Istared at my phone screen, almost counting those two minutes in my head.
The truth was it would scare Fyfe to know how much of a life raft he’d become these last few weeks. I didn’t know why I found it so easy to be honest with him about my feelings. Perhaps because I knew he understood loneliness. I’d always sensed it in him as a kid, knew how abandoned and neglected he’d been, and so I’d gone overboard to make him feel special back then.
I wasn’t abandoned or neglected.
But I was lost.
And feeling lost was extremely lonely.
It was no wonder I grabbed onto Fyfe as soon as he offered his support.
My London flat had seen many parties over the years. In fact, for a while, it was barely ever empty. I’d started renting the loft-like flat when I first moved here forYoung Adult. I could have moved somewhere bigger, somewhere closer to the studio, and at one point I was going to. I’d wanted a place I could furnishand decorate myself, but my neighbors had told me Pete, our landlord, didn’t allow that in his flats. However, when I told Pete I was moving and why, he offered me rent control for a decade. A decade! In London. It was unheard of. And he said he’d have guys come and remove everything so I could furnish it and redecorate how I wished. I couldn’t turn down such a deal. Plus, he was a great landlord. Every year he did all the safety checks on the smoke alarms and the heating system, like a landlord was supposed to but rarely ever did. More reason to stay put.
Now, however, my flat seemed … empty. An interior designer had made it look cool and chic. There was expensive modern art on the walls, unique pieces of furniture. It was a Tribeca loft but with a ton of color and art.
The midcentury chaise sofa was the comfiest piece of furniture in the place, and I was curled up on it with a glass of wine while sweat stuck the hair to the back of my neck. A fan blew in the corner, but it did little to stave off the London summer heat that had built up over the days inside the brick building. And AC wasn’t a thing in most residential homes here. I vaguely wondered if AC was a thing in Romania. Gawd, I hoped so.
My suitcases were laid out in my bedroom, and I’d packed what I hoped were enough clothes for the three months of filming.
Three months.
A wave of homesickness crashed over me.
Not for this place. Not for this beautiful piece of art that would never feel like home.
But for Ardnoch.
For Lewis and Callie, Mum and Dad, and my wee sister Morwenna who was growing up while I missed it.
For Fyfe.
My phone buzzed and I snatched it up, accepting the call. I was hoping for a video chat because I missed Fyfe’s face, but I understood when I heard the hum of traffic in the background.
“Are you driving?”
“Aye, just coming back from the city. How are you?” Fyfe’s deep rumble of a voice was like ocean waves. The rhythm of it soothed me.
I sighed, feeling better for having him on the other end of the line. The last few days had been a shit show. “I had to hand over my social media accounts to my management team today.”
“What happened?”
“I posted a photo this week of me hanging out with friends on my roof terrace here and …” I squeezed my eyes closed, still seeing the comments in my mind’s eye. “I can’t take it anymore. I try to let the comments roll off my back, but I can’t. Every time I think I have a handle on it, I realize I don’t. I’ve decided to let someone else deal with it so I don’t have to see it anymore.”
“What kind of comments?” Fyfe’s voice was sharp.
“Fyfe—”
“I can easily check, you know.”
“Well, we reported some of them.”
“Jesus. Eilidh, what are they saying?”
“Young Adultis back at number one on the streaming platform and there’s this whole new audience finding us. They’re not happy my character cheats … I’ve been threatened with physical and sexual violence on my social media.”
All I heard was the humming sound of his vehicle on the road.
“Fyfe?”
