“Shhhh!” I screeched, reaching for the handle, only for a hand to slam the door back shut.
“George!” she said again, blocking my way. Staring at me with intensity.
Gina. Gina DeSanto. Her hair all perfect and her make-up on point. Dress on. Stupid coverall on top.
She still made me blush. And freak out, just a little, because I was still me and she was the darling of the nation, and the girl every man wanted to fuck.
Apart from me. And the other gay guys in the world. Maybe.
“I’ve tried to ring you all day, and you don’t fucking pick up. Enough.”
“Sorry,” I yapped out, fishing my phone out of my pocket. “It’s been one hell of a day.” And…what?
“Tell me about it.” She rolled her eyes. “Listen. Saying this to your face without anything to back me up. If anyone asks? I haven’t seen you all day, and we never spoke. But you need to act now. You need to get Oliver out of here, pronto. He’s not built for this, and he’s spiralling badly. I sat down with him for an hour this morning trying to make sense of him, and he’s not doing well. We either have an emergency on our hands, and I am talking minutes here. Or you get him home, with someone he trusts. We have emergency contacts, don’t we?”
“I have no control…” I started as she slapped her hand in the middle of my chest.
“It says Manager on the call sheet, doesn’t it? I don’t care if you’re the piss-up manager or the toilet attendant or who the hell you think you are, George, but…you fix this. Now. I don’t want to find Oliver on my schedule tomorrow. And for heaven’s sake, leave Peter Fenton alone.”
I didn’t know if it was the fact that her face was in my face, or that she was Gina, or if I’d just at that point had about enough. Enough of the day, enough of this shitty job and enough of…just about everything.
“Peter Fenton is not coming back. Over my dead body,” I breathed in her face.
“You’d better not be lying.”
“I brought him in. I allowed him out. Bringing him on the show was a massive oversight on my behalf, and I have to own that. I thought hewas…”
“He wasn’t.” Her voice was low and stern. Like we now finally spoke the same language. The relief in me was immense. I’d finally shared something that had needed to be said out loud, and I’d admitted to it. Actually owned it.
“Oliver needs out now. Not in an hour. Not tomorrow. He needs out. Go get him. I’ll get security to call him a taxi, but he needs to go to someone. With someone. I don’t have access to those files, but you do. Fix it.”
“I’m on it,” I said.
I felt lighter. Terrified, but shit. Yes. She was absolutely right, and I had sat in on a meeting with the mental health team earlier, and things had been voiced, and it was on my notes but…
Crap. How many other things was I slipping on? What was I allowing to happen here? And I still didn’t deserve the title on that call sheet.
The fear was real, and I knew it was there.
Someone would have to take the fall when this entire production came tumbling down. That person?
It would be me. Obviously.
“Oliver,” I demanded in a hushed voice, as I tiptoed behind the cameras and grabbed some other lowlife who looked like he worked here.
“No, I’m Kenny,” he said.
“I need Oliver. Where is he?”
“Four, they’re filming him pack.”
“Good.” I nodded, tripping on a cable and just about managing to hold myself upright before I lost my glasses and my balance all in one go.Calm the fuck down.
I didn’t bother knocking, instead walking straight into the scene where someone else – why did I not know anyone’s name around here? Someother poor person who’d probably started yesterday and would get fired tomorrow.
I almost laughed at my own joke. I was losing it. Fast.
“Get out!” someone hissed. I did nothing, just let the door fall shut behind me, ripping the headphones away from around my neck.
