‘He likes war games. You know, with the figurines?’
He checks that his smart watch has logged his exercise and says, ‘Good to know I rate higher than a war-gaming cannibal.’
He has misunderstood. He is not being rated. He’s not even in the running! And I am not throwing myself at him, despite appearances. If I was really looking, it would be for someone without the capacity to drag me into the social pages, where I’d only flounder from one faux pas to the next, garbled interviews and wardrobe malfunctions propelling us towards the inevitable public breakup, because I’m just not cut out for the spotlight.
‘My friend April tells me you’re a screenwriter?’ I’m going to kill her. She knows I can’t stay silent with such fascinating information.
He’s bent over, drying his legs now, allowing me to study the muscles rippling across his bare back as if I am cramming for an anatomy exam. When he straightens and flicks the towel over his shoulder, he says, ‘I’m sorry, do I know April?’
How to explain her!
Before I can answer, he motions towards our caravans. ‘Hepburn, do you want to grab a coffee in town? Breakfast, maybe?’
Is this? … Is he asking me on a date? No, don’t be comical, Audrey! The man probably has his own IMDb page.
‘I’ve got writer’s block and a deadline,’ he admits, with a quick glance at my pyjamas and Crocs, then back to my face, which I’m beginning to wish had something applied to it other than SPF 50 and a startled expression. ‘And there’s something about you …’
39
FRASER
‘Come on, Parks,’ I say, shaking the tent from the outside. ‘The day’s getting away from us!’
There’s a muffled ‘Leave me alone, bro’ that heralds our official arrival at the Teenage Years.
I zip open the tent door. ‘Do you want breakfast?’
She rolls over. ‘Dad, I don’t feel good.’ She’s lying on the air bed, half in and half out of her sleeping bag, in the foetal position, clutching her stomach.
‘Are you going to be sick?’
‘No, it just hurts.’
‘What sort of hurt?’
‘I’m literallydying.’
‘You’re figuratively dying. Is it a sharp pain on the lower right side?’
Please say no!I really don’t want to be contending with a burst appendix in a tent.
‘Stop asking,’ she says, groaning as she sits up. She’s very pale. I put my hand to her forehead. No temperature.
She staggers up, shoving her feet into a pair of sneakers, and heads to the amenities block while I run through a mental checklist of everything she’s eaten in the last twenty-four hours.She’s gone a long while. Finally I head over, too, hover near the door, and call out, ‘Parks? You okay in there?’
‘Noo.’
Her voice is teary now, and small. Eventually she comes back out but won’t look at me. In fact, she just stands there, arms crossed, looking totally lost.
‘Did you pack the things?’ she asks.
It takes me a moment to catch on. ‘Oh, God. Parker. I’m sorry. I didn’t.’ She folds over, stricken, and I don’t let her see how it guts me.Audrey wouldn’t have let this happen!
‘It’s going to be absolutely fine,’ I reassure her. ‘I’ll head to the supermarket.’
She looks like she has no idea how to handle this in the interim.
‘Fold up some toilet paper,’ I advise.
