Page 35 of You Lied First
‘I used to be the office First Aider,’ Sara says. ‘I mean, I’m not medically trained, but I know how to check for concussion if that helps.’
Margot nods. ‘I’d feel better if you do. Do you mind?’
So Sara peers into Flynn’s eyes then starts asking Celine about pain and stiffness. She checks her reflexes and asks her what day of the week it is, to which Celine responds, ‘President Clinton?’
For a moment, Sara looks appalled, then Celine roars with laughter and Sara slaps her playfully on the arm.
‘Okay, you’re all right! I think they’re both okay.’
‘Oh, come here, you fruitcake!’ Guy says, and wraps Celine in his arms and it’s then that Margot realises that maybe this was all deliberate. She doesn’t believe Flynn would have taken a silly risk with a passenger, so she wonders if Celine threw herself off the back of the bike – onto a soft dune – deliberately. But why? To garner sympathy with Guy? Really? Margot doesn’t want to deal with this. She just has a few more days to get through and they’ll be back home and she’ll never have to see Celine Cremorne ever again.
‘Is the food ready?’ Celine asks.
‘Yes, everything’s done,’ Sara says. ‘Come on, before it gets cold.’
Guy releases Celine and claps his hands together.
‘Yes, let’s eat! We have enough food here to feed an army.’
At the thought of food, the spell is broken and the accident dismissed. The evening carries on and Margot has to admit that once she’s eaten, she starts to relax. Maybe she was overreacting about Celine. It’s liberating to be out in the open – just them pitted against the environment trying to achieve some semblance of shelter and sustenance under the limitless sky. And there’s something extra-special about eating honest food that you’ve prepared yourself, with your hands, in the open air. Everything tastes extra-delicious. Maybe it’s gratitude, Margot thinks as she looks up at the stars. Gratitude that’s ingrained in us since cavemen brought home a meal and the family gathered around to feast on it.
By the fire, Guy keeps the others entertained with storiesand Margot watches as they all fall under the spell of his bonhomie raconteur act. What would they think if they saw the real Guy? The one she lives with at home?
The fire crackles and spits, then Guy opens yet another bottle of wine and dad-dances out from the tent with his mobile speaker. As the moon rises higher and the stars twinkle down, they DJ their way through their phone playlists, dancing to their favourite songs from the eighties, nineties and noughties, the niggles that separate them temporarily forgotten. Later, they all move closer to the fire and tell ghost stories till they peel off one by one to go to bed. And, Margot thinks, despite everything, it actually is the most magical night.
28
SARA
Inever sleep well when I’ve been drinking, and the night under canvas is no different. Sleep comes in fits and starts, and I wake frequently from short, turbulent dreams. The snap of the tent in the wind takes me by surprise, and the moon casts a strange glow through the canvas. Outside, the unfamiliar sounds of the desert seem magnified, and the chittering, shuffling and scampering of creatures I imagine have beady black eyes cause me to lie rigid, holding my breath, as I wonder if they’re able to breach the tent.
I wish I’d paid more attention to Guy when he was telling us what wildlife we might see as I picture snakes, scorpions, cockroaches, lizards and spiders stalking me: eyes watching me; legs tangling in my hair; scales touching my face. It’s cold, too, way colder than I imagined, and the air holds a clamminess that tries to claw its way into my bones. Despite the duvet, I’m fully dressed, lying on my mattress, and that, too, feels alien, my skin protesting at being so smothered.
What Liv said about Celine being a fake friend is playing on my mind but, after I’ve rehashed almost every conversation I’ve had with Celine, I decide that I don’t really care. Yes, she can be superficial but she’s, what, twenty-eight? Thirty? Ishudder to think what I was like at that age. But if she’s being a fake friend to anyone, it’s to Margot because, if I’m right about the chemistry I sensed after they played golf and in the car, there’s something between Celine and Guy. If not now, then in the past, and maybe that’s what Flynn is unconsciously picking up on, too.
Anyway, I tell myself as I sigh and roll over for the millionth time, in the general scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter whether or not Celine likes me. It’s not like I’m planning to be best friends with her. I’m under no illusions that I’ll ever see her again once I’m on the plane home.
I fall asleep properly some time just before dawn because when I wake, the tent is stuffy with the warmth of the rising sun, and the light’s bright against the tent wall. Outside I can hear voices: Guy and Margot must be pottering about as I hear the chink of a teaspoon on a tin cup and the clack of plates being stacked, so it’s guilt that gets me up and out. Wearing the clothes I slept in, I unzip the tent and emerge into the sunlight, blinking like a mole.
The site looks as if it’s had an overnight visit from the cleaning fairies: the rubbish is in black bags, the empty bottles stacked back in a box ready to be loaded into the car and the fire pit safely cleared. Guy’s bending over the camping stove; Margot over the barbecue. Both turn and wave. How they can be so fresh I have no idea: my own throbbing head reminds me of the skinful I drank so recklessly the night before.
‘Morning!’ Guy says. ‘Just in time for breakfast. We’ve got eggs, toast, beans and croissants. Sleep well?’
‘Well enough, thanks.’ I roll my shoulders. ‘Though I could do with a Panadol. How about you?’
‘So-so,’ Margot says. Now I’m closer, I can see she looks tired. ‘Here, look, we’ve made coffee – it’s keeping warm in the Thermos. Help yourself.’
‘Thanks – how about the teens? Are they up yet?’
‘They’ve gone to make TikToks on the dunes,’ Guy says, and I laugh.
‘As you do. And Celine?’
Margot shrugs and I look over at her tent, which is still zipped. I pour myself a steaming cup of black coffee and cup it in both hands as I breathe in the aroma.
‘Thanks for clearing up.’ I picture all the empty bottles we’d left lying around, the dirty plates, the simmering coals. ‘What time did you get up to do all that?’
‘Oh, you know Margot,’ Guys says. ‘Up with the bloody larks.’
