‘I did not … ’
‘You did. It’s your defence. Something’s too hard, so your barriers come up and you close yourself off to feeling … ’
‘Wow, Felix, congratulations on your psychology certification.’ I was so angry, I practically spat the words. But he’d hit a nerve. I’ve calmed down enough now to be able to admit that. ‘I had no idea you were studying for one.’
‘I don’t need a certification. I know you. And youshut me out.’
‘So, what, you want me to say sorry for you ignoring me the past three months?’
‘That’s not what I want at all,’ he said, and, furious too, left, just as Nick had.
I haven’t spoken to him since.
It really has been a spectacularly crap day.
Beside me, Nick unscrews his bottle, taking a drink, and, restlessly, I let my eyes wander the crew. Almost everyone is clustered in groups, snacking, chatting. Only Naomi and Ana stand apart. Naomi’s talking into her phone, looking harassed. Ana’s bent over her screen – jumper tied around her waist; curlspulled up in a knot – reviewing what we’ve shot. Back in the old days, she’d have had to wait for everything to be transferred to film: those rushes she used to let me in to see when we were shootingThe Go-Between. I don’t for a moment question whether she’s about to show me anything now. She looks way too concerned for that. And perturbed: like she’s trying to work something out.
Whether to fire me, maybe.
Shit, I think, more sweat breaking out beneath my tunic.Shit, shit, shit.
‘What was it like?’ Nick asks, cutting through my escalating panic.
‘What was what like?’
‘Iris’s room.’
‘Oh,’ I say, and take a breath, wrenching myself from my inner spiral. ‘Incredible, actually. All the furniture’s still there … ’
‘From the war?’
‘I think so.’
‘Ana didn’t put it there?’
‘No.’ I have to laugh. ‘I checked.’
He laughs too. An actual laugh.
For a second, we laugh together.
Then we trail off, out of practice.
‘You planning on sleeping up there again?’ Nick asks.
‘No,’ I say, and don’t mention how scared I am of what else my imagination might create in its shadows. I’m still trying, very hard, to forget about that. ‘But if I change my mind, I’ll tell you first.’
‘Thanks.’
‘It’s ok.’ I look up at him, into those dark,almost black, eyes, and I don’t know if it’s his stare, or the heat, or this unbearable day, or the simple strangeness of being on a set with him at all,acting out someone else’s love story, as Mum said, but I feel so abruptly overwhelmed, by everything, that I quite genuinely fear I might cry. ‘I really am sorry about earlier,’ I say, fighting to control myself. ‘I hate that you were that worried.’
‘Claude,’ he says, with an exasperated sigh. ‘Of course I was worried.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m always worried about you.’
I’m always worried about you.
Those words, the unmissable catch in Nick’s voice as he said them, prey on me as we get back to work. I realise that’s what I’ve become to everyone – him, Mum, Phil, my sisters, Ana … Felix, even: a worry.
I don’t want to be a worry.
