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“FollowWhite Noiseproduction on Insta. Someone posts daily set updates. You would think your boyfriend would tell you these things. They had to dash to Norfolk today to reshoot something, and the weather is closing in up there, so. Yeah. Your boyfriend is in Norfolk for the week. With all his clothes. And you have egg on your face because he’s probably on some kind of NDA ban and can’t use his phone. Not even to text you. Or something.”
“Ollie,” I whined.
“Conny is a nice bloke. And bonus points for the shagging. Kudos. He’s, like, mega famous.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” Ollie replied smugly but with a smile. “You need to ring your Conny and get him to come over for lunch on Sunday. I’ve kind of told everyone he’ll come. I’m the one who’ll have egg on my face if he doesn’t.”
I flailed, tried to breathe. In and out. It wasn’t relief flowing through me, it was need. Desperate, stupid need just to hear his voice.
I slammed the phone down on Ollie and rang Con. Voicemail again. I hoped Ollie was right about the NDA ban.
I attempted some work. Ironed my shirt. Tried to remember what I’d done with my time pre-Con. I had no idea.
I put on the TV and loaded upWhite Noise. Season five.
It hurt listening to him because it wasn’t him. I barely recognised the man on the screen because my Conny didn’t speak like that. The intonation was wrong. The words were different. Even his breathing seemed to come from someone else, and there was definitely something wrong with me because suddenly I hurled the remote control across the room, screaming at the frozen picture on my TV of some woman gasping as Detective Cass Powell cupped her breasts.
Everything was wrong.
I had a shower. Tried not to cry. Wondered how I’d ever got myself into this mess. In this state, I doubted I’d be able to stand in front of my form group in the morning.
I was scared. Terrified. I didn’t want to believe anything my head was telling me. In desperation, I looked up theWhite NoiseInsta account, and there he was, looking pissed off and tired. If I’d been in his shoes…
Fuck.
I went to bed and lay there, pathetically awake, watching the headlights of passing cars flit across the ceiling.
I hadn’t cried. Yet.
My phone was silent, mocking me with that screen void of notifications. I hated that I was like this. Needy and possessive. Overbearing. I looked up that photo again, his face stern, his stubble noticeable. I wished he was here with me.
He wasn’t, though.
I almost fell off the bed when my phone lit up.
Incoming call. Unknown number.
“Hello?” I answered in a shaky voice.
“Matt?”
“Yeah.”
We were both silent for a moment. My heart was racing.
“Sorry. I was going to ring you, but today turned out to be an absolute shitshow.”
“OK?” God. What was I supposed to say?
“Are you OK?”
Was I OK? No. I was not, but I nodded into the receiver. Pointlessly. His voice was coming from a blank screen.
“I’d completely forgotten to check my phone, and then my driver was outside the hotel this morning, and I had to pack in a hurry, and then I spent the entire car trip up here memorising a brand-new script. I didn’t want to disturb you when you were working, and by the time you weren’t, I couldn’t find my phone. I think it’s locked in the hair and make-up trailer, and I’m in a hotel by the beach and it’s raining like crazy, and I miss you.”
NowI wanted to cry. All the awful feelings from today came crashing down like a hailstorm. I clung to the phone and tried to speak, but I couldn’t.
