‘All right, Hollywood, enough of your Nicholas Sparks shit, come here—’ I take him by the cheeks and slam my lips on his.
Chapter 28
Arthur
‘So … that camera?’ Beatrice flutters her lashes, still breathless, and lips swollen from the kiss.
‘Hang on, that better not have been a bribe,’ I accuse, still high from the taste of her, still revelling in her closeness.
‘No?’ She gives me a teasing side-eye, then pecks me again without warning. Every time she presses her lips to mine, it’s like she wipes my mind clean. Any thoughts, any feelings, anything at all that existed before her evaporates and my senses exist only to consume her.
‘Do you have mics too? How about a boom? Ooo wait, what about one of those clapper boards?’
Her face is animated with wide-eyed joy, a world away from the anguish she wore on it only minutes ago. I’d like to think that kissing me is a good enough temporary fix for her melancholy.
‘One of those will cost you more than a kiss.’ She blushesand smacks me softly on the chest. ‘What do you need a camera for anyway? This gala could mean you won’t have to make the film yourself. That’s if you want to go, of course.’ My panic returns.
‘It’s their story.’ She gestures to the pub. The light glows through the windows as dusk begins to fall and muffled voices meet us on the street outside. ‘I just like the idea of them being able to tell it. Plus, I’d love to see Barbara pretending she’s in a bar brawl.’
‘So, you don’t fancy this then?’ I motion to the tickets. She thinks about it for a moment, a whole spectrum of emotion flooding her face all at once.
‘I’m still mad at you, but a posh do where I get to talk about films with some of the best in the business? I suppose it is a dream come true.’
I can’t help myself, it’s been too long since I kissed her last, so I take her by her cheeks and kiss her again.
The rest of the week carries on in a similar vein. Stolen kisses in the middle of conversation, longing looks across fields, and ghostly touches whenever she passes close by.
April comes and so does the rain. Though we spend all of our time casting, prepping, rewriting, the farm still comes first.
With lambing in full swing, hardly a day goes by without a new birth, or an escapee, so that’s where I find myself now: running across fields in the spring showers trying to get my hands on a slippery lamb. Beatrice flanks the treeline, and I head straight down the middle, all of my extremities frozen, but my body is warmed through bythe exercise, and by Beatrice and the sight of her grappling with the farm’s new pocket of mischief.
The lamb bounds around in circles, mocking us with each dive he manages to dodge. Accepting my fate and landing on my arse in the mud, I take a moment to lean back and absorb the moment.
‘What is it now?’ Beatrice asks with a playful eyeroll as I stop to feel the rain’s quickening droplets on my face.
‘It’s raining,’ I say.
‘Clever boy,’ Beatrice replies, taking a breath to recover from her battle as a thick pearl of rainwater flows over her cheek and streaks through the mud smeared over her freckles. ‘You worried about getting your hair wet? Is that it? We should get you back in at Bruce’s.’
I shudder at the thought. ‘I mean, in the films, rain is always … romantic isn’t it?’ If I didn’t have too much masculine pride, I’d be very tempted to frolic right now.
‘Well, you’re not in the films anymore, my darling, you’re in Lincolnshire. That isn’t just water you’re wiping off your face, I can see the snot too.’ She giggles as I rub harder, face burning. ‘The only thing rain is good for is watering the crops and making your boots soggy for the next week.’
‘Have you always been such a fantasist?’ I roll my eyes and turn from her and try to look busy.
‘One of us has to live in the real world.’ She smiles and tries to wipe the hair away from her face as it clings to it with the moisture, but she only smears more mud onto her cheeks.
‘Come on, kiss me in the rain,’ I proclaim, throwing my arms wide as though ready to burst into song.
Beatrice shakes her head with a shy laugh. ‘You’re such a romantic.’
‘And you’re so miserable,’ I tease, flicking a little mud at her trousers that are already caked thick with the stuff.
‘Me? Never!’ She gives an exaggerated gasp. ‘I think you’ll find that we’re in Lincolnshire now, so I’m not “miserable” I’m “mardy”.’
It’s my turn to shake my head. ‘Come here, mardy arse.’
She concedes and leans over to plant a damp kiss on my lips. Taking advantage of the distraction, I tug her by the coat and she lands beside me with a splash.
