“I hate this duvet,” I replied as he chuckled.
“It’s too small, I agree. Cheap, and of course useful for those awkward shots from that corner camera. My feet are constantly on display.”
“Not that they film us during the night.”
“I’m sure they do. I don’t trust anything in here.”
“Agreed,” I said, trying to make myself more comfortable against the flat pillows. It was no luxury hotel bed, that was for sure.
“Favourite thing in the whole wide world?” he asked again.
“I don’t know.”
“Of course you must have something you absolutely love?”
“Nailing a deal. Getting a client on board. A big bonus is always nice; I’ve had a few.”
“What did you spend them on?”
“The bonuses?”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing. I stick money in the bank or invest it for the future. Nothing I need. Not really.”
“You have a flat, I take it?”
“Yes. Nice place, top floor and all that. Never use the balcony. I did splurge on a nice bed, though. Nothing like this.”
“Nice.” He sounded like me. Flat. Wrung out. “Are you managing the mortgage okay? I mean, with not working and being here?”
I laughed. It wasn’t kind; I knew that. “Oh, Peter,” slipped out. Condescending and rude. He’d only asked.
“Just out of concern. I do care about you, you know.”
“We’re pretty much strangers.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t wonder what goes on in that head of yours.”
He was such a dad. I told him so as well.
“What’s your favourite thing in the world then?” I was curious now, and he shuffled so he was on his side, facing me.
“It’s stupid, but it’s my life.”
“Not stupid,” I said quietly. I didn’t dare to face him. Too raw. Too close.
“It’s the sound of my sons coming in after a night out. When they’re trying to be quiet, and they’re both all giggly and a little…well. Too-much-to-drink-giggly drunk. Stumbling around downstairs, trying to make snacks. They always sound happy, and it calms me because I can finally relax, knowing that they’re safely at home. Well. Apart from worrying that they’re setting the kitchen on fire.”
“Not stupid,” I repeated, feeling just that. “I can…see that. It must be nice for them. Having you there, and that you care.”
“Of course I care. They’re my boys.”
“Do they still live at home?”
I was surprised we hadn’t talked more about that. That there was still so much I didn’t know about the man who had been sharing my bed lately.
“They’re at uni, but they come home for a couple of weekends…now and then. They have all their friends here. And their football team. You know. Normal things.”
