Chapter 22 #2
Choosing to hold her just a little longer, I take a moment to savour our proximity.
Her face isn’t Hollywood, it’s human in its most beautiful form.
Her dark hair doesn’t sit smooth to her head.
Sprigs of it jut from the roots that she grips tightly when she works, as though trying to pull the thoughts straight from her mind when they’re too stubborn to come.
Her skin creases in a ghostly pattern of previous expression, the line between her brow that deepens when she’s thinking, or the fireworks around her eyes that are set alight when something goes her way and as much as she tries to hide her emotion, they give away her happiness every single time.
I don’t try and stop myself as I lift my finger and thumb to stroke the corner of her mouth that she has pulled into her teeth and absently gnaws at.
She is the only person I know who allows herself to wear her thoughts on her face, as though each feature works like a cog in a machine to come together in her minute habits to produce something sublime.
‘Come with me.’ My words make her blink, once, twice, thrice as she stands in my arms, stunned.
‘What?’ When my request came out the first time, my thoughts, my deliberations hadn’t yet had chance to catch up. But when I repeat it again, there is no ounce of hesitation in my voice. ‘No, I can’t.’ That horrible look of anxiety clouds her face again.
‘You know this story, this script, as much as, if not more, than me. There is no one more perfect to pitch it.’ She draws herself out of my hold and twists her fingers through those wild strands. ‘I need you.’
‘But this is your thing,’ she murmurs. ‘Like your family and stuff. And I’ve got to look after the farm.’
‘We’ll be gone for twenty-four hours tops.
’ Her left cheek is chewed mercilessly as she looks between me and the car.
‘And I wouldn’t have done any of this without you.
I can’t do any of this alone. And I don’t think I want to do any more of it unless you’re by my side.
’ The fireworks ripple around her lashes and I relax into my smile.
Beatrice takes a breath as though about to say something, presses her lips together to stop the words from coming, then practically skips around the car to the passenger seat with a blinding grin. ‘You need me.’ The words are bold as they sound from behind her smile.
‘Don’t be getting big-headed now. The last thing I need is a diva.’ I roll my eyes but I feel my heartbeat in my cheeks with the intensity that I return her smile.
‘You need me,’ she repeats with emphasis. ‘As an assistant of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘You need me.’ Ducking into the car, she slams the door behind her before she hears my reply. All I can do is shake my head.
‘I do.’ Opening the door, I climb in beside her and for the first time in weeks, we leave New York.
Though the roads are filled with potholes and my grandmother’s car takes them as though it has no suspension at all, the constant jostling sends Beatrice to sleep in minutes.
The radio accompanies her soft snores that fog up the small patch of window that she rests her head on with each exhausted exhalation.
My driving mirrors that of an anxious old man.
I don’t brake harshly, don’t accelerate, and I try and keep the journey as smooth as possible.
Though it is taking longer than I hoped for, and I usually hate driving alone in such quiet, there’s a comfort to being beside her.
Knowing that she’s comfortable, knowing that whilst her eyes are closed and she drools from the side of her mouth she isn’t annoyed with me or wishing I was out of her hair.
‘A dribbler and a snorer, sexy,’ are the first words she hears from me as she tries to peel open her bleary lids. I can’t quite tell if her eyes are narrowed towards me, or she’s squinting against the sudden brightness of day. Either way, her expression gives me a chuckle.
‘Shove off,’ she replies in a hoarse voice, as though she’s slept for a week as opposed to the couple of hours we’ve been trundling down the dual carriageway. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night.’
‘No?’ I enquire as she rubs her eyes with the heel of her palm.
‘I was too anxious, up all night thinking about what could go wrong at the meeting.’ She points to my bottle of water in the cup holder. ‘You mind?’
‘Go ahead. I reckon you must be dehydrated with the amount of saliva you’ve covered the car with.’ She snatches the bottle with another narrowed look, and gulps it down. ‘So what’s changed? How come you’re not too anxious to sleep now?’
‘Because it’s no longer all resting on you.
’ Though still clearly sleepy, she still manages to tease me with a side-eye and a smirk.
‘Being around you always makes me tired.’ She is serious for a second but she quickly catches herself.
‘Perhaps it’s a defence mechanism against all of your bullshit. ’
‘I usually have that effect on women.’ A song floats through the radio softly and I turn it up to fill the space between us.
It’s a melody I haven’t heard for years, one that is so distinctly wrapped up with memories of my father singing it to me as a child.
Hearing him sing was rare. Thinking back now, I believe it was because he was self-conscious of his voice so he’d wait until he thought we were sleeping before he’d start.
I never was asleep. I’d pretend just to hear the gruff cadence of his song.
It’s the one thing he isn’t perfect at. He often slipped out of tune, but that didn’t bother me.
He was just a dad in those small moments; he wasn’t a star.
Beatrice sings softly beside me. Quietly, shyly, but in such a way that it seems impossible for her to listen in silence.
She has a similar self-conscious timbre, though her voice is delicate, peaceful, like the unobtrusive peal of a wind chime in a light breeze.
I don’t think I’ve known her to do anything delicately, I don’t think I’d want her to, except sing, of course.
‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ Her bluntness returns as the song finishes and she watches me with a burning gaze.
‘Do you think I’d have kissed you if I did?’ My returning question makes her firmness falter for a second until she regains her composure.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know how … loose your morals are. I’m not na?ve. I know what goes on in Hollywood.’ Unable to look at me as she speaks, she instead angles herself towards the window and pretends she’s looking at the view.
‘And what might that be?’ I ask, intrigued.
‘You know, all the weird sex stuff and like sharing spouses and stuff.’ If I had been drinking anything in this moment, it would have ended up all over the windscreen. ‘What?’ Beatrice adds innocently, looking back at me as I crack up in the driver’s seat.
‘I think you’ve been watching too many films, or reading too many conspiracy theories.’ I shake my head, still smiling. ‘I have never been a part of anything like that. And, I don’t have a girlfriend.’
‘Good,’ is her simple reply, and I mentally kick myself for not asking her to clarify which part she was responding to before she changes the subject.