The expense was immoderate; I had to pay ten thousand euros, plus buy her a round-trip plane ticket to Thailand and put her up at a luxury spa in Phuket. But when I arrive the night before Sage is to join me, I conclude that it’s well worth it. The place is charming, bohemian, and has a great view. High ceilings, rustic beams, cream-colored brick walls, and—as one might expect of an artist—fantastic paintings and sculptures.
On the kitchen island is a bottle of Vega Sicilia with a note sayingEnjoy your stay. I pick it up to examine it and find it’s quite a good year and must have set her back €400 to €500 (which I suppose she can afford, given how I was gouged on the price, but it was kind nonetheless). On impulse, I take photos of the wine, the view off the balcony, a particularly nice salon-style collection of paintings on one wall, and the bed, then send them to Sage.
It’s midmorning where she is, six hours earlier, so I don’t expect her to respond. But minutes later, she calls.
“Hey, Sandy-boy. Love the pics. Is that where we’re staying?”
“If you’ll do me the honor.” I sprawl onto a thick chenille sofa and toe my shoes off before putting my feet up. “Shall I collect you at the airport?”
“Nah, I have to go straight to a meeting. Then I’ll drop Pri off at the motor home and come over.”
“Congratulations again on the podium finish,” I tell her, plumping the collection of pillows behind my head and leaning back. “You took my breath away. A stunning drive.”
“Aw, thanks.”
“And it was very touching that you dedicated it to Julian.”
“We’ll see if that bites me on the ass,” she says wryly. “But, uh… I have stuff to tell you about that, when I get there. The thing I mentioned about the big grudge, and how Jules almost let me die? Yeah, turns out I was full of shit.”
“I look forward to hearing the details,” I say lightly.
Sage can be emotionally defensive enough that it nearly qualifies as combative, so I’m careful to give her space. Her tone has a combination of sulkiness and comic self-deprecationI already recognize in her, one that tells me the upcoming revelation is a sore subject. Best to move the topic along so she doesn’t get mired in regret or embarrassment.
“Speaking of family relationships,” I begin, shifting the focus to my own shortcomings and offering her the opportunity to take the piss, “you may be happy to learn that in my last telephone conversation with my mother, I told her I love her.”
This turns out to be the right approach. Sage gasps in a stagey way, then demands, “Oh my gaaawwwwd, do tell.”
“Before signing off, I said, ‘Just so you know, Mother, I love you.’ There was an unnervingly long pause, and her reply was, ‘Why on earth would you say that? What have you done? You must be feeling guilty about something.’”
Sage cackles, and the unbridled sound of her less-than-dainty laugh warms my heart. I don’t know how I can stand to wait nearly thirty hours to see her again.
“Holy fuckbuckets, your mom is hilarious. Did she at least say it back?”
“Not in so many words. First she scolded, ‘Don’t scare me like that—I assumed you must be in a ditch covered in glass shards, to get all soppy.’ Then after wrestling with a reply, she offered a terse ‘Obviously you know I do too.’ Couldn’t quite manage the word itself.”
“Well, there ya go. You guys are all set for another twenty years.”
“At least.”
In my mind, this was going to be a great place to tell Sage how I feel about her, insulated by the safety of five thousandmiles’ distance. But I change my mind, because… what if I scare her away from coming here at all? Saying it to her in person may be terrifying, but at least it has the advantage that she won’t be able to disappear.
Instead, I tell her, “I plan to fuck you on or against every surface of this flat.”
Her hum of approval turns into a low chuckle. “Take your vitamins, honeybee. I’m holding you to it.”
I try not to loiter near the windows the next evening when Sage messages me that she’s leaving the paddock and headed my way, but I can’t help it. After twenty minutes of pacing (slowly enough to reassure myself that it doesn’t count as pacing), I go to sit on the balcony overlooking the cobbled street, then open a copy of Elizabeth Bowen’sThe Death of the Heart, because apparently I’m a lovelorn adolescent who wants to look clever for a girl by reading an angsty classic on a Spanish balcony at sunset.
I warned Sage that parking is horrid here, so she arrives by cab, and when I spot it coming up the narrow lane, I consider standing in a regal way and waving in greeting from the balcony, then decide,fuck itand hurry downstairs. I nearly lock myself out in my rush, and by the time I exit the building’s front door, Sage already has her bag hauled out of the cab’s boot and is striding my way.
She’s in a babydoll dress featuring layers of sheer black lace from the chest down, with a little zip-up bustier bodice that’s a pattern of fake-blood-splattered newsprint. Her combat boots round out the look perfectly, but all I can think is how feckin’long it’ll take to unlace them and get them off. Her aqua hair is piled in charming disarray on her head, and now sports streaks of emerald green, which she added after the podium finish. Her lips are plump pink and made for kissing.
“Salvi… my God, you’re a fuckin’ sight for sore eyes.”
She stops about five yards from me and sets down her rucksack. “Wanna catch me? It’ll be like a movie.” She opens her arms, prompting me.
I laugh. “Absolutely.”
She makes a run at me and leaps, and like a muppet I take a half step back at the impact, catch my heel on a cobblestone, and fall on my arse hard, straight into a planter of flowers flanking one side of the walk. Sage hoots with laughter, snaps a petunia off its stem, and tucks it behind my ear.
