This is why Jamie can’t find steady work: he can’t, or maybe won’t, fake it. That, and he has a YouTube channel dedicated to making fun of movies. If you were trying to figure out the most efficient way to guarantee that nobody in this industry would ever hire you again, it would be fifty hours of footage of you mocking their friends’ work.
This is also, probably, why he’s Simon’s ideal friend. Simon never has any doubt that Jamie sincerely enjoys being around him.
“Why don’t you go and get us some more drinks,” Simon suggests when the producer pauses to breathe. Jamie’s gone before Simon even finishes the sentence, and Simon resigns himself to hearing more about the trials of having a child in a private school that costs sixty thousand dollars a year. It’s not so different fromthe school Simon went to, so he really shouldn’t judge. He’s judging anyway.
Every minute or so, Charlie’s booming laughter cuts across the buzz of chatter. Over the producer’s shoulder, Simon sees Charlie talking to Jamie. This is fine. He’s already decided it’s fine. They know one another from when Jamie was on the show, and from dozens of events just like this one. But the other day, Simon told Jamie what he saw in Lian’s backyard, reasoning that if Charlie’s exes adore him, then he can’t be a bad target for Jamie’s rebound. If Simon feels weird about it, that’s just because Simon feels weird about everything.
“There you are!” Lian says, coming up next to Simon and laying a proprietary hand on his elbow. “I’m so sorry, Will, but I need to steal him away.” When they’re out of earshot, she drops his arm and leans in close. She smells like champagne and is a little wobbly in her heels. “You’re welcome.”
He doesn’t bother explaining that he’s fine with boring conversations, because all he has to do is occasionally interject a syllable or two. She’s clearly pleased with her rescue mission.
“Okay, what am I wearing?” Lian asks, holding her arms out.
What she’s wearing is a black silk dress cut like a smock but with a lot of drape and a chic little tie at the neck. “Margaret Howell,” he says.
She shakes her head, not because he’s wrong but because she thought she’d stumped him.
“I’ve been trying to find a present for my niece,” he explains. “And I happened to see it.” It’s partly true—he does need a graduation present for Nora, but he checks the women’s collections of hisfavorite designers out of habit. Half the texts he sends his mother are links to clothes she might like.
“Lucky niece,” Lian says, her smile broader than he’s used to.
“You’re wine drunk,” Simon says, surprised by a wave of something like affection.
“I had an idea,” she says into his ear. “It’s about next season.”
“I’m not—”
“I know, I know. That’s what I have the idea about. I think you’ll like it.”
“We shouldn’t talk about this now.” Simon gestures at the sea of people around them.
“Call me tomorrow, okay?”
Someone comes up to them, and Simon doesn’t have to turn his head to know it’s Charlie. Maybe it’s just that he’s big enough to block the light, or maybe after seven years Simon’s gotten used to the cologne Charlie wears whenever he considers it a fancy enough occasion to warrant shoes that aren’t flip-flops, but either way, there Charlie is.
“I was looking for you,” Charlie says. “Can we get a picture?”
Simon doesn’t say anything because he assumes Charlie’s talking to Lian.
“Simon?” Charlie asks. “Picture?” He holds up his phone, like the problem is that Simon doesn’t know how pictures get taken.
“Why?” Simon asks automatically. Lian snorts.
Charlie frowns. “Why not?”
Simon can’t come up with a good enough reason, so he puts on his work smile and lets Charlie take a selfie, but all the while he’s suspicious. They haven’t talked since Charlie lectured him in thecar. But now Charlie’s arm is around Simon’s shoulders for reasons that have nothing to do with stage directions. It’s strange to be this close when they aren’t on set.
“He’s up to something,” Simon tells Jamie as they’re getting ready to leave.
“I don’t think Charlie Blake has ever been up to anything in his life.”
“First that Instagram thing. Then he personally invited me to his party. And now this picture.”
“Diabolical.”
“Come on, he’s never done any of that before.”
“Maybe he’s exhausted by all the psychosexual warfare and just wants to be normal.”
