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Make it a rule of life never to regret and never to look back. Regret is an appalling waste of energy; you can’t build on it; it’s only good for wallowing in.
K. Mansfield, Letter
Three days later, I finish a rough draft. Leaving Mrs Norris to flatten the pages on my desk, I take the stairs two at a time to the kitchen.
Cress is teaching Ethan how to make pancakes. They’re wearing matching aprons with golden pears printed on them, and Ethan seems happier perched on a stool watching than participating.
The windows are wide open, easing a slightly charred smell.
I back out and across the marble foyer to the living room, glancing back like it might change facts—
I trip over a lump and tumble to the ground, landing hard on my bum.
Ford is the lump. He’s doing sit-ups on the rug. He laughs like someone falling over him is the funniest thing to have happened all week. His green eyes scrunch at the corners and his ears twitch.
He sits properly and runs a hand through his sweat-slick hair, then picks at his soaked shirt.
“I wasn’t expecting . . . that.” I kneel and rub my bruised arse.
“Maria and Rush wanted to drop by,” is his explanation. So he thought, what? They’d come and find him turning a six-pack to an eight-pack and she’d forget her boyfriend and jump right on his dick?
“Dude,” I say. “She has a boyfriend.”
His eyes glitter. “He likes watching.”
I roll my eyes.
“You’re good friends with her, right?”
I hesitate. Good friends? I think she puts up with me more than anything. We never really had anyone else in class, and she liked me as a pet. Now we’re older . . . Honestly, I’ve seen her more since Ford arrived than I did all last year. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Just conversation. You’re . . . not the easiest to chat to.”
“I’m not easy?”
“You’re wound up tighter than a jack-in-the-box.” He cocks his head and eyes me. “I can’t wait to see you pop free.”
“Nothing about me will be popping free,” I tell him absolutely.
He laughs. “Why, that’s almost a challenge, Finley.”
I ignore that. “I finished a script—”
“Pancakes, pancakes,” Cress singsongs and glides in with a platter on her palm, Ethan behind her with a tray of spreads and whipped cream.
“Come on, Fin,” he says. “Dare you to try one.”
I sling myself onto a dining chair and dig in. Ford, though, is on some kind of intermittent fasting and doesn’t partake.
He comes around the back of my chair and bends close, sourly musky, “Where’s this script then?”
I lean away from him. Around a mouthful of fluffy pancake, I say, “My desk.”
He returns twenty minutes later clutching rolled up papers like a prize above his head. “This is the most fascinating and sordid thing I’ve ever read. I love it.”
I flush. Although . . . sordid?
“It only has three parts, but that should work. Finley should direct it too, and the rest of us will act.”
Three parts?
“I bags playing the dad. He’s a ferociously stubborn character and the most challenging to enact, I think. I’ll enjoy it.”
The dad?
Does he mean the dairy-owner?
“You and Ethan,” —he winks at Cress— “will play the brother and sister.”
My heart pounds hard, ringing in my ears. Ford unrolls the paper, the aged paper, and scans it. “Grey and Alex.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush and my stomach roils.
I shake my head over and over. “That’s the wrong play.”
“Is it? It was in the top drawer of your desk.”
“That one’s nothing. Silly.” I glance at Ethan, whose concerned eyes are tracking my every movement. “I wrote that years ago.”
There’s a note of panic in my voice, and Ethan hears it. He stands. “Should I grab the right one?”
“Oh no!” Ford says, hitting my play against the table like a gavel. “This is it. This has everything. Angst. Heartbreak. Incest. A lover’s declaration.”
I burn. I can’t look at Ethan, but I can imagine him paling.
A great, awkward silence stretches between him and I, and Cress breaks it. “Well, pass it here then.” She leans over and snatches the pages from Ford. “I don’t mind playing an incestuous sister as long as I don’t have to do it with my actual brother.” She shudders and Ford laughs heartily.
“In theatre and erotic short stories, it’s simply wonderful,” Ford says. “Good grief if it happens in real life.”
“Aye, aye.”
“They’re step-siblings,” I say defensively. I don’t say that Alex is meant to be a boy. I don’t want them guessing. I scan over the contents in my head, analysing for clues that might give us away. I hope I changed things up just enough. I think I did. But scratch just a little and it’s obvious.
“It doesn’t say that in the script,” Ford flexes his hands like he wants to break into character right away. “But growing up together like that? Same difference. Anyway, it’s just brilliant, Fin. We should start practicing.”
