“That…” I couldn’t finish what I was saying. Instead I stood here with a woman’s scent on my fingertip. Feeling so ridiculous it wasn’t even funny. Also? Insensitive to the max. Even I could see that.
“Here,” he said gently, taking the cream from my finger with his. Rough skin against mine. “Just a little under the eyes. Covers up any little misdemeanour. That’s what she used to say. See? Now you look good.”
“Makes no difference,” I said flatly, staring at the dishevelled mess in the mirror. “I still look a mess.”
“No, you don’t.” Words spoken so softly I could barely hear them. “Your shirt is wet, though,” he continued quietly. “Let me get you a new one.”
I ripped it off, the shirt. I stood there with my flat chest and pale skin, my eyes blinking into the harsh light. A soft sheen of magic under my eyes. My lips dry and puffy. Hair?Oh, somebody help me. Save me from all this…catastrophic mess.
“Here,” he said, returning through the open door, passing me a new shirt. Then he froze. Just stood there looking at me.
Not long. Just a second too long. Enough to make his cheeks pink. His eyes flutter.
Then he walked out. Left me standing there with two cups of tea at the side of the sink and a stomach full of things that felt absolutely one hundred per cent…
Wrong.
Chapter 11
Peter
Where on the first night, I had fretted about actually sleeping in the same bed as a stranger? Another grown man? I needn’t have worried because Oliver had not only turned out to be good company but also the perfect bed mate. He’d been fast asleep last night, when I’d stirred and remembered that I’d never brushed my teeth, having again partaken in our nightly ritual of drinking beer in bed like students. My boys told me stories, and I felt like I was weirdly morphing into a caricature of every wild escapade they’d ever shared with me. Almost. Well, drinking beer in bed before falling asleep. Like slobs, both of us trying to avoid that awkward situation we were in. Falling asleep next to each other was obviously a no-no. Or perhaps it had been a gentle routine of giving each other the only small amount of space and privacy we could offer, despite the fact that he no doubt faked falling asleep before me and the slightly embarrassing fact that he constantly gravitated towards me in bed. I’d woken up in the middle of the night to some of his body parts being flung over me or with him snuggled into my side.
I didn’t mind. I was a dad. I’d had the boys snuggling up during the night, soothing nightmares and fevers. Chicken pox, twice.
The week had rolled on exactly like that. With call sheets and ridiculous schedules and…scripted words. Stupid lines.
Not that Oliver was scripted, he was just…nice. And seemingly attached to me, which again…I didn’t mind. He’d check in on me during the day, in between sessions in front of the camera. Staged encounters with other cast members. Because that’s what we were. There was hardly any reality here, not even in the interviews with Gina, which I’d strangely started to both dread and enjoy in equal measure.
“So, Peter,” she’d ask. “Has young Oliver stolen your poor heart, or is this just a ruse before you go for that special person who has piqued your interest?”
“Oh, Gina.” I’d sigh and smile, putting on a now easily produced fake pose. “You know me. I am a private kind of guy. And Oliver is great company.”
“You devil, you.” She’d grin, giving the audience a knowing look. “What would Mary have said?”
Then she would turn to me and mouth,I’m so sorry. I hate this.
I didn’t dare to tell her that it didn’t matter. That Mary would have laughed and thought it was slightly hilarious, however wildly insensitive this production had turned out to be.
And then I’d find Oliver waiting for me, ready to drag me out for a walk.For my health.
“I got roped in to speak to the production well-being coordinator,” he said one blustery morning as we made our way along the huge metal studio hangars that surrounded our place of…work. Living quarters. Production offices. Set… Whatever they were calling it.
“And what is that?” I questioned, wishing I’d brought the awful purple jumper instead of this flimsy shirt I was wearing today. The sun wasn’t doing its job here, and I was a little cold.
“Some hobby-therapist wanting to ensure my mental health needs are met. I have no idea what that means, but I suppose someone thinks I’m going mad.”
“And are you?”
“Probably.” He smiled. “They tried to get me to go into Ben’s room for a heart-to-heart. And I refused.”
“Oh.”
“Well, Ben has ideas. It’s not the first time he’s got handsy with me, so I point-blank refuse to go anywhere near him unless there are other people around.”
“Ben,” I said.
“Bisexual Bonehead Ben.”
