Love, Unscripted Read online

  Bashfully he typed in Le AA.

  The first results were all for a law-enforcement agency in the US.

  He tried French recovery service.

  The results were less than comforting.

  “I’m just getting hit after hit for ‘Make sure you get roadside recovery before you travel. And keep their number close at hand.’ ”

  “This is how I die,” Ellie said. “Eaten by wolves next to my boyfriend who doesn’t plan ahead.”

  She didn’t mean for her words to sting as much as they did, and yet at the same time, her frustration was boiling over.

  “Let’s just drive slowly to this”—he pointed at the sign—“Sisteron place. It’s less than a mile.”

  Ellie agreed and started the car. As they took off, something about the name Sisteron kept playing in Nick’s head. He began reciting it in time with the clunking, which soon became a crunching, which soon became unbearable until Ellie pulled the car over again and erupted.

  “Stop saying Sisteron!”

  And that was when it hit him.

  “Gabby!”

  Ellie climbed out of the car for the second time and yelled across the hood, “You know it isn’t your family’s job to rescue you!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Nick replied, before quickly reclaiming his current thought. “Gabby used to date a guy, a real prick, called, what was it? Franco? Francis? François! That was it. He lived in Sisteron. I remember it because he made terrible jokes about being from Sisteron and on my sister. I fucking hated that guy.”

  Ellie was still nonplussed by his unexplained plan. “How exactly does this help us?”

  “Guys would do anything for Gabby. Especially ex-boyfriends. I’ll message her and see if he still lives nearby. He might come and pick us up. Or at least know someone who can.”

  Ellie started blinking again.

  “Let me get this straight. You want to message your sister to see if she can message an a-hole ex-boyfriend to see if he can message his random mates to pick us up?”

  Nick was getting increasingly irate at how this was becoming all his fault, thinking to himself—and only to himself—how if he’d been driving they wouldn’t be in this mess.

  “What’s your master plan then?” he snapped.

  Ellie threw her arms up and started scratching both sides of her head. She didn’t need to seek out the negative thoughts now; they were all-encompassing.

  Look at how badly he copes when things don’t go his way. When it’s not all sunshine and lollipops. How long will I have to wait for him to grow up? And finally, the one she’d kept pushed way, way down, Can’t I do better than this?

  She took a deep breath. “Just give me five minutes, Nick.”

  After half a minute, she’d made up her mind.

  “Fine. Whatever. Do it.”

  * * *

  —

  WHEN FRANÇOIS ARRIVED, leaning out of the window of his sports car, looking like a million euros, Nick remembered everything he’d forgotten. How François used to ridicule him at every available opportunity. How he came on to anything that moved. How fucking gorgeous he was.

  He climbed out of the car and kissed Nick on both cheeks.

  “Merci, François. I really appreciate this.”

  François playfully slapped him where he’d just kissed and said, “Mon petit frère, I always loved how you used to try and speak French for me. Not many of you English bothered.”

  He looked at the car.

  “So, what happened?”

  “Un grand lapin?” Nick offered.

  Without laughing François said, “You were always very funny, Nick. Very funny man.”

  And then he slid up to Ellie in a way that was both effortless and creepy, invading her personal space and taking her hand in his.

  “You and this guy, eh?”

  Ellie smiled politely and said, “Very much actually.”

  She said it as a favor to Nick. She knew he’d be feeling insecure, and now that her blood had calmed, her thoughts turned to making him feel okay again. Still, she couldn’t help shaking her head at his decision to make a point of standing between her and François. A decision she was sure François got a kick out of.

  “How’s Gabriella?” François asked with a nauseating wink.

  Ellie quickly interjected, “Who’s Gabriella?”

  “He means Gabby,” Nick said, unsure as to whether he was projecting a hint of jealousy onto Ellie in the millisecond she thought there was a secret woman in his life. “She’s very good, thank you for asking. Getting married next month.”

  François sighed heavily, and Nick knew what was coming next.

  “Ah, the things we used to do. Come on, you can tell me all about her on the way back to mine.”

  * * *

  —

  “WHAT’S THE FRENCH for incredible?” Ellie asked.

  It was more of a test than an actual question. If Nick laughed, or even smiled, she would know they were on terra firma. If he missed the joke completely and tried to correct her, she’d know the evening would be a write-off. She wasn’t entirely sure what his silence meant.

  There was, like in every joke, a large degree of truth in what she’d said. One side of the apartment was almost completely glass and it overlooked a lit pool that might or might not have belonged just to François. The open-plan kitchen had an island and the sort of slim-line built-in appliances that you just had to look at to turn on. Every piece of art on the wall was either strongly phallic or yonic or both. This place and its contents were handpicked to drop both jaws and drawers.

  Ellie was trying not to be too blown away by it for Nick’s sake, but her eyes were wide like a four-year-old’s seeing their birthday cake.

  “Red or white?” François offered. “Or something stronger?”

  “Actually, we’d best be turning in if you don’t mind,” Nick replied.

  He tried to avoid eye contact with Ellie, as he knew she’d be giving him a look that said “You’re being insanely rude.” Because she couldn’t meet his eye, she elbowed him in the ribs to get his attention and whispered it, swapping “insanely” for “inordinately.”

  “Red, please, François,” she added.

  “Yes, red,” Nick parroted, hoping his host wouldn’t take him up on his first answer and send him off to bed while snuggling up to his beloved with a bottle of Shiraz on the most expensive-looking couch he’d ever seen.

  “But just one,” he whispered to Ellie.

  “Fine,” she whispered back.

  “Doesn’t seem like my master plan was too bad after all.”

  She rolled her eyes in reply as François returned, handing over two wine-filled glasses that had more in common with mixing bowls than drinking vessels.

  “How many bottles are in this?” asked Nick.

  As they sat on the couch sipping their delicious wine, a sense of calm seeped into their bones. The conversation was light and jovial and François stopped being François just enough for Nick to begin to relax.

  He spoke fondly of his time in England and was very humble about his wealth. The three of them chatted about what Nick and Ellie hoped to do when they arrived in Cannes tomorrow, and François offered them a free meal at a fancy restaurant where he knew the head chef.

  The wine started to go to Nick’s head, and he didn’t even mind when François dropped in the occasional double entendre, going so far as to laugh at a couple of them.

  Conversation turned to various foods they’d sampled. Nick mentioned how he and his former classmates had tried horse on a school trip, and Ellie said she’d eaten both alligator and ostrich at a music festival in Wales.

  Nick, with a slur in his voice, rounded up the topic with the line, “I’ll try anything once.”

  At this,
François smiled and excused himself. Once he’d left the room, Nick put his hand on Ellie’s knee and said, “Let’s go to bed. I’m done in.”

  The tiredness in his eyes reminded her of the length of the day, and she acquiesced, putting the rest of her wine to one side.

  “Sure. Let’s.”

  Just as they stood up, François reappeared in the doorway, stark bollock naked, wearing nothing but a megawatt smile.

  Nick looked at his penis.

  Ellie looked at his penis.

  Nick looked at Ellie.

  Ellie looked at Nick.

  Ellie put her hand over her mouth to stop herself from bursting out laughing.

  François raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  He pointed to himself. “Me.” He pointed to Ellie. “You.” Then he pointed to Nick. “And you.”

  Not knowing what to do or say, Nick found himself looking at François’s penis again. It had become as hypnotic as the snake in The Jungle Book. Only a confident “So!” from the naked man snapped Nick out of his trance.

  “No. No. No,” he said, shaking his head from side to side.

  And that was when Ellie uttered four unforgettable words.

  “You’re so conservative, Nick.”

  She knew the damage she’d done the second the words were out of her mouth. He was crushed, and when she saw his expression, her face fell and she immediately put a reassuring hand over his.

  “I’m so sorry, Nick, that was a joke. A really bad joke.” She pointed at François’s penis. “François, no, we would very much not like to have sex with you.”

  Her immediate retraction of the words did little to steady Nick’s nerves, as François shrugged a shrug that redefined “you win some, you lose some.”

  “If you’re sure?” He reached back behind the door he was standing in front of and returned with a dressing gown. “You are sure?”

  “We are very sure. And I think we’d like to go to bed now. Just the two of us.” Ellie was now speaking for Nick. Because Nick could no longer form sentences.

  “Nick?” François tried, one more time.

  Nick shook his head silently as François finally covered up his cock and balls.

  “Your room is down the corridor on the left. I’ll call you in the morning. Is seven too early?”

  “Seven would be great, thanks.”

  Ellie led Nick away from the scene of the crime, a suppressed giggle in her mouth.

  When they reached their room and shut the door behind them, she fell onto the bed laughing. She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. She laughed herself to sleep that night, but Nick lay awake, staring at the door, François’s genitals seared onto his mind.

  Ellie’s “joke” playing on repeat.

  * * *

  —

  A PREOCCUPATION WITH their hangovers replaced Ellie’s jollity and Nick’s fear-induced paranoia when they stirred the next day. News from the mechanic only exacerbated the self-loathing that accompanied most mornings after.

  Having the information relayed by a painfully free and easy François—who had seemingly brushed off last night’s indecent proposal without a second thought—was the foul-tasting cherry on top.

  The rental car was a write-off. Arrangements had been made to return it to the hire company, but no alternative vehicle was available until well after their flight home. The choice was now carry on to Cannes by bus for less than half a day, or admit defeat and try again another year.

  Reluctantly they both agreed on the latter.

  Once the decision had been made, and seeing them so despondent, François offered them the place to themselves for the rest of the morning. They thanked him for his hospitality and never mentioned “the incident.” He departed with a cheap shot about Gabby giving him a call when her marriage got boring.

  * * *

  —

  LAZING BY THE pool in the midmorning sunshine, sipping at cocktails created with expensive alcohol neither of them had heard of before, conversation was thin on the ground.

  Eventually Nick said, “I can wait. Cannes isn’t going anywhere. When I’m a famous filmmaker, we’ll come back here and tell everyone all about our misadventures.”

  Ellie’s smile barely registered as one. It was then that it dawned on Nick that this sadness, this absence, had little to do with current events. That they’d been living with it since before the train, plane, and automobile.

  Panic set in at his quandary. Say something and open up a conversation he might regret. Or remain silent and let his imagination guide him to the deepest levels of hell.

  “Ellie, is there…” He’d barely started when she began to cry.

  “I’m so sorry.” Her face matched her words. She was genuinely, unequivocally sorry, but for what he still had no idea. He needed patience, to let her compose herself, to give her time, but all he wanted to do was scream, “Tell me! Tell me what it is!” He held it together and was rewarded for doing so.

  “Today is Lucas’s birthday.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close as she started to let out days of pent-up emotion.

  “I really tried my best. I didn’t want to let it get in the way. I thought I could…”

  “It’s okay.” He rubbed both her arms at once. “It’s okay.”

  They stayed that way for several minutes, him holding her, her leaving fresh tearstains on his T-shirt. When she finally broke away, he met her eyes and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Ellie matched his eyeline. “Honestly?”

  He nodded.

  “I was worried you wouldn’t be able to cope with it. That you’d want to…”

  “Try and fix you?”

  She nodded.

  “And there isn’t any fixing for this. Sometimes I’ll be blue about it, on days like today especially.” She paused. “But I should have told you. I should have. I am sorry.”

  Nick finished his drink and looked out at the shimmering water.

  “I can see why you didn’t. You’re right. I would have tried to fix you.”

  “Maybe instead of fixing me you could just, I don’t know, help me.”

  At that moment she wasn’t sure if he knew the difference. She wasn’t sure if she’d made it clear enough that finality wasn’t the thing she was searching for.

  Back in England, one week later, she got her answer.

  * * *

  —

  “LOOK,” NICK SAID, looking more serious than she’d ever seen him, “I know this is a risk and I don’t want to, I don’t know, step on toes or trivialize or—”

  “What is it?” Ellie said, as supportively as she could, knowing full well he could talk forever if allowed.

  He passed her a video camera.

  She eyed it with suspicion.

  “Is this about the François thing, when I said you were so conservative? I’ve explained a million times that it was just a joke.”

  “God, no! But it is Cannes related, I suppose.”

  He proceeded to tell her his idea. He wanted her to record a message for Lucas. He explained that there was never any reason for anyone to see her recordings except her. She could say anything she wanted. Treat it like a diary or a confessional or just a chance to reminisce.

  She knew as well as he did that it wasn’t for her little brother, it wasn’t really a message to him. It was just a way for her to bring him back. Even if it was only for as long as she was talking.

  “I love it. I really, really love it.”

  “You do? It’s not me trying to fix you or anything, or—”

  She kissed him to silence him, to stop him overexplaining a simple, caring gesture for which she understood his every intention.

  “I love it.”

  “Then I promise that every y
ear, every April, I’ll get the camera out from wherever it’s gathering dust and you can record a new one. Because if I know you just for this day or for a million more, I’ll always try and help you feel okay.”

  The Boy’s ability to turn sadness into joy was unarguable. When he wanted to, he could prove himself to be exceptionally caring. But the Girl understood the importance of consistency better than he did. She knew that when someone spends all their time making noise, when silence comes, the contrast is deafening.

  NOVEMBER 5, 2008—1:59 A.M. GMT

  OBAMA 117

  MCCAIN 73

  270 NEEDED TO WIN

  The kiss was just a kiss.

  While the setting—our bodies in close proximity to the bed, the ungodly late hour, a fair amount of booze in the system—could certainly have led to more, less was definitely the better option in this instance.

  Wiping a tear away from my cheek with her thumb, she thanked me for listening about Lucas. I said it was okay and we continued with short, sharp questions about how the other was doing until we both felt okay. The word “okay” was used a lot.

  She was the first to stand.

  “So,” she said, “do you want to go back to the party or—”

  I jumped up and answered too quickly, thinking I was giving the correct answer.

  “Yeah, erm, definitely, sure, sounds good, I mean, if you want to go back…”

  “Oh yeah, I mean we didn’t come all this way to not buy chicken, be yelled at by your ex-girlfriend, have a good cry, and then have a snog.”

  “She wasn’t my girlfr—”

  I stopped myself this time.

  “You’re teasing me again. We’re back to teasing.”

  “Oh, the teasing will never stop, Nick the Dick.”

  “I’m okay with that,” I admitted. And I very much was.

  “And I am okay and all is okay. Except I am”—listen out for the elongated middle “or”—“extraordinarily hungry. Should I fix us a quick sandwich?”