‘That’s not what I meant. You don’t date,’ Callie said simply. ‘You always say you can’t be bothered.’
‘Wow, she said that?’ the boy asked, letting out a small laugh, visibly thrilled by what he took as proof of his own raw sexual power.
Callie ignored him entirely. Her eyes remained locked on Mae, puzzled beyond belief.
Mae reached for her drink to create something to do with her hands. The glass slipped slightly in her grip, and she steadied it quickly, hoping Callie hadn’t noticed the tremor.
‘Well,’ Mae said, forcing nonchalance she did not feel, ‘I thought I’d try something new.’
Callie’s mouth twitched. ‘Right,’ she murmured. ‘Well. I hope it goes… well?’
‘Thank you,’ Mae said through gritted teeth.
Callie left, moving to another part of the pub to find more empties.
The boy was speaking again—something cheerful, oblivious—but if Mae was distracted before, she was on another planet now. Her ears were still ringing with Callie’s disbelief, her eyes still fixed on the place where Callie had stood.
Mae felt humiliated and exposed. She wasn’t here for the boy. She wasn’t even here for herself. She was here for Callie. To be seen. To provoke a reaction from her.
This wasn’t a date. It was an attempt to answer a question Mae had never dared ask herself.
Sixteen
Now
Callie could hear noise coming from the back of the bakery.
Now and then, an oddly angry clank came from beyond the kitchen door. It wasn’t loud, but it threaded through everything happening in the front of house: Isabella’s brushes tapping against plastic, the low murmur of crew chatter on the radios.
Today, Callie had been given the luxury of being made up in the more spacious front-of-house of Morgans, since they’d paid for a full day. She would have preferred the cramped van. At least then she wouldn’t have been listening to the kitchen, trying to read into every sound.
But Callie was unable to shake the bone-deep awareness that Mae was back there somewhere. Breathing the same air. Existing in the same building as Callie.
‘Stop frowning,’ Isabella said, dabbing lightly at the concealer under Callie’s eye. ‘You’ll crease.’
‘This is as relaxed as my face gets,’ she said.
‘Not buying that,’ Isabella muttered. ‘I know your mug too well.’
Callie forced her face to neutral. Or what she hoped looked neutral and not at all deranged.
Isabella stepped back to assess her work, one hand on her hip, the other still holding the brush like a weapon.
‘Tilt your head,’ she said. ‘No, other way. OK, that’s coming along. God, these lights are shite.’
The front-of-house had been rearranged for filming. It was now just one table and two chairs, dead centre, the rest shoved aside to make space for the cameras and the trolley of makeup and the stool Callie was perched on. She wasn’t allowed a real chair yet. Not till it was on camera.
Outside, Callie could see the village through the window: indistinct figures moving past, a bike, a Labrador's tail. She saw a kid pause and look in, fascinated by the scene.
‘What’s that?’ he asked his dad.
The dad looked in, and his eyes landed on Callie. Recognition flitted through his expression. ‘A load of bollocks,’ the man told his son disdainfully.
Callie was pretty sure she’d gone to school with the man. She thought she’d once watched him puke all over himself on a school bus.
Callie sighed and looked back up at Isabella, choosing her next product.
‘You’re sure you’ve got time for Mae as well?’ Callie asked as casually as she could manage, which was not very.
