Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Andy’s torso shifts, facing me. He wears an accusing stare. “What’ve you said?”
“I havnae said anything! Been nothing but polite.”
“And he’s not? That doesn’t sound like him.”
“No…he is.” I should leave it here before I prove his suspicions right. “Maybe he’s just, I dunno, reserved.”
“You’re completely different people. And you’re Laurence Cole. Of course he’s reserved around you."
"Aye," I agree, making sure not to sound as disappointed as I feel. Sometimes, it sucks being Laurence Cole. Cain saw me as Laurence Cole. “Right. Well, I’ve got tae get back to set. You need a lift?”
“No thanks, kid. Got a meeting on the Arthur Brownhill floor. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Okay,” I say as he clambers out of the buggy, groaning as he rubs at his hip. “Later, Andy…and thanks for the lecture. Always a pleasure.”
He smacks the top of the buggy once more. “Piss off. Love ya, kid.”
The vibe’s been great on set these last couple of days, and I’m pretty sure we have enough blooper material to fill a double DVD already. Not that anyone even buys DVDs anymore. This morning, we had a journo come by to do some on-set interviews, then we had a table meet to go over a script change, and after tomorrow we lose use of Studio Six, so we’re concentrating solely on wrapping every last element of the butcher shop scenes for the rest of the day.
Mid-afternoon, I head out to the crafties truck rather than ask someone else to pick me something up from the indoor services. It’s nice weather out. Sunny. Lovely start to June. After taking a moment to mull over my choices, I opt for a tuna and mayo jacket spud and a black coffee.
“I don’t know how you drink coffee in this heat,” says a voice behind me as I wait for my order. “Or black, ever.”
I’m already smiling. I know the voice. “You could cut off my oxygen and I’d keep on going, as long as I’ve got black coffee in my veins.” Turning, I see William Walker, his forehead glistening in the summer heat. The dampness has roughed up his hair, leaving the strands sticking up after being combed with his fingers. It suits him, the ruggedness. Complements the sculpted stubble on his jaw. “Although tea is equally important, mind.”
I look away again, just quickly, to take my lunch and thank the server.
Our eyes lock, like during our first dinner. Only William’s begin to widen, as if he’s expecting something from me. I stare deeper, trying to figure him out…until he cocks his head. “I’m kinda hungry. Do you mind?”
I’m in the way. I’m in the fucking way. What an idiot. I step to one side, but I don’t leave. The idea doesn’t even occur to me. “Wanna eat together?” I suggest, after William orders a smoked chicken panini and a can of Sprite.
“Uh, yeah. Okay.” He always sounds so unsure. I wonder if he’s like that with everyone. Or if it’s the Laurence Cole effect.
There’s an outdoor seating area decked with tables and benches, but the weather has drawn an arse to every seat it seems. Instead, we take our food and sit on the grass, choosing a shady spot away from the bustle. For a few minutes, we absorb the silence. It’s peaceful. Refreshing. There’s nothing to concentrate on except the earthy scent of freshly cut grass and the rogue cloud drifting through the otherwise clear sky.
“Looks like my childhood dog,” is how I break the quiet.
I feel William’s stare on my cheek, and I know he’s wearing the unsure expression I’m becoming familiar with.
“The cloud,” I clarify, pointing with my finger. “We had a Westie when I was growing up. Bob. Look, you can see the ears right there. Wee tail sticking out the back.”
“Uh…if you say so.” He sounds amused. I expect silence to resume, but William surprises me. “I always wanted a dog. When I was little, I mean.” There’s a hint of sadness in that statement, a crack of vulnerability in his voice that makes me turn and face him.
“Do you have one now?”
He shakes his head. “Becca, my wife, isn’t a dog person. We have a cat, though. Poppy.”
But you’re a dog person. I don’t say that, of course. It’s not my place. “Man, I had just about every pet going growing up. Drove my parents barmy. Dog, cats, rabbits, guinea pigs, cockatiels. And that was just up in Clydebank.”
“How’d you mean?” William shifts on the grass, his body turning towards mine.
I think we might be having our first real conversation, one that delves beyond the safety of surface level topics such as our shared workplace, or the food we’re eating. “I grew up in Scotland with my mum, but my dad owns a crop farm out in Suffolk.”