Spare (42 page)

An animated movie…about emotions. Perfect. I was thoroughly inside out.

Then I was peacefully numb.
Good weed, dude.

My phone rang.
Oh, shit.
I held it up to my mate.
It’s her.

Who?

HER.

She wasn’t just calling. She was FaceTiming.

Hello?

Hello.

What are you up to?

Uh, I’m with my mate.

What’s that in the background?

Oh, er—

Are you watching cartoons?

No. I mean, yeah. Kinda. It’s…
Inside Out?

I moved to a quiet corner of the flat. She was back at her hotel. She’d washed her face. I said:
God, I love your freckles.

She took a quick breath. Every time she was photographed, she said, they airbrushed out her freckles.

That’s insane. They’re beautiful.

She said she was sorry she’d had to run. She didn’t want me to think she hadn’t enjoyed meeting me.

I asked when I could see her again.
Tuesday?

I leave Tuesday.

Oh. Tomorrow?

Pause.

OK.

Fourth of July.

We set another date. Back at Soho House.

She spent that whole day
at Wimbledon, cheering on her friend Serena Williams, from Serena’s box. She texted me after the final set as she raced back to her hotel, then texted again while she changed, then texted me as she was rushing to Soho House.

This time I was already there—waiting. Smiling. Proud of myself.

She walked in, wearing a pretty blue sundress with white pinstripes. She was aglow.

I stood and said:
I bear gifts.

A pink box. I held it forward.

She shook it.
What’s this?

No, no, don’t shake it!
We both laughed.

She opened the box. Cupcakes. Red, white and blue cupcakes, to be exact. In honor of Independence Day. I said something about the Brits having a very different view of Independence Day from the Yanks, but, oh, well.

She said they looked amazing.

Our waitress from Date One appeared. Mischa. She seemed genuinely happy to see us, to discover that there was a Date Two. She could tell what was happening, she got that she was an eyewitness, that she’d forever be part of our personal mythology. After bringing us a round of drinks she went away and didn’t return for a long time.

When she did, we were deep in the middle of a kiss.

Not our first.

Meghan, holding my shirt collar, was pulling me towards her, holding me close. When she saw Mischa she released me immediately and we all laughed.

Excuse us.

No problem. Another round?

Again the conversation flowed, crackled. Burgers came and went, uneaten. I felt an overwhelming sense of Overture, Prelude, Kettle Drums, Act I. And yet also a sense of ending. A phase of my life—the first half?—was coming to a close.

As the night neared its end we had a very frank discussion. There was no way round it.

She put a hand to her cheek and said:
What’re we gonna doooo?

We have to give this a proper go.

What does that even mean? I live in Canada. I’m going back tomorrow!

We’ll meet. A long visit. This summer.

My summer’s already planned.

Mine too.

Surely in the whole summer we could find one small spot of time.

She shook her head. She was doing the full
Eat Pray Love
.

Eat what now?

The book?

Ah. Sorry. Not really big on books.

I felt intimidated. She was so the opposite of me. She read. She was cultured.

Not important, she said with a laugh. The point was, she was going with three girlfriends to Spain, and then with two girlfriends to Italy, and then—

She looked at her calendar. I looked at mine.

She raised her eyes, smiled.

What is it? Tell me.

Actually, there’s one small window…

Recently, she explained, a castmate had advised her not to be so structured about her summer of eating, praying and loving. Keep one week open, this castmate said, leave room for magic, so she’d been saying no to all kinds of things, reserving one week, even turning down a very dreamy bike trip through the lavender fields of southern France…

I looked at my calendar and said:
I have one week open as well.

What if they’re the same week?

What if?

Is it possible?

How crazy would that be?

It was the same week.

I suggested we spend it in Botswana. I gave her my best Botswana pitch. Birthplace of all humankind. Most sparsely populated nation on earth. True garden of Eden, with 40 percent of the land given over to Nature.

Plus, the largest number of elephants of any nation on earth.

Above all, it was the place where I’d found myself, where I always re-found myself, where I always felt close to—magic? If she was interested in magic, she should come with me, experience it with me. Camp under the stars, in the middle of nowhere, which is actually Everywhere.

She stared.

I realize it’s crazy
, I said.
But all of this is obviously crazy
.

We couldn’t fly together.
For one thing, I was already going to be in Africa. I was scheduled to be in Malawi, doing conservation work with African Parks.

But I didn’t tell her the other reason: We couldn’t risk being seen together, the press finding out about us. Not yet.

So, she finished her
Eat Pray Love
thing, then flew from London to Johannesburg, then to Maun, where I’d asked Teej to meet her. (I wanted to do it myself, of course, but couldn’t without creating a scene.) After an eleven-hour odyssey, including a three-hour layover in Johannesburg, and a hot car ride to the house, Meghan had every right to be grumpy. But she wasn’t. Bright-eyed, eager, she was ready for anything.

And looking like…perfection. She wore cut-off jean shorts, well-loved hiking boots, a crumpled Panama hat that I’d seen on her Instagram page.

As I opened the gate to Teej and Mike’s house, I handed her a chicken-salad sandwich, wrapped in clingfilm.
Thought you might be hungry
. I suddenly wished I had flowers, a present, something besides this measly sandwich. We hugged, and it was awkward, not just because of the sandwich but the unavoidable suspense. We’d talked and FaceTimed countless times since our first dates, but this was all new and different. And a bit strange.

We were both thinking the same things.
Is it going to translate? To another continent?

And what if it doesn’t?

I asked about the flight. She laughed about the Air Botswana crew. They were big fans of
Suits
, so they’d asked her to pose for a photo.

Yay
, I said, thinking: Shit. If one member of the crew posted that photo, the cat would be out of the bag.

We all jumped into a three-bench truck, Mike driving, my bodyguards trailing, and set off. Straight into the sun. After an hour of tarmac roads, we were facing four hours of dirt tracks. To make the time go faster I pointed out every flower, plant, bird.
That’s a francolin. That’s a hornbill. It’s like Zazu from
The Lion King
. That’s a lilac-breasted roller, and he seems to be doing his mating display.

After a respectful period of time, I held her hand.

Next, when the road got flatter, I ventured a kiss.

Just as we both remembered.

My bodyguards, fifty meters behind us, pretended not to see.

As we got further into the bush, as we neared the Okavango, the fauna began changing.

There! Look!

Oh, my God. Is that…giraffes!

And over there, look!

A family of warthogs.

We saw a breeding herd of elephants. Dads, mums, babies.
Hi, guys.
We started along a firebreak road and the birds were going nuts, which sent a weird shiver down my spine.
Lions in the area
.

No way
, she said.

Something told me to look back. Sure enough, a flickering tail. I shouted for Mike to stop. He hit the brakes, threw the truck into reverse. There—standing right before us, a big fella. Daddy. And there, four youngsters, lounging under a shady bush. With their mums.

We admired them for a while, then drove on.

Shortly before dusk we arrived at a small satellite camp Teej and Mike had made up. I carried our bags to a bell tent beside a huge sausage tree. We were on the edge of a big forest, looking down a gentle slope to the river, and beyond: a floodplain teeming with life.

Meghan—whom I was now calling Meg, or sometimes just M—was stunned. The vivid colors. The pure, fresh air. She’d traveled, but she’d never seen anything like this. This was the world before the world was made.

She opened her small suitcase—she needed to get something. Here it comes, I thought. The mirror, the hairdryer, the makeup kit, the fluffy duvet, the dozen pairs of shoes. I was shamefully stereotyping: American actress equals diva. To my shock, and delight, there was nothing in that suitcase but bare essentials. Shorts, ripped jeans and snacks. And a yoga mat.

We sat in canvas chairs, watched the sun set and the moon rise. I whipped up some bush cocktails. Whisky with a splash of river water. Teej offered Meg a glass of wine and showed her how to cut the end off a plastic water bottle and turn it into a goblet. We told stories, laughed a lot, then Teej and Mike cooked us a lovely dinner.

We ate around the fire, staring at the stars.

At bedtime I guided Meg through the darkness to the tent.

Where’s the flashlight?
Meg asked.

You mean the torch?

We both laughed.

The tent was very small, and very Spartan. If she’d been expecting some glamping trip, she was now fully divested of that fantasy. We lay down inside, on our backs, feeling the moment, reckoning with the moment.

There were separate bedrolls, the result of much worry and many conversations with Teej. Didn’t want to be presumptuous.

We pushed them together, lay shoulder to shoulder. We stared at the roof, listening, talking, watching moon shadows flutter across the nylon.

Then, a loud munching sound.

Meg bolted upright.
What’s that?

Elephant,
I said.

Just one, from what I could tell. Just outside. Eating peacefully from the shrubs around us.

She won’t hurt us.

She won’t?

Soon after, the tent shook from a loud roar.

Lions.

Are we going to be OK?

Yes. Don’t worry.

She lay down, put her head on my chest.

Trust me,
I told her.
I’ll keep you safe
.

I woke just before dawn,
unzipped the tent quietly, tiptoed out. The stillness of a Botswana morning. I watched a flock of pygmy geese fly upriver, watched impala and lechwe having their morning drink at the water’s edge.

The birdsong was incredible.

As the sun came up I gave thanks for this day, then walked down to the main camp for a piece of toast. When I returned I found Meg stretched on a yoga mat beside the river.

Warrior pose. Downward dog. Child’s pose.

When she finished I announced:
Breakfast is served.

We ate under an acacia tree, and she asked excitedly what the plan was.

I have surprises.

Beginning with a morning drive. We hopped into Mike’s old doorless truck, went barreling into the bush. Sun on our cheeks, wind in our hair, we cruised through streams, bounced over hills, flushed lions out of deep grass.
Thanks for making such a racket last night, boys!
We came upon a large group of giraffes grazing the treetops, their eyelashes like rakes. They nodded good morning.

Not everyone was so friendly. Strolling by a vast watering hole, we saw a cloud of dust just up ahead. A grumpy warthog confronted us. He retreated when we stood our ground.

Hippos also snorted belligerently. We waved, retreated, jumped back into the truck.

We interrupted a pack of wild dogs trying to filch a dead buffalo from two lionesses. It wasn’t going well. We left them to it.

The grass was golden, swaying in the wind.
Dry season,
I said to Meg. The air was warm, clean, a joy to breathe. We broke out a picnic lunch, washed it down with a couple of Savannah ciders. Afterwards we went for a swim in an estuary off the river, keeping our distance from the crocs.
Stay away from the dark water
.

I told her this was the cleanest, purest water in the world, because it was filtered by all that papyrus. Even sweeter than the water in the ancient bath at Balmoral, though…better not to think of Balmoral.

The anniversary was only weeks away.

At dusk we lay across the bonnet of the truck, watching the sky. When the bats came out, we went to find Teej and Mike. We turned on music, laughed and talked and sang and ate dinner again around the fire. Meg told us a bit about her life, about growing up in Los Angeles, about her struggles to become an actress, doing quick changes between auditions in her rundown SUV on which the doors didn’t always work. She was forced to enter through the boot. She talked about her growing portfolio as an entrepreneur, her lifestyle website, which had tens of thousands of readers. In her free time she did philanthropic work—she was especially fierce about women’s issues.

I was fascinated, hanging on every word, while in the background I heard a faint drumbeat:
She’s perfect, she’s perfect, she’s perfect.

Chels and Cress often mentioned my Jekyll-and-Hyde existence. Happy Spike in Botswana, tightly wound Prince Harry in London. I’d never been able to synthesize the two, and it bothered them, bothered me, but with this woman, I thought, I could do it. I could be Happy Spike all the time.