Dylan didn’t move.
Murray made an exasperated sound. ‘Once we’re done with Cece, I’ve got to film interviews with all the other women in there. I don’t have anywhere for you to film a friend spot.’
‘Not everything has to be on camera,’ Dylan snapped. ‘I just want to talk to my friend for five fucking seconds. Am I allowed to do that much, or is that forbidden too?’
‘Fine, fine, whatever,’ Murray said, waving a hand. ‘Have it your way.’
For once, it wasn’t the cameras I was overly conscious of as we recorded my interview. ‘Dylan’s already got so much on his plate,’ I parroted obediently, sitting on the steps, trying desperately not to look at the man himself, standing just behind Murray, his left eye still twitching, finger and thumb tapping together so fast it was almost a blur. ‘He needs to focus on the women in the Villa, not drama in the Convent.’
We got it in three takes. Murray and the crew packed up and headed inside. The French doors clattered shut behind them. Dylan and I were alone.
For a long time, we were both silent.
Then, ‘Fuck,’ Dylan said, kicking at the grass. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,fuck.’
‘Fuck?’ I asked.
That drew a shadow of a smile. ‘Fuck,’ he agreed.
He sank down on the step beside me. ‘I am so, so, so sorry, Cece,’ he said. ‘If I thought it would end up like this, I never would have agreed when Murray suggested you come in for the group date.’
‘How could you have known?’ I said. ‘Your ridiculous love machine date ending up with me getting slapped is some real butterfly-flaps-its-wings shit.’
He made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh.
‘They were ridiculous,’ I said, nudging him with my elbow. ‘The love machines. Whose idea was that?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Not mine. I’m just their puppet. I stand where they tell me, smile when they tell me, kiss who they tell me. Do whatever they say.’
He balled his hand into a fist, smacking it a few times against the side of the railing in frustration. ‘I owe you a huge apology.’
‘You just apologised,’ I said. ‘Literally ten seconds ago.’
‘Not for that,’ he said. ‘Although I’m so sorry for that, and—fuck, Cece, are you going to be okay? Living here with her?’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ I said. ‘Ninety-nine per cent tough exoskeleton, remember? I’ll be all right. If anything, thisweirdly might have made things better for me here. Everyone’s got someone new to hate.’
‘What?’ he said sharply, turning and looking at me. ‘Why would people hate you?’
‘Because…’
He figured it out before I had to say it. ‘Because of me,’ he said heavily. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? They hate you because of me. Fuck.Fuck.How am I fucking this up so badly?’
‘You haven’t fucked up,’ I said. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong, Dylan. Plus, I was exaggerating. They don’t hate me. They’re just a little jealous. Nothing I can’t handle.’
‘You shouldn’t have to handle it!’ he exploded. ‘You shouldn’t have to handle any of this! You’re getting hurt because of me, and I can’t even go in there and defend you!’ He buried his face in his hands. ‘Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.’
Tentatively, I reached out and patted him gently on the back, just above his shoulder blade. ‘I don’t need you to defend me,’ I said softly. ‘I’m a big girl. I’m tough.’
‘You shouldn’t have to lie for me, though,’ he said, voice muffled. ‘You shouldn’t have to sit here and bald-faced lie to the camera to explain why I’m not doing anything about someone that hurt you.’
He swore into his hands one more time, then sat up straight. ‘That’s what I want to apologise for,’ he said. ‘I owe you an explanation.’
‘You don’t owe me anything.’
‘Yes. I do.’
He took a deep breath. ‘Did you know who I was?’ he asked. ‘Before you came here?’
