AllFreeNovel
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It’s probably pointless, but I do it anyway, skimming over exact details that aren’t mine to share. Like I did with my mum back home, I fill Andy in on the basis of William and Rebecca’s marriage, of how he loves her without being in love. I gloss over his childhood, his abusive and homophobic father. I reel off the moments we’ve shared together, excluding the sexual specifics, explain how I watched William discover himself before my eyes. How magical it was, seeing him flourish. And I tell him how real it was.
For both of us.
“He was so ready, Andy. It will never make sense to me.”
Once again, Andy’s hand finds mine on the bed, only instead of holding it he simply pats it. “Love, eh. Such a simple emotion. Pure. Honest. It’s the people who feel it that are complicated. Sounds like he could have bottled it. Got scared. Twenty years is a long time.”
“I don’t believe it. Which means, what? I’m stuck living the rest of my life in some kind of limbo? Always wondering what happened?” As I say it, I feel the hurt in my chest turn to anger.
Why, William? Don’t I deserve to know that much, at least?
“Maybe,” he says, sighing. “The only advice this old coot’s got for you is to throw yourself into work. Finish up the week, get this film out the way, and maybe take a holiday. Heartbreak…well, it’s like grief, isn’t it. It fades. Never leaves, but it fades. I’m sorry, lad.”
He needn’t be. I never expected him to have a solution. Bar William bursting through my hotel door, there isn’t one. This time, I pat Andy’s hand. “Cheers, Andy. And sorry about last night.”
“Apology accepted. However, I’m taking your wallet today, just in case.”
A snort of laughter escapes my nose. “Understood.”
Five days later…
The movie is officially wrapped, and I wish I could forget it for the rest of my life. Unfortunately, I’ll be given a few months while it’s in post-production, all the while hoping I don’t get recalled for reshoots, and then I’ll be thrust back into its world again for promo and premiers. I’m dreading it already. Watching it on the big screen, talking about it at junkets, seeing stills on posters, will only remind me of the greatest thing I ever had…and lost.
For this very moment, though, I will not think about it. I’ve considered Andy’s advice about taking a holiday but travelling alone doesn’t sound particularly fun. I thought about heading to my mum’s, letting it all out to her, as she said, but I’m in no hurry to cry anymore, either. I’ve felt everything from sadness to anger to downright despair…and I’m exhausted. So, after choosing to skip the wrap party, I’m flying to London. I’m going back to my house where I haven’t stayed for any real length of time in over a year, and I plan to simply…live. Be. Potter. Cook. Shop. Maybe plant some things. Find a way to think of William as someone I used to know. Find myself, perhaps.
Decide what I’m going to fill the pages with.
Chapter Seventeen
William
Two weeks ago…
By the time I reach the hospital after nipping home to drop my bags and pick up the van, my wife is getting ready to come home. She’s fallen from the bloody loft, broken her leg and damaged her back and they’re not even keeping her in overnight. I start pacing the cubicle they’ve put her in, angrily walking the three steps of space, up, down, repeat. “What if I take you home and you end up paralysed? It’s all down to money, you know. Budget cuts and shit.”
“Will, calm down,” Becca says from the bed. “And stop pacing. They’re sending me home because I’m fine.”
I stop in my tracks, glaring at her. “You’ve got a herniated disc, Becs! That’s not fine.”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. The doctor explained it. With some painkillers and rest, it’ll sort itself out. My leg’s bothering me more than anything,” she says, nodding toward the bulky cast extending from her calf to her toes. “And even that’s what he called a hairline fracture that should heal quite easily.” She stretches her arm, holds her hand in the air for me to take, which I do. “I’m fine, Will. Really.”
“Well, you don’t look fine to me.” She looks dreadful in fact. Puffy eyes. Bruised arms. “And what the hell were you even doing up there?”
The way she lets go of my hand and starts smoothing out wrinkles that don’t exist in the faded hospital gown she’s wearing, makes me realise exactly what she was doing.
“Not the flaming records, Becs. Please tell me you weren’t up there for my bloody father.”
“Shush, Will,” she says, pointing at the flimsy curtain that separates us from the rest of the ward. “You’ll cause a scene.”
