So instead, she pressed harder into the dough.
‘Goodbye, Mae,’ Callie said softly.
Mae could hear her high heels on the floorboards and the door creaking open. She kept kneading, kept her back turned.
And somehow, by the time the dough was ready to rest, she realised she had survived the goodbye. Better than last time, maybe. But less painful? Not by much.
Because at the end of it, Callie was still gone. Again.
Thirty-Six
Callie left with more than she’d ever dared hope to get from Mae.
It wasn’t forgiveness, and it wasn’t anything close to a resurrection of their friendship, but it was more than she felt she deserved. Mae had let her speak, and for the first time in a long while, Callie could move forward knowing Mae now knew that Callie hadn’t walked away lightly, hadn’t caused pain easily, hadn’t survived the life easily without Mae. That she hurt herself with her actions, too.
It was a miracle. But it wasn’t enough. Especially given the fact that Callie had possibly ruined Mae’s life again with her stupid career and the stupid cameras, and her stupid fake boyfriend.
By the time she got out the front, they were loading up the van, and Callie was machinating. There had to be some string she could pull, someone she knew who could go over Neil’s head.
But she couldn’t think of anyone. She’d never had power in this industry. She hadn’t tried to climb. She’d only ever stumbled forward.
Could she threaten to quit? Maybe that could work… But knowing Neil, he’d take her up on it and find a way to make it an embarrassing spectacle. Maybe even tie it into the Mae footage.
There was, she realised, an easier way to make the problem disappear.
Most of the crew were in that restless, post-wrap daze, pretending to pack while really just hovering and chatting. Samwas down the road, trapped in conversation with an elderly woman who looked on the verge of bursting with the joy of proximity to Someone From The Television. Isabella had vanished, presumably to clean her brushes or be withering to someone.
The camera operator was crouched by the door, slotting lenses into their foam beds. The main camera body sat on a padded mat at his feet. The SD card cover was flipped open.
Callie’s pulse ticked up.Don’t be stupid, she told herself. But she was already moving.
‘Hey,’ she said brightly. ‘How did it look?’
The cameraman, Dan, turned his head and smiled, pleased to be asked. ‘Really nice,’ he said. ‘Lovely colour palette in that kitchen. It should look great. Especially that bit with—’ he stopped, realising what he was about to say and who he was saying it to.
Callie pretended not to notice his faux pas. ‘Neil still about?’ Callie asked.
‘On the phone with someone in the car,’ Dan said.
Callie looked over to see him in the back of his car, talking animatedly into a phone, good and occupied.
Callie turned back to Dan and smiled. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask…’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’ve been thinking, this gig can’t last forever…’
‘No?’
‘I can’t be cosying up to muscly hunks in my fifties, can I?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe with good Botox…’
Callie ignored that. ‘So I was thinking about getting into reality TV camera operation. You got any tips?’
Dan’s face lit up. He did indeed have tips.
As he spoke, his hands kept going, automatic. He pressed the eject button. The card slot popped open.
