – it feels like something she would say to a friend, or maybe to a rather frightened child. I straighten up and pull back my shoulders.
‘I’ll go. See who’s out there.’
Addie raises her eyebrows slightly. ‘Yeah? You sure?’
I’m surprised to discover that I am indeed sure. It’s a humbling realisation: this is love, then. That explains a great deal about many irrational acts throughout history – every man who ever went to war must have really fancied somebody.
I take the key from the bedside table and walk to the balcony doors, trying very hard to remember to breathe.
Just as I fiddle around with the lock there’s a thump on the glass. Two hands thrown flat against the windows. A chalky pale face. Eyes wide, the whites showing. Teeth bared.
I jump so much I trip on the rug and go tumbling backwards, falling with a thud that sends a dull shock of pain up my back. Addie’s screaming, a truly guttural, terrified scream, and for a horrifying moment I really think I might wet myself. The slam, the eyes, the teeth. I looked away when I fell; for an endless second I can’t bear to look back.
When I do, the face is still there, grinning, shaking the handles of the doors. It takes another moment – teetering, ice-cold – to meet its gaze and realise exactly who is standing on my balcony.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ . . . Addie. Don’t worry. It’s Marcus.’
I stand gingerly. Marcus is still cackling and slamming his hands on the balcony doors, and I shake my head as I try to unlock them.
‘Stop messing with the handles,’ I tell him. ‘You’re making it worse.’
‘You know that man?’ Addie asks.
I glance back at her. She’s clutching at the neck of her dress, pale, her eyes wide and round; she reminds me of something wild, a tarsier, an owl. Her hair is ruffled and tangled from the night in bed, and for a strange second or two the adrenaline shifts to something more like desire, and I want her again, Marcus on the balcony forgotten.
‘Well, hello,’ Marcus says, pressing his face to the glass, his eyes on Addie. ‘Where did he find you? You’re like a little doll, aren’t you?’
‘Excuse me?’ Addie says, moving to stand beside me. ‘Who is this guy, Dylan?’
As I finally manage to unlock the doors and Marcus barges his way into the room, I feel absurdly proud of Addie. Try not to get too bored without me,
Marcus had said when I flew to Avignon, and now here I am with Addie, with her fierce blue eyes and her liquid dark hair, and I found her all on my own.
Marcus stretches out a hand to her and gives her his most charming, leonine smile. He smells of booze, an acrid scent like rotting fruit. ‘Forgiven?’ he says.
Addie raises her eyebrow. ‘On what grounds?’
‘Hey?’
‘Forgiveness is earned, typically,’ she says, reaching for her underwear at the foot of the bed and balling it up in the pocket of her dress. ‘That balcony thing . . . it wasn’t funny.’ She heads for the door.
‘Hey, hey,’ I say, rushing to her side. ‘Hey, don’t go. I thought you were going to sleep here.’ The day has slipped away, ripples through my fingers, and I still haven’t said the words hanging heavy in the air. I want to say them now, Don’t go, I love you, but—
‘I need some time to calm down,’ she says.
Now I’m closer, I can see fine tremors running up and down her limbs; the flush on her cheek is too lurid.
‘Are you OK?’
She gives me a short smile. ‘Fine.’ She looks at Marcus. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she says, with some irony if I’m not mistaken, and then she walks out the door.
‘I want her.’
This is the first thing Marcus says to me.
‘You . . .’ I’m still looking at the door, a little lost. Addie left so fast, and . . .
‘That one. I want her. She looks interesting.’
Suddenly that protective instinct that was so lacking when we heard the noise on the balcony kicks in full-throttle: You can’t have her, I want to say. There comes a rush of what must be aggression, or maybe adrenaline – something deep and instinctual, some distant relation of the impulse that sets my heart racing when Addie touches her lips to mine.
Marcus looks at me appraisingly. He tucks a curl behind his ear and pouts.
‘Oh, you like her,’ he says. ‘I figured you were just fucking her.’
I recoil. Marcus laughs.
‘Oh, you really like her. You won’t even let me talk about fucking her.’
‘Just . . .’ Stop saying that, stop saying it, stop saying it.
‘So is that girl the reason you didn’t tell me your family hadn’t turned up? We could have spent a fortnight here already!’ Marcus says, spinning on the spot, arms outstretched. He’s dressed in a loose white shirt and shorts that would look absurdly short on me, but somehow work on him; his hair is long enough to be pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck now, and even that looks good.
‘I’m here with my uncle Terry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to come.’
Marcus raises his eyebrows, clearly not buying the lie. ‘You knew I’d take her off you, that’s why,’ he says, leaning forward to punch me on the arm.
It hurts. I turn aside, half laughing so he can’t tell it’s made my eyes prick. My whole body aches to go after Addie – I should be downstairs with her, not here with Marcus.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little plastic bag with a round plug of weed inside. He waggles it at me.
‘Here, or outside?’ he says.
I haven’t smoked since getting here. It’s been a pleasant change to have a clear head, and I consider saying no, but even as I have the thought, I know I won’t do it.
‘Outside,’ I say, thinking of Addie having to clean the smell out of the curtains and bedsheets. ‘Come on. I’ll take you down to the pool.’
As we talk about Marcus’s week down on the terrace, our feet trailing in the water, I think of Addie and Deb. From what Addie’s told me, she and her sister are just the same as me and Marcus: joined at the hip, always a pair. I wonder if sometimes Addie resents it, always being Deb’s little sister, her partner in crime.
‘You sure I can’t have that pretty one with the blue eyes?’ Marcus says abruptly, kicking up a splash with one foot.
It takes me a moment to realise he’s talking about Addie. ‘You’re such a caveman.’
‘What! I’m asking. I’m being polite.’ He stretches his hands out, like, Look at me, aren’t I evolved?
‘You can’t have her.’ I’m surprised to hear how steady my voice sounds. It’s not often I say no to Marcus – not often anyone does.
‘Oh, she’s yours, is she? My, aren’t we getting territorial! Now who’s the caveman?’
‘She’s . . .’
Addie is bigger than that sort of talk. She is wild and clever, sharp and bright, always twisting out of my reach. She isn’t mine. I’m hers.
‘She’s different,’ I settle for. ‘Addie’s different.’
Addie
It takes me ages to calm down. What a wanker. Who does that? Who arrives at someone else’s house and climbs up on to the balcony and tries to break in instead of just knocking on the bloody door?
I throw laundry into the washing machine. Is this Dylan’s life away from here? People like his uncle Terry and that prick who called me a little doll? It’s midnight – not my usual laundry hour, but I can’t sleep and I want to do something.
I wish Deb was here to make me laugh about it all. It wouldn’t seem like a big deal to her – Marcus is clearly a bit of a dick, but yeah, that’s all there is to it. Whereas to me, it seems like . . . the bubble bursting. I should have known things with Dylan were too good to be true.
The next morning I stick to the routine and head down to the village to fetch us all croissants. When I get back Terry and Marcus are lying on either side of Dylan on the terrace. They’re quiet, sunglasses on. The stone is already hot under my bare feet.
‘Ooh, for me?’ Marcus says, raising his sunglasses as I approach.
Dylan gets up quickly, meeting me halfway.
‘Hey,’ he breathes. For a moment as our fingers touch it feels like it’s just the two of us in the heat.
‘Come on, Dylan. Have you forgotten how to share?’ Marcus calls.
I let go of the bag. ‘There’s plenty of croissants in there,’ I say, already backing away. ‘I bought enough.’
I stay away for the rest of the day. Marcus puts me on edge. He’s built like a Topshop model, skinny and pale and cool with this half-styled shock of curly hair. So yeah, he’s attractive, in an I-sing-in-a-band kind of way. But he’s kind of cold behind the eyes, somehow.
Dylan knocks on my door at midnight. I smile up at the ceiling. I’m in bed, but I’d hoped he’d come. I like that he gave me space today, but I like it even more that he’s come to see me once everyone’s gone to bed.
I answer the door in my pyjamas – cropped T-shirt, cotton shorts. It’s not Dylan. It’s Marcus.
‘Evening,’ he says. ‘I think we got off on the wrong foot.’ He half smiles at me, head tilted. ‘Want to come have a drink on the terrace? Make peace? For Dylan’s sake?’
He’s all chilled and casual, but he holds my gaze just a little bit too steadily. It makes everything feel off. Like there’s another conversation going on under this one, but I can’t quite translate it.
‘Where is Dylan?’ I ask.
‘Oh, don’t blame him for not being here,’ Marcus says. ‘I insisted on seeing you alone. I wanted to apologise.’
Well, he hasn’t, has he? He’s not actually said sorry.
‘Come on,’ he says, leaning on the door frame. His T-shirt rides up, showing a white triangle of toned, bare midriff. ‘Let’s get wasted and see if you like me by the morning. It usually works, I find.’
Dylan is sat waiting for us on the terrace, feet dangling in the pool. He beams when he sees me, pushing his hair out of his eyes and patting the stone beside him. I’m almost by Dylan’s side when Marcus dive-bombs into the water. I stumble back, surprised and – bloody hell – half drenched.
Dylan laughs. ‘Christ, Marcus, you’re such a child.’ His tone is fond.
As Marcus swims off with the wine, Dylan looks at me. He’s worried. Good – he should be.
‘You OK?’ he whispers, passing me his glass.
‘Mm,’ I say. I take a long gulp of wine. ‘Thought it would be you knocking on the door, that’s all.’
Dylan bites his lip. ‘Oh, no, was that wrong? Should I have come around first? I didn’t know whether to – Marcus was sure you’d want him to apologise himself, and that did seem . . .’
‘Can you get up on the roof?’ Marcus asks. He’s lying on his back now, open bottle bobbing in his hand. He’s carefully keeping it upright, I notice.
Dylan and I turn to look at the villa.
‘There’s a loft,’ I say after a moment. ‘You can get to it from the bedroom next to Dylan’s. But I don’t think there’s a way on to the actual roof.’
Marcus swims to the edge and heaves himself up out of the pool. The water sluices from him, plastering his T-shirt to his skin. He doesn’t bother drying off, just heads straight for the house, leaving a small river behind him.
‘Let me guess,’ I say. ‘We’re going on to the roof?’
‘What Marcus wants . . .’ Dylan spreads his hands. ‘He tends to get.’
There’s a trapdoor from the loft to the roof. I don’t know how I never spotted it. I guess it never occurred to me to climb on to the slanted roof of a three-storey villa.
By the time we’ve explored the whole upstairs, located the trapdoor, found a ladder and got the trapdoor wedged open, we’re all drunk. I’m dizzy as I climb up the rungs, but aware enough to know this is massively dangerous. Marcus is already up there. I can hear him scrabbling around on the tiles. I look down at Dylan. He looks different from this angle, sort of younger.
‘Dylan? You coming up?’ Marcus calls from the roof.
I take another step, my head and shoulders emerging above the trapdoor. It’s hard to read Marcus’s expression in the darkness as he looks over and sees me instead of his best friend.
