“He doesn’t.”
“I heard from Rip that he went four days last week without a wink.”
“Jesus,” he laughs. “Americans.”
“Californians!”
Orson is ashamed to admit it to most people, but even after three years, the people here still bewilder him. For a start, everyone runs. If they aren’t driving, they are running. Often they will drive quite a long way just to be able to run indoors in giant complexes with names like 24 Hour Fitness or The Jungle Gym. In the small town outside Glasgow where Orson grew up, people only ran when they were chasing or being chased. Or last call at the pub. So it’s reassuring to have someone to hang out with who doesn’t go in for jazzercize or step aerobics or whatever god-awful fitness trend they’ve cooked up this week. Susie makes sense to him. She drinks like she’s coming up for air.
“Another?” She waves to the bartender. “Do you want one or have you already been riding the ski slopes?”
“This is going to sound crazy, but he really did just want to talk,” Orson says.
“God, imagine that. Must have been serious.”
“Nah. Just this new serial-killer stuff. They want me to be a suspect, so. Have to be a bit more suspicious.”
She raises an eyebrow like she can tell he’s not giving her the full story. He’s not, but he raises one back, to put her off the case. No need to tell her the awful thing Mark said. Rather have a drink and pretend it didn’t happen.
“Do I know you?”
A woman (middle-aged, middle American) is leaning on the bar, looking at Susie curiously, like an old friend.
“I don’t think so,” she says, smiling her winning smile and shaking her head. Susie is seven years older than Orson, but she’s far less intimidating than the girls his own age around here with too-white teeth and terrifying abdomens. It’s no wonder people just start talking to her.
“I’m sure we’ve met somewhere. Or maybe I’ve seen you.” The woman squints. It’s obvious now what’s coming. If he had a magic pencil, he’d draw the lightbulb over her head himself. “I know! Margie!”
Susie beams, flattered, all generosity. “You’re a fan?”
“Oh! I watch every day! It’s very, very addicting. I’ll arrange my day sometimes…” The woman natters on in the way that only Americans can, emphatically fawning, telling you things you already know. Even if a Scot had that many compliments in them, they wouldn’t dare say them out loud. That’s another thing he can’t get over: people here are so vulnerable.
“Well, you probably recognize Orson,” Susan says, trying to draw him back into the conversation, share the spotlight. But the woman looks at him blankly. “Joe? From behind the bar?”
“Of course! Gosh, you look so much smaller in real life! But maybe it’s just that you’re sitting down. A trick of the eye.”Well, fuck me then.“Oh, I’m so sorry to ask, but would you mind awfully if I took a photo? It’s for my daughter, see, we watch the show together every day.”
From her giant backpack the woman procures a giant camera—everything really is bigger here—and before he can arrange his face, she’s taken a shot.
“Enjoy your day,” Susie says, delighted, waggling her fingers. As the woman slips away, she drops her jaw. “Oh my God.”
“You’re famous.”
“We’re famous!”
“She thought I was furniture.”
“Don’t be stupid. Everyone is going to be saying your name. Just be patient.”
He sighs, puts his head on the countertop. “Patience is not my strong suit.” This is why he came out here, isn’t it? For a bite at the apple? But fuck, it’s been a long week. It’s been a long three years. Audition after useless audition, never any news from his pointless agent. Always, now he is telling himself: this is just a stepping stone. He won’t get stuck making melodrama for housewives. Susie always acts like fame will just take care of itself, but Orson knows better. He’s seen how it happens. It’s why he’s been buttering up the writers for more storylines, more airtime.
“Maybe this serial-killer thing will be it for you. Your breakout.”
“God, I hope so.”
“Well, I hope not. Selfishly. As soon as the world discovers you, you’re going to leave me.”
“We’re both going to leave, Susie. Don’t you want to?”
Susie sips her drink, casts her eye around the bar, her eyes trailing the woman with the camera. “I used to think so. But now I’m not so sure. It’s nice to have a long-term relationship.”
