Good Nights Read online

  “That’s not funny.” She scowls at me. “How can you have booked with Good Nights? They only take one lodger here at a time. Are you certain you booked with them?”

  “Well, I did, and yet, it appears we’re both here. With pets.”

  “Don’t state the obvious!” She looks flustered as she scrolls through her phone, searching for something.

  “I’m sorry…” I don’t know why I just said that. She’s the one who has obviously made a mistake. Instead of raising her voice, she should be apologizing to me, for storming into my rental home like she has.

  “This is unbelievable. It’s like when American Airlines’ computers had a glitch, and no pilots were scheduled to fly planes over the Christmas holidays. The computers assigned them all vacations for the same week, so there was no one scheduled to fly!” She stands up and starts pacing the floor.

  “I don’t see how this is like that,” I say. “That company found that glitch. They fixed it. Clearly, Good Nights isn’t aware of this glitch.”

  “Well then.” She hands me her phone. Her Good Nights app is open, with the dates she should be staying here highlighted. They are my exact dates, barring the two days I’ve been here alone.

  “Bugger me sideways. We’re booked here on the same dates.”

  “Bugger you, how?” She laughs.

  I shrug, ignoring her question. She can look it up in her Guidebook to Brits, which I’m quite sure she didn’t bother to purchase.

  “You’ve been here a day already?” she asks.

  “No, two…” I study the calendar again. “I suppose they booked me in first.”

  “Then you need to contact them. Or the owner. Or both of them, I don’t know…” She begins pacing again.

  “Ah, and why am I the one who has to contact them? You seem fully self-sufficient, having booked your trip on this app, then traveled all the way here from Vancouver. My secretary booked my stay here…”

  Hannah stops pacing, sighs, and puts her hands at her hips.

  “Of course, she did. I know… your… your… your type.”

  “You do, do you?” I dislike her tone, but let’s see where she’s going.

  “You’re a famous British scientist—you already told me you study birds. You’re staying here on a big grant, obviously. You’re used to the institution you work for—a university maybe?—doing everything for you. And your wife. She does everything for you, too. Just look… your sweater’s on backwards.”

  I glance down at my dark grey jumper, see she’s correct, but don’t adjust it. I was in a rush to get studying this morning, is all. “That’s presumptuous…” I’m incensed she’d make such assumptions within our first five minutes together. “I do work at the Oxford University museum. And yes, the staff is a great help to me. Someone at the museum did help arrange my stay here so I could search for an elusive bird, once thought extinct. But, no, I’m not some mad scientist who can’t find matching socks or brew his own tea.” I swallow hard. I’m not going to reply to the wife comment. She doesn’t deserve a reply.

  “In fact, would you like a cup right now? Anything to get those knickers out of that knot.”

  “Woah. My knickers are not in a…” she frowns, folds her arms across her chest, turns to the fire, and then bends to partially uncover the bird cage. The macaw peeks out and gives us a surreptitious glance, then hides again. Cheeky fellow. I like the bird. I’m not so sure about her.

  “I’m fine. I’m just upset that we’re both here, when this was supposed to be a solo holiday for me, away from everything.”

  “You’re an actress, aren’t you?” I ask quickly. “I don’t watch many American or Canadian films or shows… but you look the part. And I hear this island is a popular spot for celebrities.”

  She turns to look at me and purses her lips. I can’t tell if she’s flattered or angry, until she speaks. “Oh, so now it’s your turn to make assumptions. The dress, heels, scarf… that was just to feel… sexy again.” She’s blushing slightly. “I’ve been writing for months in sweatpants and old t-shirts. I just wanted to make an effort in public. I’m not an actress. I write words for them, though.”

  “A screenwriter?” Bugger me. So, she lives the celebrity lifestyle. Probably spoiled rotten. Fed with the silver spoon. Can’t have her staying here.

  “Television, mostly. I had a show that did well in the U.S. for a while, but it was recently canceled. I’m here to finish a screenplay… er… start it, actually. It hasn’t been going very well.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” I don’t see the point of making small talk anymore. One of us has to offer to leave. I need to prove that the Skinks Babbler isn’t extinct, and I only have a small window to do so. How can I convince her she doesn’t want to stay?

  “Alright, why don’t you sit down again, and let’s try to contact these people at Good Nights. See if we can get you a refund.”

  Coffee suddenly gets up and stares at me. She starts whimpering.

  “Bad dog! Bad dog!” Jughead squeals.

  Hannah sighs and moves Jughead’s cage so he can’t see the dog. I let Coffee jump up beside me and give her a comforting rub.

  “I don’t need a refund if I can just stay here as planned.” She says it slowly, calculating, and remains standing.

  “I was here first.” I glare at her, and she glares back. Ah yes, there it is. She may look like an angel, but she’s cunning, hard-headed, selfish, and she wants my rental.

  Why did I offer her goddamn tea?

  Five

  Hannah

  I haven’t liked much that’s come out of Tripp Wilson’s mouth this entire time, except when he offered me tea. I could really use a cup. He offered. Was he serious? Or, is he playing a game here, too?

  I sit down again, hoping that the strength of my stare might weaken him. It was once a great advantage point for me in negotiating my TV pay.

  I can’t decide who is more put out by our unusual situation. The top of his ears are bright red, and his cheeks are pink. He’s exhaling deeply, stroking his sandy brown stubble beard and mustache, running his hands through his wavy hair. I’d say he’s a little stressed, and I’m the cause.

  Even in this flustered state, and with that silly sweater on backwards, he’s ruggedly handsome, there’s no denying that. He has an adventurous, rebellious sparkle in those electric blue eyes, which is unexpected, considering he’s a scientist. I had the impression that scientists were dull; then again, a lot of people say that about writers. Careers don’t make the person.

  Alright, he’s good-looking and clever, so what? I’m here to get work done. Besides, he’s been nothing but egocentric and rude to me, except for when he took my wet “cardigan,” as he called it, and offered the tea. He did do those things for me. In fact, he’s just broken our staring contest, and now he’s standing up...

  “Right, then. We’re two professionals, both on this island for equally important work. I suppose we should be more civilized about this. I’m going to the kitchen, and let’s try again when we’ve had our tea and fairy cakes, shall we?”

  I look down at my lap and try to hide my giggles. Tea and fairy cakes certainly sounds like a step in the right direction. Magical, even. Still! He’s in my rental home, and he wants me to give up my right to stay here. British academic snob.

  Once I hear Tripp rustling about in the kitchen, I use the time to scroll through Good Nights to see if there are any notifications about app errors. I can’t scroll past the calendar we were just looking at. It seems to be frozen on the calendar and a sidebar I saw twelve hours ago, when I last logged in to check the address, but the time and notifications are all still the same. Strange.

  When I close the app, it remains frozen, and I have to delete it entirely from my phone and re-upload it before doing anything else. Even with the new upload, the date and time are still frozen! This is a nightm
are. I’m going to have to search their number, call, and find out what’s going on. I’ll have to keep using data on my phone. Damn. I already paid a ridiculous amount for this international package. I could really use the Wi-Fi password right now, which I can’t get because I don’t have access to my Good Nights messages. Still, I’m trying to get on his good side... I’ll wait.

  First, I google the island-to-Cannes ferry service. Maybe if I book his ticket, make it easy for him, he’ll let me have the place. Cannes has lovely hotels, he can just book a room there. He’s a Brit, aren’t they always chivalrous?

  The next ferry doesn’t leave until tomorrow, at eight a.m., thankfully, there are two bedrooms and two bathrooms here. Lots of space for the both of us. I just hope there’s space for his ego, too.

  Tripp returns with his sweater on properly, a tray of teacups, a teapot, white frosted cupcakes, and small, round sponge cakes. He calls them crumpets. I’ve heard about these but haven’t ever tried them.

  “Cream? Sugar?” I nod, so he pours me a cup of tea, adds the cream and sugar, gives it a stir with a small spoon, then hands it to me with a crumpet on the saucer.

  “Thank you. This looks delicious.” I smile, then add, “Bad news. The app froze on me, and I had to delete it to get my phone working again.

  “The app is buggered. It gets a bad rap from me,” he says.

  “Bad app. Bad rap. Bad bad rap,” Jughead cackles under his cover.

  Tripp chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s certainly entertaining...” He glances at Coffee to check on her. She’s fast asleep beside the recliner.

  “He is that. I suppose it’s ridiculous to some people that I’d take my macaw on vacation...”

  “Hey, I love birds, they’re my life’s work. However, it does seem a rather far journey for you both...”

  “Well…” I sip the Earl Grey. He added just the right amount of cream and sugar. It takes like dessert in a cup. “I’m recently divorced. I needed to get far away.”

  “Oh?” He sits down slowly in the recliner, holding my gaze.

  “Yes. It was building for years, I suppose, but the way it came... it was a shock. So, I know what being abandoned feels like, and I wouldn’t want to do that to an innocent creature. Even if he is a noisy, cheeky bird, he’s mine, and I wanted to take care of him.” I look down at my lap. “I’ve sort of been married to my work these last few years. Haven’t had much time for a social life. But, my show was recently canceled, so, as it turns out, this feathered noisemaker is one of the few friends I’ve got.”

  Holy overshare, Hannah. Why did you just spill your life story to a stranger?

  Six

  Tripp

  I glance at the antique gold wristwatch Maggie gave me and try not to roll my eyes as Hannah finishes her long and drawn out story about why she’s sitting opposite me today.

  Of course, she doesn’t have many friends. She’s a spoiled North American princess, flying to France on a whim, living the high life of a celebrity. I bet she’s never done a hard day’s labor in her life. She seems nice enough, but self-absorbed. She hasn’t even asked me what my work entails.

  Perhaps I’m being a little harsh. Divorce is always sad, and I definitely feel for her sense of loss. But, she thinks she knows my type? How dare she assume I’m like every British academic on the planet? I bet she hasn’t even met another one. She’s probably basing her impression of me on some Hugh Laurie film or worse, every James Bond character ever created.

  Hannah turns quiet. She seems to be enjoying the crumpets. I get up, stretch, and throw another log on the fire, taking time to inhale the smoky ash as the sparks fly. When I turn, I catch her looking at my face. I don’t look away, but I don’t crack a smile. She can’t win. I need this space to myself for a month, so I can find that bird and prove everyone wrong. I definitely won’t locate it with Princess Hannah yabbering at me all day long.

  When she finally breaks the silence, I notice she has finished an entire cup of tea and is pouring herself another. “So, who was this Saint Bruno this island was named after, anyway? I’ve never heard of him. ’Course I’m a lapsed Catholic…”

  “Well, you’re lucky. I had to go to Bible school back in Kent for three whole summers. I can explain.” I push the log on the grill one more time, get up from my crouched position, and hang the poker with the other steel fireplace tools. We’re silent for a moment, admiring the crackling fire. I daren’t bring up the app just yet. Maybe if I can get her to warm to me, I can convince her that since I was here first, she should sod off and leave me in peace. I sit back down in my recliner and catch her glancing my way again. She quickly looks away, down to her phone.

  “You know, I could just Google it…”

  “You do seem rather attached to that phone of yours,” I say. “Do you ever just turn it off?”

  She frowns at me. “I’m not addicted, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply…” I say. Bugger. She doesn’t appear to be warming up to me.

  “I just wonder if people even remember what they did before apps.” I try again, though I’m not sure why. “Say, Good Nights. What did people do before Good Nights got popular?”

  “I think people stayed in motels, with questionable stains on the comforters.”

  I bite my lower lip to avoid laughing. Damn, she’s brazen. Clever and funny. This isn’t going to be as easy as I thought. I don’t want her to have the upper hand.

  “I spend a lot of time in the field, birdwatching, even camping out there some nights. I suppose I’ve grown accustomed to logging off from society for a few days. It brings me a sense of peace.”

  “Yea, well, I just wanted to be alone, writing a screenplay, in this home. That would have been peaceful.” She sighs, and I realize my hospitality hasn’t done one thing to change her mind. She wants to stay, and she wants me gone. Bugger me. Maybe I can impress her with my knowledge of St. Bruno.

  “Right, then. Here’s what I know—Bruno and his friends built an oratory in France, with small individual cells. They met for prayers every day and spent the rest of their time in solitude, eating together only for great feasts. Their main work was copying manuscripts. As a result, a lot of French writers come to this island. In fact, I thought you were one at first, until you started speaking with an American accent.”

  “West-coast Canadian, to be exact, and holy stream of factoids, Factman. I could really use you when I’m researching my screenplay. Are you some kind of genius?”

  I chuckle and take a sip of tea before answering. “I’m more the Jack of all Trades type. I know random facts that likely don’t matter in the end, but I’ve been like that since I was a kid. I also know far too much about one elusive bird—the Short-tailed Skinks Babbler.”

  “The Short-tailed Skinks Babbler?” She giggles. “I’d be hiding too, with a name like that.”

  She laughs, but at least she’s finally talking about my work. This is a pleasant surprise. I suppose my first impression was somewhat unforgiving. Perhaps she simply had too much on her mind before.

  “So, you’re confident you can find it here?” she asks.

  “It’s more of a hunch. I mean, I’ve done the research, and the reports and sightings are convincing, but there’s no photographic proof that this bird is still living. It’s been reportedly seen in what some call “the last European rainforest,” in the Canary Islands off Morocco, and in the coniferous forest here, and that’s it. I want to try here first. Others have already searched for it in the Canary Islands and failed.”

  “So, your career is resting on this one finding?”

  “Kind of. Mostly. Yes,” I answer.

  “Oh. Well, I can relate. I won’t have any income coming in after August. Except if my show stays on Netflix, but that won’t be enough to pay rent when I get a new place. I signed a prenup, so I’m pretty much back to whe
re I started when I got married. Our home is up for sale, but it hasn’t sold yet. Most of our furniture and my entire bedroom set has gone to storage. My divorce was both an emotional and financial setback.”

  “So, you’re trying to tell me that you’re homeless and your career is resting on writing a winning screenplay here?”

  “Kind of. Mostly. Yes.”

  Bloody hell. I was hoping she’d say she could write it elsewhere. Can’t she? “But the bird is somewhere on this island. I need to be here. Can’t you write anywhere in the world?” I catch her eyes. She blinks at me, looks down at her lap, and then looks up again.

  “I really don’t want to, but you do make a good argument for yourself, and you were here first. I can leave first thing in the morning.”

  That was quick. I thought she’d put up more of a fight. Or, is this some kind of female trickery? I remember Maggie doing this sometimes. She’d do something my way, but look so bloody glum about it I’d feel obliged to back down.

  I can see her swallowing hard, and her eyes are filling with tears. Oh no. She was just divorced, she lost her show and her financial stability, she isn’t sure where she’s going to live… and now I’ve gone and made her cry.

  Damn it woman! Don’t cry. I am not falling for this. No bloody way! I have a sob story too, we all do. You don’t see me crying because I might lose my vacation rental.

  “That’s great, Hannah, thank you kindly, but do stay on. Stay a couple days—at least, until you’ve found somewhere nice on the mainland.”

  She sighs a sweet little sound of relief that’s strange music to my ears, then smiles up at me.

  What have I just said? What did I just do? Have I gone mad? I just heard myself invite her to stay on.

  Blasted reflex! Mum always taught me to be a kind host, to respect women at all times, but this is bloody ridiculous. I absolutely need to work alone on my research findings, yet I’ve just invited a spoiled Canadian princess to share my precious living space.

  I take the tray from the coffee table and turn to walk to the kitchen. “Hopefully we will hear from the app developers soon, and they’ll give you that refund which you can use to cover your new rental.” I call over to her from the kitchen to the living room. Say it, Tripp. Say it now or regret it always. “So, that way, you can leave even earlier. And I’ll help you sort it all out.”