Chapter 4

Vince

T he night before the flight, I'd tossed and turned in bed. Did I have my passport? Did I have enough clothes? What about money? What if I got lost at the airport and missed my flight?

All these thoughts had prevented me from getting a good night's sleep, but as exhausted as I was, I was too anxious to sleep.

I'd never flown, and the moment we took off, I hated it, as did my stomach. I spent more time in the toilets than in my actual seat. Good job I sat on the end aisle, as my fellow passengers wouldn't have been happy with me having to excuse myself every five minutes. The landing couldn't come soon enough.

As the plane taxied to the gate, I shot up, ignoring the seat belt sign, and grabbed my small cabin bag from the overhead locker. I needed to get out of this sardine can and fast. Hopefully, I could explain to the taxi driver where I wanted to go. My French was pretty rudimentary, limited to being able to say ‘Je m'appelle Vince. J'ai douze ans.' Telling my name was Vince and I was twelve years old wouldn't get me far.

But first, I needed to pick up my suitcase. I passed through passport control and found the luggage carousel. Case after case passed on the conveyor belt, not one of them mine. Mild panic set in until at the last turn of the carousel, my suitcase, looking slightly worse for wear, was dumped onto the belt.

Visions of the luggage handlers playing football with it sprung to mind as I picked it up and inspected it. Those scratches hadn't been there before; I was sure of it. But I was able to breathe again.

Just after midday, I stepped out of the arrivals hall into sunny, warm weather, according to the sign outside a pleasant twenty-five degrees. It was glorious, and I tilted my head to the sun, closing my eyes behind my dark sunglasses. I could get used to this.

"Jesus, you English people." A solid body bumped into mine, and the voice with a deep French accent continued in a tirade of what I assumed was copious amounts of swearing in French.

"I'm sorry…sorry. I'll get out of your way." Five minutes in the country and I was already upsetting people.

I moved to the side, allowing him to pass. He was older than me, maybe late forties. Black hair, greying at the temples, and a dark tan. I was completely sold by his five o'clock shadow. He wore a pair of cream chinos and a pink-and-white-checked short-sleeved shirt, showing off impressive, veiny forearms.

His stylish Ray-Ban sunglasses and a leather messenger bag casually slung over his shoulder completed the picture of sophistication. I struggled not to stare.

Another bump from behind and I stumbled, flailing my arms so as not to fall. When I looked up, he was gone.

Wasn't that a shame?

I dragged my suitcase behind me, the wheels not doing what I wanted them to. It was easier to carry it. Stupid case. I'd borrowed it from Lionel and regretted it the moment I saw it. A horrible shade of beige, at least twenty years old, but at such short notice and with very little funds to spare, I hadn't had much choice.

After several minutes of trying to explain to every taxi driver where I wanted to go, speaking as slowly and as clearly as possible in possibly the most patronising voice ever, I finally found one who understood where I needed to go.

If I'd thought flying was bad, sitting in a French taxi, being driven on the wrong side of the road at great speed, with no due care and attention to any traffic lights, was ten times worse. I was going to die. There was no doubt about it. I clutched the overhead handle, my eyes closed, praying I'd live to see tomorrow.

The driver's name was Emile, and from the little I could understand from his basic English, he had a wife and two children. The rest was a jumble of words, and hopefully, I said ‘oui' and ‘non' in all the right places, but from the look on his face, I was pretty sure I hadn't.

Thirty minutes later, he drove through a built-up residential area and pulled up at a set of large, green gates that slid open as if they'd known we were coming.

Where were we? Had Emile driven me to an untimely end? But as we rounded the bend of the narrow road, we entered a large car park full of cars. A tennis court sat on the left-hand side, and a big sign announcing Reception was on the right. Thank god I'd arrived in one piece. After paying Emile and muttering a stilted ‘merci beaucoup', I walked into the building, sagging with relief as cool air chilled my warm skin.

"Bonjour et bien venue. My name is Giselle, and I'm happy to assist you today." The pretty young woman greeted me from behind the reception desk with a huge smile, and instantly, I felt more relaxed. I hadn't realised quite how tense I'd been.

"Oh, er, thank you. I'm Vince Murphy. I have a reservation for the week."

"Ah, oui, d'accord. Of course, let me look it up for you." She tapped away on her computer. "Monsieur Vince Murphy, I have you right here. Have you stayed with us before?"

"No, no, I haven't. I actually thought it was just a villa, not a resort like this. I am in the right place, yes?"

"Yes, yes. We've been expecting you. There are villas here and some apartments too, but I understand you are booked into one of our exclusive villas on the edge of the resort. Very private. You will love it, Monsieur Murphy."

She handed me a few forms to fill in, asking for my name and address, and took a copy of my passport and a swipe of my credit card.

"So, what do you, er, need my card for?" I couldn't afford any hidden charges. Callum had told me it was free.

"If you need to charge a meal from the restaurant or a trip to your villa, we will charge your card directly. Maybe you would like to visit Monaco or Italy. You could pay at the end of your stay. I promise we won't put anything on there you haven't already agreed to. You have our word." There was that bright, sunny smile again.

"Of course, yes, that'll be fine." Fingers crossed that was the case. This was a holiday on a tight budget.

"Bien, Pierre will take your bags to the villa. I will show you on the map where it is, and then you can get settled in."

She circled the villa on the map and pointed out the restaurant, pool, and gym. Not that I'd be using that.

Five minutes later, my map and key card in hand, I walked through a wooded area towards my home for the next week. Pierre trailed behind me with my suitcase and bag. I could have managed myself, but they'd insisted, and I didn't want to upset anyone.

How Callum's mum could afford a villa on such a spectacular resort, I didn't know, but I was glad she did.

The gravelled pathways crunched beneath our feet. Multicoloured flowers filled the many raised beds on either side, droplets on the bright green grass glistened in the sun, and tall palm trees rustled in the warm breeze. This was paradise, a paradise I'd never thought I'd experience.

Children splashed and played in a small, clear blue swimming pool while adults swam and chatted in a larger one. I doubted I'd be using the green sunbeds dotted around the pool area. Even though I'd shed the seven pounds I'd put on after Lexi's wedding, I was still conscious of my body.

Since booking the holiday, I'd lost weight. A necessity as my clothes no longer fit me. I was proud of my accomplishment, although I still had a long way to go until I would be happy with my weight. I might never be, but a guy had to try.

As if it could hear my thoughts, my stomach growled noisily. I'd been so anxious about getting here I'd skipped breakfast and lunch.

Pierre eyed me, amusement on his face.

"The restaurant is open, Monsieur Murphy, or there is a supermarket nearby. I'd be happy to give you directions."

Shopping seemed like the cheaper option, but my stomach rumbled again. Food first, then unpack. I'd shop later.

"Here we are." Pierre unlocked the door and handed me my key card.

Sunlight streamed into the room, the white walls and white tiled floor making it even brighter. Everything looked so clean. He walked to a huge sliding door and pulled back the sheer white curtains, revealing a lush open-plan garden filled with flowers of every colour.

A table and chairs sat on a wooden deck, and…was that a pizza oven?

This was heaven, and I laughed, unable to believe my luck. This villa was better than anything I'd ever been in. Hell, it was better than my house.

"The bedroom is this way." Pierre dragged my suitcase down the hallway, and I stared at the enormous bedroom.

The bed could easily sleep three or four. Not that I'd ever be that lucky.

"Are you sure this is just for me?"

"Oui. For one week, monsieur."

I shook my head and wandered through the villa. Two bathrooms, another bedroom, and a fucking walk-in wardrobe.

The kitchen was full of all mod cons: dishwasher, washing machine, oven, top-of-the-range coffee machine. I'd definitely be using that.

"Enjoy your stay. I have left details of the supermarket on the table. If you need anything more, contact reception. They will be happy to help you."

I'd forgotten Pierre was still there and gave him a small wave as he shut the door.

Growing up, we'd never been on holiday and certainly not abroad. This was a first for me—the sun, the heat, the surroundings.

It was perfect.

I opened the kitchen cupboards, which were full of every utensil and appliance for a gourmet meal. Not that I'd be doing that. My culinary skills were not the best. I just about managed to heat a ready meal.

According to the map, the restaurant was only a short walk away, and after changing into a pair of shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, I was ready to go.

On my way, I said bonjour to everyone I passed. I'd never been so happy to be anywhere. Home was great, but this was something else.

As I walked past reception, Giselle waved, and I returned it enthusiastically.

"Hello and welcome." A handsome waiter greeted me at the door. "Table for one?"

"Erm, y-y-yes." Damn my stutter. I smiled apologetically, but he gestured to follow him and led me to a table overlooking the pool.

"This is perfect, oui?" He pulled the chair out for me and handed me a menu. "And to drink?"

"J-j-j-just a beer, please." Embarrassment surged through me. Why now?

I took the menu and hid behind it. Hopefully, no one had noticed my awkward behaviour, but the other guests seemed intent on their meals, chatting and laughing.

Feeling slightly more relaxed, I lowered the menu and looked around. Although the resort was in a built-up area, it felt like we were in the middle of nowhere, with the palm trees and warm sun beating down.

The waiter returned with my drink. "Your beer, sir. Can I get you something to eat?"

I'd not had a chance to look at the menu, so I scanned it. Thankfullly, it was in English and French.

I took a deep breath. God, let this come out right.

"I'll take the…" I squeezed my eyes shut. Come on, Vince. Just say it. "Chicken salad and some bread, please."

"Parfait. Thank you so much."

Shit. I'd not called Lexi to let her know I'd arrived safely. It was a wonder she hadn't called me herself.

I took out my phone. Six missed calls. How had I not heard it ring?

She was going to kill me.

I dialled her number, waiting for her inevitable tirade.

"Vince Murphy, it's about bloody time."

"Sshh, keep your voice down. I'm in a restaurant," I whispered.

"Sorry." She spoke a little quieter, but that one word conveyed her annoyance clearly enough. "Why didn't you answer my calls?"

"I had my phone on silent. I'm sorry. I should have checked, but this place is amazing, Lexi. I'll take some pictures and send them to you."

"Aww, thank you." She softened, as I knew she would. She never could stay mad for long.

"I don't know why I haven't done this before."

"Because you never had the chance to before. You've always looked after everyone else, or forgive me for saying, you've always been hanging around for Theo."

I stiffened at the mention of his name. I still hadn't called or texted him.

"Have you told him you're not going to his wedding?"

"No."

"Vince, come on. He was your best friend."

"Was being the operative word. He's no longer that. Not after he said those awful things."

"He told me he didn't mean it, that he was just upset you weren't more excited."

"You know why. I shouldn't have to explain it to you. Unless something happens while I'm here, and I find a sexy Frenchman to bring to the wedding, I won't be going."

The waiter walked towards me, a huge salad in one hand, a plate of bread in the other.

"I have to go. My dinner is here."

"Any excuse, Vince. You'd best change your fucking mind. I'll not play the middleman anymore. You make up, do you hear me?"

"Goodbye, Lexi."