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“Look, you said he is okay with you. Let me worry about me. He's gone,” I say, the fading bruises over his face reminding me why I shouldn't be getting involved with this man, and I know I shouldn't, but I’ve never felt this way. Not ever.
Work and being on set with Georgie keeps me occupied enough that I don't think much about Callan, not until I’m heading home each evening and my heart kicks up because I want him to be there, like before, lying in wait for me. He did say Stalin would be in touch, but that was before I told him I wasn’t interested. Which is a good thing. Nothing good can come from this. I know that. Oscar is adamant about that fact, and he has told me time and time again that Callan will have no qualms about hurting me. I suspect he means physically, but I know differently. That time in his office when he thought he had hurt me showed me that below that dark foreboding exterior is a man who is as misunderstood as I am. I imagine everyone thinks they know Callan as much as they think they know me. The truth is, I’m who they want me to be, not who I am. I suspect it's the same for him, too. It’s not just the attraction. I feel this connection to him, like some force in him recognised the same fibres in me, and it reached out, pulling something from myself until it intertwined. I feel safe, and that's far scarier than any emotion I’ve ever experienced.
I’m checking the video over with Georgie when Oscar saunters in, dressed to the nines in a leather jacket and bespoke loafers. I must look confused, and he shakes his head.
“You forgot, drinks?” he asks. Oh, bugger!
“But she doesn't drink,” Georgie pipes up, his eyes rolling all over the screen and never once finding Oscar’s. He’s avoiding looking at him, and for good reason.
“Yes, well, she is the nought point one percent of the population that doesn’t need to drink to feel even marginally superior,” Oscar jokes.
“Well, if I looked like her, I wouldn’t either,” Georgie laughs. “I love it,” he says, referring to the video we’ve just shot.
“Oh, can I see?” Oscar drops his arse on the desk, and Georgie grabs his laptop, holding it still.
“No, it needs tweaking.” Georgie shuts the lid and stands, grabbing his coat.
“You said you loved it.” Oscar sounds petulant. He flicks a small paper note on the floor, and Georgie huffs, picking it up. I eye my friend over Georgie’s head as he bends to pick the paper up. Oscar holds his hands just short of the guy’s hair and thrusts his hips. I slap his arms, mouthing, ‘Stop it!’
“What’s going on?” Georgie snaps, staring at Oscar.
“Jeez, para much, come on, show me the video, and let me snap a still for Zara’s social media. Her fans will go wild. Everyone will want to know who the elusive Georgie Blare is.”
“They know who I am,” he snaps. “Well, Oscar, it was nice seeing you as always.” I press my lips together, and Oscar winks at the older man. I know for a fact Georgie has got a hard-on for my friend. Oscar, although not fussed about the director’s affections, loves to wind him up.
“Naturally.” He smiles slowly. Georgie goes red up the neck, and I feel sorry for him. Oscar flicks a look at me. “Ready, Z? I have a date unless you’re free?” he asks Georgie, who goes beetroot.
“Goodbye, Zara. Oscar,” Georgie says diplomatically.
“Oh, don't be like that. She knows you bat both ways.” Oscar’s hips rock side to side as he sniggers. Georgie says nothing and air kisses my cheek before packing his laptop away and leaving me to watch Oscar fall all over the desk.
“That was mean.”
“But funny,” he chortles. “Oh, come on, Zara, the guy tried to feel me up once. It’s only fair I make him feel uncomfortable back. Anyway, I’m in a naughty mood, don't piss on my fun.” He winks.
“I need to change. Can we stop by mine?” I say, grabbing my things together. Everyone else is long gone, so just Oscar and I remain in the big space, and the backdrop makes the room seem endless, like a cloud hovering in the background.
“I knew I should have called you this morning.” Oscar tuts.
“In that case, I no longer feel bad, as you should have,” I reply, turning the lights off.
Oscar helps me load things into his car, then we are cruising back to mine.
“I cannot wait to just hit the bars and dance with my favourite girl.” His grin is wide, the twinkle in his eye infectious.
“I give it three hours before you disappear on me,” I say with a chuckle. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d picked up a date and left me. Oscar gives a filthy laugh, which is cut off by the car phone ringing. His shoulders droop as soon as he sees it’s his mother. I give him a small smile and brace myself for when he connects the call.
“He left me!” Her wail fills the car. Oscar’s fingers turn white on the wheel, and I try to ignore how red in the face he is looking. “He… Oh god. He’s gone.” Another wail rolls through the interior, and I bite my lip at the pain in her voice. “I’m going to die alone,” she sobs uncontrollably. There is no denying she is drunk. Her words are slurred and thick. Both Oscar and I have become accustomed to Anita’s meltdowns, but I feel for Oscar, his once confident but spoilt mother has lost herself to the booze. I constantly remind Oscar it’s grief, but his mother refuses to get help, and Oscar is forever picking up the pieces.
“You will not die alone. You have me, mother,” Oscar says softly.
“You hate me!” she stutters.
“I do not hate you. I love you. You’re just lost. I’m coming home. No more drink!”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. I throw my friend a sympathetic look. The call cuts and Oscar gives a deep sigh.
“Let me just go and settle her, then I will pick you up?” he says, not really looking at me. I think he is a little embarrassed about his mother, but he loves her dearly, and this is breaking his heart. I reach over and squeeze his hand. He throws me a wan smile.
