You Had Me at Chateau, page 17
This place is the complete package. The vibes are great, the music is just the right level to be enjoyable when you listen, but ignorable when you want to chat. The cocktails are amazing and the company isn’t bad either.
The second my eyes hit the menu I knew what I was going to have: a burger, with bacon, brie and caramelised onion relish, and a side of French fries. There is so much good stuff on this menu, and I tend to be the sort of person who always orders the same thing at the same restaurant, which I need to try not to do here… but if I did, I wouldn’t regret it. This might be the best burger I have ever tasted – ever – and the French fries just feel all the more French for me, well, being in France right now. They don’t get more legit than this, do they?
Caleb and I have been chatting for hours and I have to say, I’m surprised at how much it turns out we have in common – both now and when we were younger.
From pirates to Powerpuff Girls (yep, I had a phase where I was into both – my birthday parties took a jarring turn from one year to the next), our childhood obsessions have a lot of crossover, over the years. Even in our teens we both had the same phase, when we were obsessed with pop-punk (except he didn’t go as far as to get his eyebrow pierced like I did – not that you would know now, because my dad made me take it out) and gross-out comedy movies. It’s like we were following the same blueprint, without even knowing. Even as adults I would say we’re both equally obsessed with (if not dependent on) air fryers – although I suspect he probably has a fancy built-in one, like Tom does. It seems as though it’s only in recent years that our paths have deviated, with Caleb going on a reality TV show, but that they’re coming back together now that he’s becoming an author. It’s strange really.
But after reminiscing about old TV shows and swapping embarrassing stories of when we were teens, the tone has just shifted a little.
‘Sometimes, I feel like I don’t belong in this industry,’ Caleb admits, his tone showing a little of his vulnerable side. ‘I can’t shake this feeling, like when I’m at events, that people are side-eyeing me just because I’m famous for being famous, instead of having a talent like an actor or a musician. I think they question what I’ve actually achieved, other than being a face on TV.’
Wow, I mean, I know all about imposter syndrome (it’s part of the job, being an author) but I never would have thought Caleb felt it.
‘Listen, anyone who makes you feel bad is probably just jealous, because you’ve made such a name for yourself that people will pay you thousands of pounds to, like, hold a mug,’ I remind him. ‘And you made phenomenal TV. Most actors could never – not without a good script.’
‘Did you watch the show?’ he asks, in a tone that suggests he assumed I hadn’t.
‘You know what, I hadn’t, until I met you, and then I had a peep because I was curious, and I got hooked,’ I confess. ‘In fact, the only reason I stopped watching you on TV was because you turned up here. So no spoilers, okay? I’ll get back to TV you when real you goes home.’
Caleb laughs.
‘Thanks for the pep talk,’ he tells me, dipping a French fry into his tomato sauce, before popping it into his mouth.
‘Ah, you’re welcome,’ I reply. ‘I totally get it. I often feel like I’m surrounded by more experienced, more successful authors, wondering if I’ll ever measure up. Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder if they’re looking down at me, because I’m younger, less experienced, less settled in life. Everyone seems to have a confidence that I don’t think I can unlock with anything but time – the problem is, I could really do with it right now.’
‘I guess I have all this to look forward to, huh?’ he says with a smile.
‘Oh, I’m sure you have nothing to worry about,’ I insist. ‘With the kind of advance you’re probably getting, you don’t need to care about what anyone thinks.’
‘Yeah, maybe you’re right,’ he replies. ‘It’s kind of reassuring, chatting with you about this author stuff. Honestly, I feel like a fish out of water sometimes. I know that it was being on TV that got me a foot in the door, but now that I’m here, the pressure’s on.’
I mean, publishing a book that is being ghostwritten for you, and people not liking it, isn’t exactly the same as slogging away for weeks, months or even years on a book, only to see it flop – and then having to find the strength to do it all again.
‘You’ve got to have faith in yourself,’ I remind him. ‘Plus, your publisher wouldn’t have offered you a deal, if they didn’t think that a book by you would do really well.’
Caleb nods thoughtfully.
I suppose, at the very least, it’s something that he recognises his privilege, and why he has a seat at the table.
Neither of us has left so much as a bit of garnish on our plates, in fact, they’re so clean you could be forgiven for thinking they hadn’t been used. You can’t even see a trace of ketchup – although calling it ketchup feels like a bit of a diss, because it’s more like a fancy tomato puree.
I notice Caleb gesture over my shoulder at someone.
I just stare at him, silently asking if I need to be worried.
‘I’ve arranged us something special for dessert,’ he tells me. ‘You’re going to love it.’
‘I am on the verge of a food coma!’ I point out. ‘Dessert will send me off nicely, thank you.’
Caleb laughs.
‘I’m not specifically doing this to take pictures of the different desserts, but it would be a shame not to,’ he says.
‘Hey, I’m the kind of girl who takes photos of her food, and I only have like 250 followers, so have at it,’ I reply. ‘Wait – different desserts?’
‘Yeah, it’s a tasting menu,’ he replies. ‘Well, in that we’re basically tasting everything on the menu.’
A parade of plates arrives at our table, each one looking more beautiful and enticing than the last. There’s crème brûlée, tarte Tatin, macarons, something I don’t recognise that looks like layers and layers of chocolate, but yes, please. My mouth is watering just looking at them.
‘Wow, Caleb, this is amazing,’ I say, grabbing a fork and diving into the tarte Tatin. ‘You sure know how to treat a prop girlfriend.’
‘It’s… never been said before,’ he jokes. ‘Let me try a bit of that tart.’
‘Now that I bet you have said before,’ I tease.
We both dig in, savouring each bite, and I have to admit, it’s pure heaven. The flavours are rich and decadent, and varied – although that could be because we’re having everything on the menu. If you’re the kind of person who looks at a dessert menu and struggles to choose (which is what I’m like, and yes, I’m aware that is the opposite of what I’m like with main courses) then it really is a great solution.
But then, mid-bite of the chocolate layered thing that I want to actually marry, something occurs to me. Shiiiit. Bette is cooking dinner for everyone tonight. And I’m supposed to show up and eat it. Oh, God, and I’ve just eaten so, so much food. Honestly, I’ve been like a magician, because anything that has been put in front of me I have made disappear.
Panic flickers for a moment, and I know that the best thing to do is to stop eating the desserts, but surely I’m in too deep now, and all of this is far too good to waste.
I’ll just have to hope that I can make another dinner disappear – ideally without resorting to sleight of hand.
31
As grateful as I am that Caleb is insisting on walking me back to the château in the dark, I’m a little on edge given that I don’t want anyone to spot him. Still, it is dark, cold, and snowy, so it’s probably for the best that I’m not doing it alone.
We walk together, along the snow-covered path towards the château, his footsteps crunching softly beside mine. As soon as the château is in sight, I’ll tell him that I’ll be okay from there, so that he can head back, before the snow starts falling again. I’ll just have to hope that he isn’t so much of a gentleman that he refuses. No, I never thought I would worry about a man being too much of a gentleman.
‘You really don’t have to walk me all the way,’ I say, glancing sideways at him.
‘It’s no trouble,’ Caleb replies, his breath visible in the chilly air. ‘If you slip, fall down the mountain and die, then who will be in my photos?’
I know that he’s joking but he actually makes a good point. If I slipped and fell down the mountain, how long would it be before anyone noticed, if it weren’t for Caleb being here with me? Even my own parents haven’t been taking my calls today.
‘Well, I can use my torch, for the last stretch,’ I reply. ‘And I can always google how to do an SOS.’
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, for the first time in ages, and notice a notification from my mum that came through earlier. My heart skips a beat.
‘Is everything okay?’ Caleb asks, noticing my sudden change in expression.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say, opening the message. ‘I have a message from my mum, it says: “Sorry we didn’t answer. Your dad was in the hospital. I’m on my way there now. Will call later.”’
Panic sets in. I stop in my tracks.
‘Shit, I need to call my mum,’ I blurt. ‘My dad’s in the hospital, and she’s just dropping it into a text like that? Fuck, I don’t have any signal here.’
Caleb quickly reaches into his pocket and hands me his phone.
‘Here, use mine,’ he tells me, offering me his phone. ‘It has some kind of special SIM. I don’t know how it works, I think it uses satellites or something. You should be able to get through.’
I fumble with his phone, my hands shaking as I dial Tom’s number first. I can’t believe he hasn’t let me know.
It rings and rings, but no answer. I try to steady my breathing and punch in my mum’s number next. Each ring feels like an eternity, but finally, she picks up.
‘Mum! What’s going on? Is Dad okay?’ I blurt out, my voice a mix of worry and fear.
‘Amber, it’s you! Okay, calm down,’ she says, her voice soothing. ‘Your dad’s fine.’
She sounds confused that I’m even worried, which only confuses me further.
‘What?’ I blurt. ‘You said he was in the hospital…’
Mum laughs.
‘Amber, you silly goose, you worry too much,’ she says – which is rich coming from the world’s most spectacular worrier. ‘He was just visiting a friend. You know Elsie, from down the street? Remember her son, Ron, and his wife, Erica? We went to Spain with them, years ago, when you were two – remember?’
‘No, Mum, I don’t remember going to Spain when I was two,’ I reply, my tone totally flat.
‘Anyway, he was visiting Ken,’ she continues her explanation. ‘He’s broken his hip.’
I have no idea how Ken connects to Ron, Erica or Elsie, but that’s the least of my worries right now.
‘Mum, you said he was in the hospital, and that you were on your way there,’ I point out.
‘Yes, he was in the hospital, visiting Ken,’ she says, obviously baffled she’s having to explain herself. ‘Parking is a nightmare there, so I dropped off and picked up your dad – there’s no reason we can’t be amicable, Amber.’
I mean, from what Tom has been telling me, it doesn’t sound like they’re being amicable but, again, that’s not the point right now.
‘Mum, when someone is admitted to hospital you say they are in the hospital,’ I remind her. ‘When they are vising the hospital you say they are at the hospital.’
I notice Caleb smiling, part sympathy, part amusement.
‘Honestly, you can tell you’re a writer,’ she replies with a laugh. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s been a long day. I should have worded it better.’
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling.
‘Probably,’ I say with a laugh, just happy that everything is okay.
We chat for a few more minutes, and she reassures me that everything is fine. I feel a wave of relief wash over me as I hang up and hand the phone back to Caleb.
‘False alarm,’ I say, smiling weakly. ‘He was just visiting someone.’
Caleb laughs, shaking his head.
‘Your mum has a fun way with words, doesn’t she?’ he points out.
‘Yeah, it seems like it runs in the family,’ I reply.
‘I think that’s one of the things that fascinates me about the English language,’ he says. ‘How changing one word can make such a difference.’
‘Or a comma,’ I reply. ‘It’s that old saying about how a comma changes a sentence, like: helping your brother, Jack, off a horse.’
Caleb laughs.
‘Exactly,’ he replies. ‘The difference between being “shit” and “the shit”.’
Another great example. My book is currently shit – if I could just find a ‘the’ from somewhere.
‘Right, here we are, I’ll be okay from here,’ I tell him, the château in my sights.
‘Are you sure?’ he replies. ‘It’s less than a minute out of my day…’
‘I’m going to feel guilty that you’re walking back alone – what if you slip, fall down the mountain, and die?’ I ask, echoing his words back to him.
‘That’s what this cool phone is for,’ he says with a smile. ‘Goodnight, Amber. It’s been fun.’
‘It has,’ I reply. ‘Thanks for everything. Dinner, use of your phone…’
‘You’re welcome,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘See you tomorrow.’
I feel all sorts of things right now. I feel a strange mix of emotions – relief, gratitude, and maybe a hint of something else I can’t quite place. Oh, and I feel full. So, so full. Which reminds me…
It’s time to face the ladies, and the music, and the second dinner.
I know Bette is preparing dinner for everyone, and the thought of facing more food makes my steps feel heavy, like I’m reluctantly headed for a dentist appointment, but I don’t want to be rude – well, I don’t want them to perceive me as rude. The warm glow from the dining room spills invitingly into the hallway, casting long, spooky shadows, but instead of feeling welcomed, I feel like I’m walking into a scene from a horror movie.
With each step closer, my resolve weakens. I can practically hear my stomach groaning – screaming, even – in protest. I take a deep breath, hoping it will fortify me, instead it only makes me feel even more full, but I’m here now.
There they are: Bette, Mandy, and Gina, all seated around the table, engaged in lively conversation. In the centre of the table sits a steaming-hot plate piled high with what appears to be stew, and I’m sure it would look appealing – to anyone who isn’t already painfully full, that is.
‘We were beginning to think you weren’t going to show,’ Mandy says, her eyes narrowing suspiciously as she watches me sit down.
‘Sorry, I got caught up doing some research,’ I reply, trying to sound as casual as possible. My voice wavers slightly, because I’m worried my breath will still smell of five different desserts, and they’ll realise – even though I’m pretty sure I drank enough alcohol to make my entire body sterile enough for surgery.
Gina raises an eyebrow and grins mischievously.
‘Research, huh?’ she replies. ‘Were you rolling around in the snow with a boy?’
I laugh, though it feels a bit forced, but I’m happy to move the conversation along.
‘If only,’ I say with an easy-breezy scoff. ‘No, just a lot of thinking, looking around and note-taking.’
Bette, playing hostess, takes to her feet and leans over the table.
‘Well, if you were, I’m sure you’ll be hungry,’ she says.
I’m sure she’s just being friendly, and that she isn’t at all suspicious, but I’m paranoid. Without waiting for a response, she loads my plate high with stew, the thick gravy sloshing around as she does so.
Oh God, I feel sick just looking at it. My stomach, already stretched to capacity, churns in protest, but I force a smile and take my seat.
‘Oh, you are hungry,’ Bette says, noticing the sound.
Mandy eyes me with suspicion, her fork hovering over her plate.
‘So, research, hmm? What kind of research?’ she asks.
‘Oh, you know, just exploring the area, getting a feel for the place,’ I say, trying to keep my tone light. ‘It could be a great place to set a book.’
‘Come on, dig in, dig in!’ Bette encourages me.
I stare at the mountain of food in front of me, and the thought of taking even one bite is just too much. But I can’t let them see, I need to keep a lid on it. I pick up my fork and push the stew around my plate, trying to make it look like I’m eating.
The ladies continue chatting about their writing schedules, discussing how relaxed things are, and when their deadlines for their next books are. I try to focus on their words, hoping to distract myself from the smell of dinner.
‘I’m actually ahead of schedule for once,’ Mandy says. ‘It’s so much more enjoyable when you’re not writing under pressure.’
‘Same here,’ Gina chimes in. ‘I’ve got most of my first draft done, just need to polish it up – there’s months until it’s due though.’
Imagine having a first draft and months to spare!
Bette looks at me, her eyes narrowing.
‘What’s wrong, Amber?’ she asks. ‘You’re not eating.’
‘Oh, um, I don’t eat meat,’ I blurt, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind. Of course, now I’ve left myself open to plot holes, if I don’t stick with my story forever.
Mandy gives me a quizzical look, her brow furrowing in confusion.
‘Didn’t we see you eating chicken?’ she asks. Suddenly she smiles, excited at the thought of catching me in a lie.
‘Uh, it’s beef I don’t eat,’ I tell them.
‘This is lamb,’ Bette points out.
Oh, for God’s sake.
‘Right, er, I meant red meat,’ I clarify. ‘I don’t eat red meat. Just chicken and fish. It’s okay though, I’ll just eat the veg.’
I stab a mushy, gravy-soaked carrot with my fork and pop it into my mouth. It feels like it’s dripping with grease, and tastes absolutely minging, but that might just be my overstuffed stomach rebelling against any more food.
