I feel a pang of something in my chest.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
He shrugs again, but you can see in his eyes that, in this moment of sincerity, he’s not his usual laid-back self.
‘It is what it is.’
‘Still,’ I say, ‘once the trust is gone, it’s hard to get it back. Not just with that person. With anyone – with everyone.’
He looks me in the eye and his gaze lingers a second longer than it should: softer; more cautious, suddenly.
‘I’m doing my best,’ I say softly. ‘To go with your ideas. But it’s not easy to trust there, either.’
He sits up a little straighter.
‘Then let me make my case properly,’ he replies. ‘Look, I know it seems shallow, stacking the cast with reality TV stars, but these people, they know the game. They create chaos naturally. We probably won’t have to script it – they’re used to being good TV. We just set the stage and let them do their thing.’
‘And hope it doesn’t blow up in our faces?’ I reply.
‘It won’t.’
I narrow my eyes.
‘Sometimes you have to trust someone,’ he says.
‘Except… I remember onMade in Yorkshire, that house fire,’ I say. ‘One of your tricks, I assume?’
He bursts out laughing.
‘Cleo. That was a real fire,’ he tells me. ‘Nothing to do with production. Some idiot knocked over a candle.’
I’m not sure if I believe him.
It’s not fair how easy he makes it look – just existing. He sits there, confident, charming, believing in his ideas like they’re gospel. I don’t know where he finds his faith.
I want to believe in his idea too, it’s just so hard to trust him, when I don’t really trust anyone. I meant what I said – once trust breaks, it doesn’t just snap with one person. It infects everything. Every relationship, every partnership. Even this. Especially this.
I really do want to trust him. I want to believe that his chaos theory will work, that he’s not just another pretty face coasting on male privilege and bravado. But I can’t help bracing for the moment it all burns down – literally, if that house fire was anything to go by.
And all of the above is just trusting him professionally. I daren’t even think about anything else.
‘Still,’ I say, ‘if you take it too far, or it doesn’t work out – that’s it. I’m revolting.’
His lips twitch.
‘You’re not that bad,’ he replies.
I roll my eyes.
‘Not that kind of revolting.’
‘I know, I know,’ he teases, and I can’t help laughing too.
He’s funny, I do like that about him. That laugh-a-minute vibe is what keeps life light. It’s hard to frown about everything when you’re always laughing with someone, even in the darker moments.
‘I’d better put my mask back on, you actually look like you don’t hate me right now,’ he jokes.
‘You’re not all that hateable right now,’ I tell him. ‘Never mind your metaphorical mask. You’ll have a real mask on tomorrow.’
