He still didn’t sleep much. I didn’t either because the tight schedule, the constant pressure to perform, combined with the lack of sleep and the environment here was starting to affect me. I was constantly exhausted, and it showed.
“When did you arrive?” I asked weakly, trying to make conversation whilst hoping I’d picked up the right glass. The one I was allowed to drink out of.
“We were on standby from day one,” this Caspar said, fiddling with the napkin from the table. “Cause like, production was convinced some more of you were gonna walk right out and would need to be replaced. Turns out nobody did this week, so they were gonna send us home, but then we kicked up a stink and that Kirsten woman had the bright idea of sending us in anyway and just finding a place to sleep. Like, breaking up couples and diving into their beds. Total mutiny or whatever it’s called. When are they going to do the partner swapping? They said the audience was to decide? You’re still with Oliver? He’s hot.”
I only took in about half of that, putting the glass full of coloured liquid back on the table, and instead picking up the water in the plastic cup. I hated this. Hated the noise, and the bright lights and the camera panning across the table like it was looking for its next victim.
“Did you read the script? I’m supposed to flirt with you,” Anne whispered. “I just don’t know if I have the strength.” She looked as pale as I felt. “I didn’t think things would turn out like this.”
I nodded, as in a trance. I wanted to say something comforting, but instead nothing came out of my mouth. Just air. Small puffs of it.
And someone at the end of the table was shouting, someone else standing up, waving their arms around as Diane laughed into her hands somewhere to my right. I recognised her laugh now. Like the screech of Wren’s voice and the way Ben shouted out words, and now this Caspar was whining out things in my ear.
“The drama, eh,” he said, looking like an excited child. “That Wren is hot. Shame she likes chicks.”
“She does,” I said, like I was confirming it. Oh God. What was I doing here? I tried to look for Oliver, to find something in this chaos that I could fixate on. I hoped he was okay. There was still shouting somewhere, and I didn’t like it. He didn’t like it. It made him nervous, and I had no idea why, because I actually didn’t know anyone here and we were all idiots and this?
Everything seemed insane. And I was starting to wonder what I’d been thinking, staying on board this sinking ship for as long as I had. Sharing a small bed with a man I barely knew. Talking to these people in scripted sentences. Trying to breathe and function when everything felt like it was monitored and where we were constantly berated by people whose names I didn’t even know. None of the production staff had ever introduced themselves. The camerapeople were mostly faceless and exchangeable. The make-up people talked over my head. I might as well not exist.
Hence, here I was, scanning the room. People smiling and laughing. Some looked apathetic. Others just sat there, arms crossed over chests. Someone was gesticulating wildly at the edge of my vision. I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying, though; my mind suddenly clouded over.
“Peter.”
I had no idea who was speaking to me, but now I had the camera in my face, with the attached producer pointing at me, like she was trying to prompt me when I had no idea what I was supposed to say.
“Can you look surprised for me? Just give me a reaction, that’s all I need. Anne, can you grab hold of Peter’s arm and act like you’re in shock? Great, just like that. Do it again.”
I’d lost control here and smiled awkwardly, my mouth moving on its own accord. I had no voice here. Not me. Not anymore.
“Have you seen Oliver?” I croaked out, grabbing hold of Anne right back. “I think I need to just…check on him.”
I didn’t need to do anything. I was supposed to just sit here and smile like a puppet. I couldn’t do that. Not anymore.
“Don’t move. Stay just like that,” the producer demanded, gesturing wildly. “Keep talking. Talk. Just talk.”
“You okay?” Anne blurted out, with a strained smile.
Was I okay? No, absolutely not. I wasn’t okay. I was lost and bewildered. I was lonely and confused, and to be honest?
I was just sitting here like a sack of potatoes. And suddenly I couldn’t make sense of anything. Nothing at all. Why the hell was I here anyway?
My eyebrows seemed to knit into a permanent frown, something I had done a lot lately. The headache was creeping in again. I didn’t drink enough water. Oliver was right about that, having told me off about it earlier. Too much tea, he’d said. Not enough water.
Oliver.
There was so much Oliver was right about.
It was like that cloud lifted. My mind seemingly clear, almost violently jerking to life, remembering that I was supposed to talk. Say words. One after the other.
“My wife,” I started, then stopped myself. What was I doing? Apparently this, as madness engulfed me. “My wife used to host the most fabulous dinner parties.”
“Really?” Anne looked exactly as taken aback as I was, spilling reckless words like that. What was I doing? But my eyes were watery and I was just sad. Sad and overwhelmed. “She was a great hostess, and such a good cook. We used to sit down and plan out these elaborate menus and look up recipes together. Have friends round, late into the night. Just sit and talk. Sometimes we played board games, and sometimes we just laughed. It’s all just memories now, though. But they are good memories. Really good ones.”
“Oh, Peter,” Anne said helplessly. At least she looked genuine, well, genuinely concerned.
“She was amazing. Just such… It’s difficult, this. Having to move on. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing here, like this. When she’s not here…” My head was a mess. I was a mess, and this? All this? “She was the rock. I just clung on to her. Wherever she went, whatever she did, I just… I stayed home with the kids because that’s what I did. And I never ever imagined there would be a time when… All this? Nothing makes sense here. I can’t… I really… I can’t.”
I was crying, and I had no idea why. Why my body was reacting the way it did, when I’d managed perfectly well for the past years. I never broke down at work. Never sat around the house moping. I was just a man. I’d lost my wife. She’d died and I’d lived; the world had still turned around me and the boys. Yet here I was, sat at a wobbly table with fake wine, talking bullshit when I should have known better. Known not to let this get to me. This…this complete mockery of humanity. Where I was expected to just, do what? Bend over backwards for these people and do whatever I was told?
