“I know who he is.”
“You’re such a granddad.”
“I haven’t got dementia yet, but it’s not far off. I still don’t know everyone’s name. But I’ll have words with Ben. Seriously, you need to speak up and get him to stop. And who’s that tall guy again?”
“Thom. Don’t say anything to Ben. I can handle it.”
“You shouldn’t have to. Let me know what I can do to help, because I will. Who’s the girl with the purple hair again? She was shouting at him the other day?”
“Priti. She hates him. Likes Diane.”
“Diane likes Gerald.”
“Anne likes Gerald. Priti likes Wren too, and Wren is one hundred per cent shagging both Minty and Chloe-Catherine.”
“I’m glad I have you to keep me up-to-date with all this. Even when we sit in the common room, I seem to get all muddled up because everyone is blurting out these insane phrases and it’s all rehearsed and…”
“We don’t know anyone. How on earth are we supposed to connect with people when they just blurt out the bloody script all the time? Everyone is on about being emotionally available and open and vulnerable, what’s that even supposed to mean?”
“Ready for anything.” I sighed. “Like Wren. She’s actually quite nice…”
“When she’s not on the prowl. She frightens me.”
“Well, I’ve got you.” I grabbed his arm. As he grabbed mine.
“I’m lucky to have you,” he said quietly. “At least I know you.”
“A little bit,” I admitted. I wondered if he actually did. Because I was starting to wonder if I even knew myself anymore.
Again, the days seemed to blend into one another, the same routine over and over again. At least today had started well, and I could perhaps get used to this. Getting woken up by a dishevelled-looking Oliver handing me a cup of tea in bed, then my microphone equipment, followed by getting the call sheet read out to me in small, palatable chunks. Another little routine we’d seemingly developed, alongside the one where we would sneak back to our room and lie down on the bed, exhausted and weary after the insane exercises they made us do. Stupid social activities that inevitably led to drama, and adult versions of juvenile playground games in different variations, leaving us both wrung out and exhausted. And then I’d wake up to this. This Oliver, cross-legged on the bed, spreading out today’s paperwork and scratching his head, at the same time as he was trying to drink tea. His hoodie still crumpled from having slept in it, his bare legs finished off with fluffy socks. I half wanted to tell him off for his awful bedroom hair and weird clothing combos, sternly telling him to getdressed, but then at the same time? It was him. Very much him. Messy. Funny. Easy to like.
“You’re saying I’m scheduled to sit down with Xanthe and Wren this morning, then?” I said gently, trying to find the right piece of paper. What was it with paper? Well, we had to sign the paperwork out in the morning, and then our scripts got signed back in every evening and destroyed. No leaks allowed. Like this was some kind of undercover spy show or something.
“Yup, it’s some kind of sexuality challenge. That should be fun. A transwoman, a lesbian and a straight bloke with a boyfriend,” he teased as I gently thumped his arm.
He did the same back.
“Straight bloke with a boyfriend,” I smarmed, giving him a little wink.
“Best boyfriend I’ve ever had,” he joked.
“Bah.” I sighed.
“I’m being serious about this.” He pouted a few hours later, as we’d once again escaped outside for our walk. “You’re like my ideal boyfriend. Shame you don’t fancy me.”
Silly boy, no doubt trying to rile me up. It sometimes made me laugh, but at other times, like right now? I swallowed my response. It felt like I was missing what he was trying to say. Communication was key, but I felt nauseous even thinking about finding the right words. Too many. Too complicated. And now he was standing here with the wind in his face, wearing a colourful jacket that looked far too big for him. Some brand we were supposed to discuss. We hadn’t because…well.
“What was it Wren called you earlier?” I tried to deflect, bringing our conversation back to something not so…difficult. “Babygirl?”
“It’s some kind of…hip phrase. Like, a sensitive kind of bloke.”
“Or a cute one, perhaps?”
“Peter,” he said, staring at me. “Don’t you dare.”
“What?” I smiled.
“We’re friends. If you start calling me that, it will open up a whole bloody volcano from Gina. She’s trying to psychoanalyse me to death, and I can’t bear it. I just want to sit there and talk about bloody clothes and curtains or whatever.”
