You Had Me at Merlot Page 3

  ‘Look, Breakers doesn’t want me to go!’ I sat on the floor and scooped him up. I knew he loved me. He wriggled and flailed his paws, a soft grey mess. ‘No, don’t leave me, please, I love you.’ I pushed my face into his fur and he leapt from my clutches. I looked up at my parents. ‘See, consider that a sign telling me I shouldn’t have a boyfriend.’

  I struggled to my feet and Mum gave me a big, warm, lavendery hug. ‘Have a lovely time, sweetheart.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum, I’ll text you when I get there and I’ll bring you something back.’

  ‘Ooo, thank you. Just something small. I hope this rain lets up soon and there’s no problem with your flight in the morning.’

  ‘Hey, how bad can a British summer be?’ I chuckled at the sky.

  ‘Don’t let Laurie drink too much.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Mum pulled back and looked me in the eye. ‘Don’t do anything you don’t want to do.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Do you have the pill, or whatever?’ she whispered as Dad went off to put my bag in the car, since he was dropping me at the station.

  ‘Yes.’ I blushed.

  ‘Okay then. Remember to do whatever makes you happy. Maybe take a little time on this break to really think about what that is.’

  The trouble with mums is that they are pretty much always right, which left me in limbo on how to take that advice. With a last hug, and a pang for her to come too, off I went.

  When I’d first turned up at the airport I was feeling ever so Cameron Diaz. I’d copied a flight outfit I’d seen her wear, right down to the big sunglasses and trilby, despite the rather crap turn the weather had taken. But after my third cappuccino I removed both hat and sunglasses, and looked anxiously at my watch. Where the hell was Laurie?

  I tried to call her again. Ring-ring, ring-ring.

  She could not be ditching me to go on a stupid singles’ holiday alone, when I didn’t even want to go in the first place.

  Ring-ring, ring-ring.

  It went to answerphone. Again. Rain pounded against the terminal windows with ferocity, as if it were hungry zombies trying to get in and infect us all. The sky was utterly grey, and inside little red ‘cancelled’ lights peppered the departures board. It was as though someone up there was reminding us not to get too comfy in our shorts: we were still in England.

  The Tube is notorious for grinding to a halt at the hint of a change in the weather – be it too much wind, too much heat, too much cold, too many leaves, too much rain. I pictured Laurie stuck halfway down the Piccadilly line in a total flap, heart pounding, and eventually having a meltdown with her fellow passengers about how she was destined never to find Mr Right and would have to marry her cousin after all.

  If only I knew she was even on the Tube, and therefore on her way. Check-in would close in twenty minutes, and we were seriously cutting into our duty-free time. Would I go without her, assuming she’d be on the next flight? Or would I wait at the airport, sitting on my suitcase like a forlorn loner from a Richard Curtis movie montage?

  ‘Elle.’

  I spun around, yet couldn’t see Laurie.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Now that was definitely her voice. Had she got into some terrible accident on the way here and now her ghost was talking to me?

  ‘Psst. It’s me,’ said a figure dressed head to toe in baggy clothing, face wrapped in a scarf, with sunglasses and a pink trucker cap.

  ‘Laurie?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whimpered.

  ‘Why are you dressed like a member of TLC?’

  ‘You’re dressed like a member of TLC.’ She jumped to her own defence. Laurie lifted her sunglasses slightly to reveal bruised, puffy eyes.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘My face went wrong.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Laurie unravelled the scarf as slowly and tenderly as she could, and it was like watching a really awkward burlesque dance. ‘I did a Botox.’

  Her face was blotchy and swollen, her lips huge and her forehead frozen solid.

  There are times in your life when you shouldn’t laugh, when you don’t even want to laugh, but the very knowledge that you don’t want to laugh makes your body pull its cruellest practical joke and set you off into a hysterical giggling fit, peppered with apologies. For me, these moments include funerals, people falling over and, evidently, when my best friend has a botched Botox job.

  ‘I must have been allergic. Will you stop bloody laughing?’

  ‘I’m not laughing at your face.’ Yes I was. ‘I’m laughing at … your reaction. It’s funny that you’re so worried that it looks bad because it really doesn’t.’ Yes it does. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you get Botox? You don’t have any wrinkles.’

  ‘Because I wanted to look fabulous on our holiday.’

  That brought a fresh peal of laughter, which I smothered with a cough and shuffled Laurie over to the check-in desk. They seemed to ask her very carefully if she had anything sharp or flammable in her hand luggage.

  ‘The thing is,’ Laurie was saying as we eventually got through security with little more than a pat-down and an explanation of the now-inflated face from the passport photo. ‘Celebrities have Botox all the time and they look fine.’

  ‘You look fine too; maybe it just needs a couple more days to relax.’

  ‘But we don’t have a couple of days, we’re meeting everyone tonight.’

  ‘Maybe being at altitude on the plane will help it. Don’t flights do something to the water inside your body and make it—’ I stopped myself as I remembered that flights make your ankles swell, not shrink.

  ‘I don’t want deep-vein thrombosis in my face!’

  We hit the free samples at the duty-free hard, and then Laurie gently slicked some bright red lip gloss from the Elizabeth Arden counter onto her massive mouth. ‘It looks awful,’ she declared. ‘But at least it might distract from the rest of my face.’

  We stocked up with three giant Toblerones and went to hang about the gate and pray to Cupid that our flight wasn’t cancelled. When they called us to board, Laurie, gutted, stuffed two pieces of chocolate in her mouth at once – she had seen any kind of delay as bonus time for her face to deflate before Italy.

  Laurie curled in next to the window, hiding herself away from the other passengers as much as she could, while I sat in the middle seat with a male model on my right, which obviously meant I was going to throw up or chuck wine down myself.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. Let’s get the awkwardness out of the way now.

  ‘They’re not really going to fly this thing, are they?’ he answered, panic in his eyes.

  ‘I think they are.’

  ‘But it’s raining.’

  ‘Maybe it’s got a waterproof coat on.’

  Mr Model didn’t know what to make of that and stared straight ahead, tugging his seat belt tighter. The wind howled and our plane started to slowly circle the airport, on the prowl for somewhere to make a dash for it, while the flight attendants showed off their life vests and synchronised signalling. Thunder crackled overhead.

  The plane came to a brief stop, took a breath and then hurtled off down the runway, bumping and grinding like a nineties backing dancer before lifting off with a whoosh and an almighty wobble that left the flight attendants with rictus grins and Mr Model clutching my chiffon scarf.

  Now, I might have no desire to share my lemon-yellow boudoir with anyone’s stinky man socks, but I’m not numb to the odd lusty hormone. When a total hunk is inches from my face, hands wringing my scarf and leaning against me for protection, it’s not unnatural that I’d put my arms around him, surely?

  ‘Shhh,’ I comforted.

  ‘Have you seen those clouds?’ he stage-whispered. ‘We’re about to go right in them and probably never come out.’

  Underneath us, England’s soggy fields faded away as we thumped our way into the dense layer of dark grey clo
ud, which enveloped the plane and made me feel eerily like we might never be seen again. Turbulence shook us from side to side; the cabin remained silent, until the lights flickered off.

  ‘Holy crap! What was that? What was that?’ Mr Model yelped.

  The lights came back on, and somehow he was now wearing my scarf on top of his head, gripping its flamingo-covered ends as his breathing slowed along with the turbulence. We reached our cruising altitude and I managed to prise my scarf back. At lightning speed the flight attendants served our snack lunch and then raced back to grab the teas and coffees, and finally ice lollies for everyone. It was as we were tucking into the lollies that we hit the really bad weather.

  Ding went the fasten-seatbelt sign (as if anyone had unfastened), which of course meant that a woman near the front immediately had to get up for a wee.

  ‘Madam? Madam? Madam? You need to take your seat now, madam, because the captain’s switched on the fasten-seatbelt sign. Madam?’

  ‘But I need to go to the toilet.’

  The plane shuddered horribly and the woman wobbled in the aisle. Mr Model was back under my scarf. ‘Why don’t you just wee in the sea once we’ve crashed?’ he cried out.

  ‘Madam, please take a seat right now.’

  Who knows how, but Laurie, though she hadn’t left her seat, nor made eye contact with any attendant, had stocked up on miniatures and was glugging whisky.

  ‘London Gin or Bombay Sapphire?’ she offered. ‘The Southern Comfort’s mine.’

  ‘London, please, and can I take one for my hunky wet-wipe?’

  I offered Mr Model the Bombay Sapphire, which he downed in one. The plane lurched again, causing gasps around the cabin. Laurie clutched my hand. Mr Model clutched my hair. He looked over and started, as if noticing Laurie for the first time. ‘Why are you wearing that?’

  ‘Why are you wearing that?’ she retorted.

  A long, groaning rattle began, and suddenly the plane dropped several feet. My stomach heaved. I’m a good flier, but for the first time I actually felt scared. This couldn’t be it. I’d never loved anyone. Don’t let this be it.

  A violent lurch to the left squashed me into Laurie, whose eyes I met through her sunglasses, her fear mirroring mine. Oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention?’ yelled an attendant over the intercom. ‘Do not put the oxygen masks on – we’re not losing cabin pressure, this is just because of the panels becoming loose in the turbulence. I repeat, there is no need to put your masks on.’

  I yanked the mask off Mr Model’s face as the plane rumbled on and I tried not to throw up, or cry.

  ‘This is YOUR fault,’ he screamed past me at Laurie.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there’s something very dodgy-looking about you! You’re dressed like a gang member!’

  ‘That’s right, pretty boy. My gang are out there kicking the shit out of this plane – it’s not turbulence at all. Idiot. Now, how about you apologise and we make out?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Fine, if we die, don’t say I didn’t offer you one final moment of pleasure.’

  ‘We’ll shortly be making our descent into Pisa International Airport, ladies and gentlemen. We hope you enjoyed your flight with us today,’ said a shaky-voiced captain.

  A bright burst of lightning illuminated the cabin, and the plane jerked away from the storm once and for all. Several rows ahead, a plentifully licked ice lolly took flight and spun back down the plane, splatting itself onto my Cameron Diaz-styled lap.

  We exited the airport and entered a hot, still Italy. Laurie took a breath and leant against me. ‘Thank Vodka it’s not raining. I’m so over storms. I literally thought the Botox was going to fall right out of my face.’

  I couldn’t quite talk yet, my stomach still queasy, which wasn’t helped by the thought of globules of Botox plopping out of Laurie’s nose.

  ‘I feel sick,’ I mumbled and grabbed a Toblerone out of my bag, stuffing a triangle into my mouth before it melted all over my hands. Laurie was watching me. ‘But sugar helps. Maybe. Well, chocolate helps anything. Want some?’

  She shook her head, and then reached for it anyway. Within five minutes we’d hailed a taxi, devoured the whole Toblerone and were feeling much brighter – thoughts of turbulence, storms and that half-eaten ice lolly landing in my lap far away.

  The sun was high in the sky as the taxi took us out of Pisa and into the burnt green of the Tuscan countryside. Tall, thin cypresses rushed past, and fields scattered with red roofed buildings filled the landscape. Next to me, Laurie was wincing as she dabbed Touche Éclat on the purple bruises under her eyes.

  ‘You know what’ll help you stop worrying?’

  ‘If one of the other guests is a really short-sighted hunk.’

  ‘A glass of wine.’

  ‘You know, that would help.’

  The taxi turned on to a long, dusty track that curled around an olive grove, fat green olives hanging from the trees. It climbed a hill and the trees turned to row upon row of neat, but rustic vines.

  ‘I could just get out and eat those right now,’ I said, pointing at dusty blue grapes dangling in bunches.

  ‘No, don’t do that, seeds very bitter to eat,’ said the driver. I squinted against the sun and saw the shape of someone hunched over in the distance, halfway down one of the rows, a brown fuzzy blob of a dog leaping about beside them. I felt a huge need to climb out of the car and join them, pick some grapes, lie back among the vines and while away the summer.

  We came to a stop outside a building that felt so Italian, so removed from everything I knew in London, that the worries and stresses I hadn’t even known were there dripped away from me like olive oil.

  Before us was a large house of peach-pink stone, with a typically Tuscan red-tiled roof and burnt-red shutters. Bella Notte was carefully scribed in large, black calligraphy over the doorway, and stone steps led off from the side into the expanse of vineyard above and below. The rosy walls and emerald fields gave everything such a warm glow in the sunlight it was like I was looking through the Valencia filter on Instagram.

  ‘Italia …’ I breathed, smelling wine and tranquillity in the air. Laurie and I stood by the car, hot sunshine stroking our skin, crunchy pale yellow dust beneath our feet, and the sounds of birds and distant farm machinery music to our ears.

  ‘Buongiorno!’ Out of the doors leapt a man, oak-barrel aged with suntanned skin and curly brown hair. Joyful wrinkles encircled his dark eyes and a voluptuous woman with lustrous black hair and the same happy wrinkles bounded out from behind him. ‘Welcome to Bella Notte!’

  He was Australian! ‘You’re Australian! I mean, hello.’

  ‘Si, I’m Sebastian, and this is my beautiful bella bella bella wife, Sofia.’

  ‘I’m Laurie,’ stepped forward my oddly dressed friend.

  ‘Lorry? Like, broom-broom?’ Sofia mimed driving and honking a horn.

  ‘No, more law – like a court of law – ree.’

  ‘Lawyer-y?’

  ‘Um, let’s stick to Lorry, that’s close enough.’

  ‘I’m Elle.’

  ‘Bella Ella: beautiful name, beautiful girl. Mamma mia, what is it about English girls? Sofia, I married the wrong nationality – it’s over between us,’ he teased.

  ‘Bene! You think I started You Had Me at Merlot Holidays to help other women find a new man?’

  They smiled at each other and Sebastian grabbed my hand. ‘There you have it, bella, we have my wife’s blessing. Just two minutes here and you have found love, and we will be together for ever.’

  I laughed. ‘Actually, I’m not here to find love. I’m just here for the wine. My friend’s the one ready for romance.’

  Sebastian tilted his head at me. ‘You’re human, you’re always ready for romance. It’s in your genes, bella.’ Something about the way he said it made a blush creep over my face. He turned to Laurie. ‘I’m sure you’re beautiful too, Lau
rie, underneath all that scarf.’

  ‘You are not hot? Or are you saving your beauty for this evening? Keeping the men guessing,’ Sofia said.

  ‘I’m just a little sensitive to the sun, and I don’t have any lotion on yet. Are there many men booked in?’

  ‘Oh yes, we always make sure there are roughly the same number of men and women.’

  ‘Are the men …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tasty?’

  ‘Tasty?’

  ‘Yummy. Delicious, like good wine.’

  ‘Well, much like wine, there’s a different flavour to suit everyone.’

  Laurie gave me a thumbs-up. I turned back to Sebastian. ‘How long have you lived in Italy?’ I asked with jealousy.

  ‘I came here in my early twenties, straight from my folks’ vineyard in Margaret River. Cockily thought I’d teach the Italians how it’s done. But they hit me straight with their best weapon – this one – and I surrendered. Been here ever since. You guys are from England right, guv’nor?’

  ‘Yep, on a very important mission from the Queen to make sure you don’t steal all our eligible bachelors.’

  Sebastian guffawed. ‘Fair play, Her Maj!’

  ‘Ladies,’ beckoned Sofia. ‘Follow me and I’ll show you your rooms.’ Our rooms, plural? How lovely! Then a thought occurred to me: Ew, is that so we can have sex with people? Well no one’s having sex with me; joke’s on them.

  Sofia led us through the large oak doors, past a communal lounge with huge wooden furniture that she called the wine-tasting room, and up a staircase completely covered in bright blue, green and red mosaic tiles.

  ‘If you wear heels here, hold the banister – especially after you’ve had wine. Otherwise, whoosh!’ Sofia tinkled with laughter, presumably at memories of past guests sloshed and splatted at the bottom of the stairs. We were in adjoining rooms, and Sofia left us outside with our keys, great chunky ironmongery.

  ‘Everything’s just lovely and rustic, isn’t it?’ I grinned happily at Laurie, and then we went into our respective rooms.

  My bedroom was beautiful – wide and whitewashed, with low ceilings and big red shutters that opened out to a spectacular view across the stripes of the sun-drenched vineyard. I was leaning my head out of the window, breathing in the fresh Italian air, when I glanced sideways to see Laurie doing the same.