I started rearranging the cushions instead. ‘I sent the PAs to get them.’
‘Multiple PAs? To carry one box of tealights?’
‘And some other things.’
She didn’t need to say anything. The quirk of her eyebrow, the twitch of her lips, said it all.
‘They were underfoot,’ I said defensively.
‘Tell me—’ she cut a wedge out of some camembert, draping some purple grapes next to it, ‘—how many hours of sleep have you had in the last two days?’
I switched a red cushion with a blue one.
‘And when was the last time you actually ate something off a plate?’
I stood back and regarded the trellis. I’d been right to make Tim and Tom get more fairy lights. There weren’t enough.
‘Murray!’
‘It has to be right!’
‘What has to be right? This date? Because if you’re still on that girl-Dylan-is-going-to-win train…’
‘Everything has to be right.’
‘Sit down.’
‘I don’t have time.’
‘Sit down.’
I sank down on the couch. My eye was going again. I jammed the heel of my hand into it.
Lily got up, her eggplant skirts swishing around her heels. ‘Head forward.’
I obeyed. She came around behind me and dug her thumbs into my occipital muscles, the ones at the base of my skull.
‘Head back.’
I tipped my head back, closing my eyes and leaning into her thumbs, the way I’d done a thousand times before, ever since theDesert Island Castawayphysio had taught us this trick a decade ago. She found the pressure points and pushed, hard.
Gradually, the twitch in my eye slowed. Slowed further.
Stopped.
‘Better?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘You know this is only a quick fix. You need to drink more water. Less coffee. Take magnesium. And you need to delegate.’
‘I do delegate.’
‘I don’t care how few crew you have. There is no universe where the showrunner should be doing the PAs’ job.’
‘They were fucking it up.’
‘I refuse to believe that you hired anyone for this season who wasn’t experienced and competent.’ She dug one of her thumbs in harder to punctuate her point. ‘They would have figured it out.’
