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“You staying then? Your clothes are drying in the bathroom, by the way. And you left your bag next to the sofa.”
I meant it as a joke. Truly. Perhaps with a very small bit of flirting in there. His fault. He’d started it.
“Would that be OK?”
“Yeah, yeah, all right. But no stealing all the pillows.”
“Sorry!” He smiled.
FML.
“I could do with a shower. Sorry about your clothes. I get picked up at seven tomorrow, so I’ll be out of your hair early.”
“I leave at six-fifteen.”
“Cool. I still have your key. I’ll lock up when I go.”
“Fine, keep hold of it.”
Keep hold of it?
I wasn’t sure if I was head over heels in love with him or…
This wasn’t what it looked like. I knew that.
And now he was staying over. In my bed.
In my bed.
With his obscene flowers and twatty smoothie and bloody macrobiotic cereal.
I secretly loved that he’d brought me gifts.
Like it was a date. This was not a date.
It was an apology. Not a gift. Not a date.
And now he was staying.
I hated my life.
Fuck him.
The shower started running, which could only mean one thing. Con Telford was once again naked in my shower.
Which meant there was only one thing left to be done.
I faceplanted myself onto my bed and screamed into a pillow. Silently, of course.
Con
“Hey,Aisha!”
It was nine in the morning, and I was back in the hair and make-up trailer having my face transformed into Cass Powell post car crash but with some bruising this time. We were jumping the timeline again, and Aisha was delivering the freshly rehashed script with line changes that would not trip me up today. I was on form. Three croissants sat comfortably in my stomach, and I’d had a good night’s sleep—despite that sleep being only a few hours.
“Hey, flower man. Did your…MUMlove her flowers?”
I hated her. Truly. I should probably exercise my powers as an important member of the talent and demand to have her moved to a different production, but I wasn’t an arsehole. I was a nice guy.
