You Had Me at Chateau, page 18
‘Lovely,’ I lie, smiling weakly.
Bette, not missing a beat, smiles back with a touch of understanding.
‘Don’t worry, dessert doesn’t have any meat in it,’ she tells me. ‘Sticky toffee pudding with custard.’
I never thought I’d say this but no more fucking dessert, God, please.
I continue trying to make it look like I’m eating, in the hope I can say I’m too full for dessert. I feel like I’m a kid again, trying to hide the peas under my mashed potatoes, only I’m trying to hide everything under everything else.
What’s more sickening than the food, though, is their attitude. Not that there is anything wrong with it – it’s jealousy I’m sick with. Everyone seems so settled, stable, and happy, with their nice lives and their lengthy deadlines.
Mandy and Gina are back to swapping notes on their upcoming projects, while Bette listens happily. It’s a cosy, idyllic scene, and I can’t help but feel like an outsider looking in.
Here I am, sitting among accomplished, popular authors, and I’m trying to write a bad book on purpose just to get my contract cancelled.
Still, it’s the best idea I’ve got, and it sounds a lot easier than trying to eat a sticky toffee pudding right now.
32
Absolutely stuffed from trying to eat when I wasn’t at all hungry, I drag myself upstairs, each step feeling like a monumental effort. My stomach churns as I walk, gurgling and bubbling, warning me that I’m in for a night of discomfort and acid reflux.
‘Amber!’ Henri’s voice calls out from behind me.
I turn to see him hurrying up the stairs to catch up.
‘Hey, Henri,’ I say, trying to smile through the discomfort – and hoping he doesn’t hear the alien noises coming from my tummy. ‘How’s it going?’
‘I feel like I haven’t seen you all day. No one’s been walking in on me in the bathroom, and it feels strange,’ he says, his grin widening.
As someone who has seen him in and out of clothes, it has to be said, he looks great in them too. He dresses in trousers and shirts that could look like workwear or formalwear, depending on what he was doing. It’s that easy French charm that makes him look great in (or out of) anything.
I laugh, shaking my head.
‘Some days I leave people to shower in private,’ I joke. ‘Sorry.’
‘No need to apologise,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘Actually, I have an invitation for you.’
‘Oh?’ I say curiously.
My tummy gurgles, as if it’s echoing my words.
‘I was wondering if you’d like to see my private cabin,’ he offers. ‘It’s such a romantic space that I’m working on, and I thought you might find it inspiring.’
‘Your private cabin?’ I reply, more than intrigued.
‘Yes, it’s my current project – new accommodation for the resort,’ he explains. ‘It’s not creepy, I promise – I’ve just realised it might sound creepy, in my English.’
‘Not at all – that sounds amazing,’ I say. ‘I’d love to see it.’
‘Great,’ he says, his eyes lighting up. ‘It’s a special place. I’ve been putting a lot of effort into making it perfect. There are stunning views of the mountains, and the surrounding area – it’s incredibly peaceful.’
‘Wow, it sounds dreamy,’ I say, already picturing the scene. ‘When were you thinking?’
‘I could take you there tomorrow afternoon,’ he suggests. ‘We can take a walk through the woods, and maybe I’ll even tell you some more stories about the area. Perhaps there will be food involved.’
Normally a phrase that would be music to my ears, but I really am so full.
‘That sounds great,’ I say. ‘Can’t wait.’
‘It’s one of my favourite places here,’ he tells me. ‘I think you’re going to love it.’
This could be just what I need. Spending more time with Henri, exploring a private, romantic cabin – it sounds like a great way to get inspired. Between scenes in my own life I keep working on my draft, here and there, adding in scenes that are purposefully awful, or just generally messing up what is already there, but it’s never too late to get some good inspiration, right?
‘Bonne nuit, Amber,’ Henri says, flashing me that charming smile. ‘Sleep well.’
‘Goodnight, Henri,’ I reply, feeling a bit lighter despite the heaviness in my stomach. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Finally alone, I get to take off my jeans, and plonk myself down on the bed.
Lying face down, I turn my head to the side, to look at my phone, only to see that I have a missed FaceTime call from my dad, from a few minutes ago. Oh boy, I should call him back, shouldn’t I? All I want to do is sleep but I’ve been trying to talk to him all day, and even though it turns out he is absolutely fine, for a few minutes I thought I might lose him. That’s as good a reason to talk to him now as any, right?
‘Amber!’ Dad answers almost immediately, his face filling the screen – why do dads hold the camera so close to their face? ‘Finally, you call back.’
‘Yep, hello,’ I say, giving him a wave. ‘So you were in the hospital today, huh?’
‘Yeah, I went to see Ken,’ he replies, thinking nothing of the wording. Honestly! ‘But that’s not why I’m calling. You won’t believe what your mother has done this time.’
‘Oh yeah?’ I say, trying to keep my tone neutral. ‘What’s going on?’
‘She’s gone completely mad!’ he begins his rant. ‘She’s decided to redecorate the living room without consulting me. Can you believe that? We’ve had the same wallpaper for twenty years, and she rips it off, like it’s nothing, days before Christmas! And don’t get me started on the new wallpaper she picked – it’s hideous! And she expects me to hang it.’
‘Okay, well,’ I start, but he doesn’t let me finish.
‘I’m telling you, Amber, it’s like living with a tornado,’ he continues. ‘One that removes wallpaper, and perfectly good carpet. She’s changing everything, and I’m supposed to just go along with it. She hasn’t even consulted me and, if she did, she wouldn’t listen. She doesn’t even listen to my opinions any more. It’s like I don’t even exist!’
‘Dad, I’m sorry you’re feeling this way,’ I say, trying to comfort him.
If I’m being honest, I’m not used to him being so vocal. Usually he’s the strong, silent type.
‘Have you talked to her about how you feel?’ I ask.
‘Talked to her?’ he scoffs. ‘You know how she is. She’ll just say I’m being a miserable old bastard.’
I’m not sure she would drop a B-bomb, but I take his point.
‘I could try to talk to her,’ I reply. ‘Erm, actually, she’s calling me right now.’
‘Go,’ he instructs me. ‘Go talk to her. You’ll see.’
Ending the call with my dad and picking up a call from my mum feels like a case of ‘out of the frying pan and into the fire’, but it can’t always be on Tom to smooth things over.
I sigh, taking a split second to compose myself before I answer, bracing myself for round two.
‘Hello, Mum,’ I say brightly.
‘Amber, were you just on the phone with your father?’ she asks, her tone accusatory as she cuts to the chase.
‘Yes, he just called me, to say he was only at the hospital to visit Ken,’ I say, already feeling the stress headache forming in anticipation of whatever is coming next. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Am I okay? Oh, let me tell you,’ she starts, frustration building with each word. ‘Your bloody dad is being so difficult. I’m trying to make the house look nice, in time for Christmas, and all he does is complain. I’m doing all of this for the house, and he acts like I’m ruining his life. He’s so stuck in his ways. It’s just a bit of bloody wallpaper, and I’ve booked someone to do it, they’ll get it finished before Christmas. I can’t tell if he’s mad because he thinks I want him to do it or because he thinks I don’t trust him to do it.’
‘Mum, I understand,’ I reassure her. ‘Maybe you two just need to sit down and talk about this. Really talk. It sounds like you’re both frustrated and not listening to each other.’
‘Oh, I’ve tried,’ she says, exasperated and, ironically, not listening to me. ‘But it’s impossible to have an adult conversation with him. It’s like talking to a brick wall covered in thirty-five-year-old wallpaper.’
I should have known, when they sat me and Tom down and explained to us that they were splitting up, that they were not as chill about it as they made out to be.
‘Okay, here’s what I think,’ I start – for what it’s worth. ‘The wallpaper is off, right?’
‘Yes,’ she confirms.
‘Right, then it’s probably best you go ahead with getting some new stuff up,’ I reply. ‘You could ask Dad to help you choose one.’
‘I’ve chosen one,’ she tells me.
‘Okay, but you know what he’s like, so he’s not going to like the fact you chose without him, even if you gave him the choice initially he would have told you he didn’t care,’ I remind her. ‘So, show him maybe three samples. Whichever one is your third choice, tell him that’s the one you want, and then you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of him actually picking the one you want. But involve him in the decision.’
‘Okay, I can try that,’ she replies.
‘And, I don’t know, tell him you can cancel the decorators, if he wants to do it – it’s up to him,’ I suggest.
‘But he’ll do an awful job,’ she says.
‘But he won’t want to do it,’ I add. ‘Just let him think it’s his choice.’
‘You’re a very clever girl,’ she tells me with a smile.
‘One who will be back very, very soon,’ I remind her. ‘Please just hang in there. I can help when I’m home. I just need you all present and alive.’
‘Present I can do,’ she says, playfully gritting her teeth. ‘I appreciate your advice. I really do. Take care, and don’t let this ruin your trip.’
She sounds a lot calmer now, thank goodness.
‘I won’t, Mum,’ I say – because I’m perfectly capable of ruining my own trip. ‘Love you.’
‘Love you too, Amber.’
I hang up and flop back onto the bed, rubbing my temples, taking deep breaths in and out, in and out.
Oh boy, what a mess. The sooner I get home, the sooner I can try to help – not that I have any idea how I’ll actually help, which is all the more reason to focus on my book while I’m here. I have my draft, that I hate, I just need to do what I need to do, to get it done so that I can send it.
Then I can worry about how I fix my parents.
33
I don’t know who I think I am, sprawled out on a sofa in Caleb’s chalet, surrounded by an assortment of jewellery. Some of it I really like, other pieces I’m embarrassed to be wearing even as someone else. Actually, I’ve just answered my own question. Who do I think I am? I think I’m Annabelle Harvey-Whitaker, clearly.
Each piece has a story, or so Caleb tells me – that’s what it says in the info sheet he has that came with the jewellery. Not many of them have a story with a happy ending, clearly, because I don’t know anyone who would wear half of these.
Perhaps I have a dirty mind (I definitely do, which makes it ironic I can’t write spicy scenes) but the longer I look at certain pieces, the more I’m starting to see things.
‘Whatever they are paying you to make your girlfriend wear what looks like anal beads, it isn’t enough,’ I joke, striking a dramatic pose with the garish necklace dangling around my neck.
Caleb laughs as he snaps away with his camera, taking close-up shots of my neck and chest.
‘It could probably pay for that dinner we had last night… another ten times,’ he says with a wink. Then he takes a photo of my dropped jaw.
‘Oh my gosh, I love these beads on me,’ I say, sarcastic as you like, as I strike another pose.
Caleb laughs, lowering the camera momentarily. He narrows his eyes at them.
‘They do kind of look like anal beads,’ he admits. ‘But you’re rocking them.’
‘I was starting to think you got them out of the wrong bag until I saw the matching earrings,’ I reply. ‘Then again, who knows where they’re potentially supposed to go.’
Caleb chuckles, clearly having just as much fun as I am with this. He steps back to get a wider shot, and I do my best runway model impression, swaying my hips and pouting ridiculously – even though I’m facing away from the camera, to keep my anonymity.
‘Seriously, though, this stuff is a mix of fabulous and fabulously terrible,’ I say, adjusting the necklace so it sits less awkwardly on my collarbones. ‘But this is kind of fun, isn’t it? Playing dress-up. You must have a right laugh, doing this stuff for a living.’
‘Yeah, although it’s definitely more fun doing it with someone else,’ he tells me with a smile. ‘Who knows what I would have done with that necklace, if you weren’t here.’
I laugh.
‘Okay, I am not a necklace kind of guy, but if you can snap some photos of me in this chain, I think we can call it a day,’ Caleb says, handing me the camera. He holds up a sleek silver chain with various charms hanging off it then pulls a face as he puts it on.
I take the camera and grin.
‘I don’t know, I think it kind of suits you,’ I tell him, adjusting the lens like I know what I’m doing. ‘But maybe that’s because it’s more subtle than the one I’m wearing.’
‘Speaking of subtle,’ he starts, shifting his weight and turning his head for a better angle. ‘Have you managed to get any writing done?’
I laugh, nodding as I snap a few shots.
‘Yes, well, I did a little last night,’ I reply. ‘Do you know what, it’s weirdly fun, trying to do a bad job on purpose.’
‘Really?’ Caleb raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
‘Yeah, it’s strange,’ I continue, lowering the camera for a moment. ‘It’s like an extra challenge, trying to take the piss out of myself. It’s easy to write all the clichés and use all the plot devices that drive readers mad, but I think the thing that I’m loving the most is just creating absolute chaos.’
‘And how do you create chaos in a book?’ Caleb asks curiously, resuming his poses with a mix of seriousness and playfulness.
‘Almost everyone’s name begins with a J,’ I tell him proudly, framing another shot. ‘Jane, Jade, John, Jack – Gemma, so that it isn’t obvious – Jacob, Jenny. Jade and Jane are sisters, and Jack is in love with Jade, no, wait, with Jane, but he’s in a relationship with a girl called Jenna. I keep switching tenses, and having characters head downstairs to the loft, and you would be surprised how many different ways there are to type the word “okay”. Honestly, it’s a mess.’
Caleb shakes his head, laughing.
‘I have a headache just thinking about it,’ he says. ‘Honestly, it sounds infuriating to read. So, good job there.’
‘It’s kind of liberating too,’ I tell him. ‘Like, there’s no pressure to get it right. It’s the opposite, actually. The more chaotic, the better – I’m even finding that I’m doing a good job by accident, from time to time.’
‘Sounds like a nightmare and a dream at the same time,’ he says with a laugh.
‘All right, I think we’ve got enough shots. You can ditch the ugly chain now,’ I tell him, pulling a face.
My phone starts ringing, the screen lighting up with a FaceTime call from Tom.
‘It’s my brother,’ I tell Caleb, holding up the phone as if to explain the interruption. ‘Things are a bit weird at home at the moment.’
‘Take the call,’ Caleb says, waving me off with a smile. ‘I’ll sit at the table, out of the way.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, grateful for his understanding.
I swipe to answer the call and Tom’s face appears on the screen, looking as exasperated as ever.
‘Hello,’ I say brightly.
‘Amber! Honestly, they’re driving me crazy, I can’t believe you’ve left me with them,’ he begins, not wasting a second on pleasantries.
‘What now?’ I ask, already bracing myself for the onslaught of family drama.
‘They’re like… competing for my affection, like I’m a kid they’re fighting over, both trying to get onside, to turn me against the other.’
‘Oh boy,’ I blurt.
‘And the fact that it’s Christmas is only making them more nuts,’ he continues. ‘They’re trying to one-up each other with the Christmas decorations too. Mum’s got this ridiculously huge wreath for the front door, which Dad hates because he says it makes the door too heavy. So Dad went and bought a Santa that inflates to the size of a small car, and put it right next to Mum’s parking space because he knows she struggles to park in tight spots. And now Mum’s talking about getting an electric diffuser with cinnamon in it, because she knows it messes with his sinuses. She’s basically soft poisoning him, Amber!’
I can’t help but laugh.
‘But she’s the one who finds him the most annoying, when he has a blocked nose, and he acts like he’s dying,’ I point out.
‘Yep, well, they’re competing over Christmas dinner too, so you have that to look forward to,’ he informs me. ‘Mum says she’s doing a turkey crown, Dad says it’s Christmas and that we should have a “real” turkey, so apparently we’re having one of each, and we can all say whose is best.’
‘Stunning,’ I say sarcastically. ‘I’m sorry you’re dealing with them on your own.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure you’re sleeping easy at your five-star resort,’ Tom teases, a hint of a smile breaking through his frustration.
‘Actually,’ I begin, hesitating slightly, ‘I’m not sleeping easy.’
Well, technically I’m not falling asleep easily, but he doesn’t need to hear that I’m having the best sleep of my life in my super-amazing bed.
‘Can’t sleep without your beaver cream?’ Tom jokes, offering up an in-joke to lighten the mood.
