I open the door.
Lucie steps out. “We didn’t find it in that museum.”
As I close the door, I catch her trading a look of amused complicity with Max. From the glimmer in their eyes, I’d say their night had been productive, regardless.
CHAPTER15
JONAS
Our third performance went without a hitch.
After the talkback and a quick dinner, everyone—Margot and Peter included—heads upstairs to the bar. Unobtrusively, I watch him woo her for twenty minutes or so. When I’ve had enough, I slip away to my bedroom. There’s a new batch of rushes for me to download from the cloud and view. As producers, Louis, Celeste and I receive the edited rushes every day. We aren’t expected to view them as consistently as the movie’s director, but we do our best to stay on top of things. It’s our money, after all. We won’t recoup it if the movie flops.
But first, I put on my headset and call Matteo. He isn’t in a chatty mood tonight, and nothing I say can get him to lighten up. Even seven-year-olds have their moments of darkness. Especially seven-year-olds who’ve been through what Matteo has been. Tempting as it is to push, I’ve learned to back down at times like this and just let him be. He’s with Celeste and Mom now. Both love him to pieces and watch over him like hawks. He’ll be all right.
We hang up, and I start on the rushes.
Today’s stuff is good, so I manage to focus at once and stay focused for two hours. Then I type up an email to the director:
Suggested edit: When his father dies, the shot could stay on Otis instead of lingering on the explosion. Not that it isn’t spectacular. But Otis’s grief over his father’s death impacts the plot later on. So, it may be a good idea to focus more on his reaction here—unless there’s a good reason not to. Let me know what you think.
I click Send, and the email flies away. As does my concentration.
Is Margot back in her room by now?
Is she reading, or asleep, or just lying down less than a meter from me, on the other side of that wall? Is she thinking about last night’s incident in the library?
My cock stirs in my pants.
Is she alone?What if Peter is in there with her?
I refuse to envision that eventuality.
Instead, I imagine Margot asleep on her back, with her mouth agape, producing a long, loud, multipart “Bohemian Rhapsody” of a snore. The image is supposed to put me off. To my shock, even it doesn’t kill my erection.
Fuck!I need that woman to be removed from that dressing room and resettled as far from me as this house allows.
In a move as resolute as ill-considered, I disconnect the headset, turn up the volume, and go on to view the remaining rushes that feature gunfire, explosions, and a great deal of yelling.
There’s a knock on my door. I throw on a bathrobe to hide my bulge and open the door. It’s Margot. Her auburn hair is plaited into a loose braid. She’s wearing a brown fleece bathrobe over her PJs.
Hah!No woman would look like this if she were entertaining a suitor in her room. Peter sleeps in his own bed tonight.
I purse my lips to kill my satisfied grin.
She shifts from one foot to the other. “Do you mind turning the volume down?”
“Of course not, but I’m not sure how much that would help.”
“I could barely hear anything until tonight—”
“And yet the volume was exactly like now,” I lie shamelessly.
She lifts her eyebrows. “Really?”
“You see, the wall separating the master bedroom from the dressing room isn’t Georgian but new Elizabethan.”
“Eh…?”
