“What does she ask you then? She only asks me about…like…who I like and what I had for dinner. Then she goes in for the kill and keeps trying to prompt me to admit my feelings. For the record? I don’t.”
“What feelings?”
He was smiling again. Good.
“I love my family. I love my friends. I loved my wife. I keep saying that, hoping she’ll just shut up and change the record.”
“She won’t,” he said softly, once again hooking his arm in mine.
Walking. A comfortable pace, with the wind in my face. His breathing next to me. Comforting, I thought. It was.
“I don’t have many friends,” he said quietly, to a passing car. Like he couldn’t even look at me. “But I like talking to you.”
“We make a good team,” I said diplomatically.
“Is that what I am? Team Peter?”
“I would hope so? I mean, I’ll be team Oliver for you. Any day.”
He stuck his tongue out at me. I wasn’t sure why he looked hurt.
“Anyway, you’re my babygirl. I’m going to shock Gina with that little comment later.”
“Don’t.” He laughed. “You don’t use it like that. And I’m not a babygirl. Not really.”
“Are you sure of that?”
He rolled his eyes and looked away.
“Gina will love it. Make a big thing out of it.”
“And then the interweb will come up with another Peter Felton meme. You need to be careful what comes out of your mouth.”
“I think it’s too late for that.” I laughed.
He gifted me another one of his little grimaces, making me all warm inside.
I wasn’t sure of anything anymore, and it was slightly terrifying.
Where I hated the constant questioning as much as Oliver did, I had started to enjoy a different kind of session with Gina where she’d call me in to join her, off camera, to sit in the hair and make-up room together as she had her rollers done, quietly talking nonsense with my mic turned off, as some production person would repeatedly pop in and tell her off for not following the script or saying the wrong things or not pushing the resources enough. Resources. We’d both flinch whenever that word was said out loud. We were quite similar, I thought, understanding the need for things that were somehow at the same time downright rude. Saying things that made no sense. Talking about things like they were business transactions and acting roles, instead of this being our lives. She was nice, even off camera, despite repeatedly throwing me to the wolves and then apologising afterwards.
On camera? I felt like I was constantly trying to navigate those same leading questions. The constant baits where I felt like I was walking a tightrope, my chest constricting as my brain tried to think of the right answer. One that wouldn’t get me in trouble. Where they couldn’t make me sound weird. Where I didn’t throw anyone under a bus.What do you think of Diane? How did you feel when she said Gerald was playing her off against Anne? When Oliver said he found Elia handsome, did that make you jealous? Do you find him attractive? When we asked Chloe-Catherine to tell us who she thought was the biggest liar in the community here, she said you. Why do you think she said that? No? Who did you think Chloe-Catherineshould have chosen? Nobody? Not even…say, Gerald? Do you like Gerald? In the outside world, would you find Priti attractive?
It was not only draining and exhausting, but I was starting to get my responses muddled up. Forgetting who I’d said did what and what the correct answer would have been. Well, when it was all trick questions and stupid words, that could easily be manipulated to follow whatever narrative production was going with? It didn’t matter, at least not, according to Oliver.
“I think,” he said the next morning, having once again brought me tea in bed, “That they are trying to make Chloe-Catherine the villain, bouncing around the straight guys, and she’s not doing herself any favours. How many rooms has she been in? Every morning she’s somewhere else. At least Wren has been constant, and Ben and Thom didn’t… Well, did we see them yesterday? And where was Elia this morning? It’s all a blur. The constant drama!” He blew air and shook his head, having drained his tea, once again sat on the bed, all crumpled and freshly awake, armed with today’s call sheet perched on his hairy bare legs. I didn’t mind; I actually quite enjoyed watching him. That pleasant, quiet hour in the morning I got to spend with him, allowing myself to not only enjoy his constant chatter, but also the simple peace he brought. I couldn’t even start to explain how much I liked that little routine of ours. I didn’t even mind us sleeping like this. Him, next to me, falling asleep as I tossed and turned. Then waking up like this, with him there in my space, talking far too much for my liking. Yet Iwasliking it, this friendship we’d grown here. The support. The constant reassurance that I wasn’t the only person going mad around here.
“So, Gerald left last night?” I questioned. “You sure?”
“We went for our walk, then when you went for your one-on-one with Gina, that’s when they started shouting in the common room, and then some enormous argument went on. They’d removed Thom for somemisdemeanour with one of the runners.” He shrugged. “I haven’t even said anything about Ben and his wandering hands, but if he does touch me again, I might have to say something.”
Now it was my turn to shudder because some of these young people had no sense.
“You need to say something. If you don’t? I will.”
“He’s just…you know. If you’re there, he backs off. I think he’s scared of you.”
“Nobody is scared of me,” I huffed.
