Chapter 12
Max
It’s all fake. That wasn’t a real proposal.
I have to keep reminding myself, because it’s been three days and I still haven’t come down from that high.
I used to think that public proposals were kind of tacky, but now I get it.
My crazy impulse was completely legitimised by the roar of the crowd.
If they bought our love, why won’t everyone?
I didn’t plan on giving Hunter my mum’s ring. I saw myself slipping it off my finger before I knew what I was doing. But in that moment it felt right. I felt my mum shaking her head and grinning at me in approval.
And yet, when I look back on that night, the proposal isn’t the part I remember most vividly.
How could it be after sitting through that performance?
Hunter stood up there and tore his heart out.
I now understand what he meant when he said that acting is about telling the truth.
As he sang about wanting someone to hold him close, it felt like it was coming from deep within.
Except it wasn’t, was it? That was acting, just like the moment he looked me in the eye and accepted my proposal.
Just because I felt that spark again doesn’t mean it was anything other than the latest acclaimed Hunter Moretti performance.
I mustn’t let myself get caught up in the emotion.
It’s all fake.
It’s all fake.
It’s all fake.
Except that today is the day it becomes all too real. My bags are packed and I’m in a taxi with Mr Peanut on the way to move in with my fiancé.
It feels insane to say that. The past few days have gone by in a flash.
The morning after the proposal, Hunter got in touch to check that I actually meant what I’d done.
I didn’t hesitate. It’s not that I haven’t thought about all the ways this could go wrong or generally be a bad idea.
I’m not completely delusional. But all I have to do is go back to that moment in the greenhouse with Wrettham and Quentin when I realised that if I want to have a shot at this job, I need to take drastic action.
Yes, it’s an extreme thing to do to get a job, but knowing that Hunter is prepared to go to the same lengths for his career makes me feel better.
From what I know of him, he’s not someone who takes anything lightly.
And no, we might not be a pair who would get married in real life, but in a way, that makes everything easier.
There’s no chance any lines will get blurred.
This is a strictly professional arrangement.
Living with the person you’re marrying turns out to be an essential step to getting a visa approved, and it rapidly became clear that Hunter had more space to accommodate me than vice versa.
Luckily, my landlord had me on such an insecure contract that I was able to give up my room with very little notice and only lose a few hundred pounds of rent.
The polyamorous furniture restorers were surprisingly sad when I told them I was leaving.
I don’t think they had any affection for me, but they quite liked Mr Peanut.
Terrifying how fast that place can go from being the centre of my life to somewhere I’ll never see again.
The taxi pulls off the main road onto one of the most beautiful squares I’ve ever seen.
I double-check the address – yep, this is where Hunter told me to come.
I’ve always dreamed about living somewhere this beautiful.
No house I’ve ever lived in has been beyond average at best. From the terrace in Surrey where I grew up to the dingy flatshare in Manchester where I studied for university to the various horrible rentals in London I survived before landing on the windowless room, I’m not sure there’s been a single angle that would make for a flattering Instagram shot.
But it looks like that’s about to change.
Hunter’s house is the biggest of them all, a double-fronted red-brick mansion with multiple wrought-iron balconies filled with pot plants and its own private courtyard in front. Hunter told me he lived with Doily, but he didn’t say she lived here.
‘Mr Peanut,’ I say, ‘I’ve got a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.’
As the taxi pulls up, I text Hunter to tell him we’re here.
‘We?’ he replies.
A few moments later, a side door swings open and Hunter steps out. He’s dressed casually, light slacks and a navy T-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower, his eyes as piercing as ever. Mr Peanut bounds up to him. Hunter’s expression darkens.
‘You have a dog.’
Shit. How could I have forgotten to mention Mr Peanut? There’s been so much to organise, I somehow just assumed Hunter knew about him.
‘Yeah, did I not—’
‘No,’ says Hunter. ‘You did not. I didn’t clear this with Doily.’
Mr Peanut is attempting to clamber up Hunter’s legs and lick his face.
‘Aww, I think he likes you,’ I say with a grin.
‘Down!’ Hunter snaps at Mr Peanut.
Mr Peanut isn’t bothered, but my hackles go up.
‘Don’t shout at him!’
‘I didn’t shout. I gave a command.’
‘He doesn’t know that one.’
Hunter stares at me. ‘He doesn’t know Down?’
I can’t help but be personally offended. Hunter folds his arms and I do my best to restrain Mr Peanut.
‘You shouldn’t let him jump up like that,’ Hunter insists.
‘He’s saying hello!’
‘Have you thought about teaching him to say it politely?’
I’m not used to this reaction. Most people act as if Mr Peanut is the cutest thing they’ve ever seen.
‘If you don’t like dogs, just say that.’
‘I do like dogs,’ says Hunter. ‘I’ve fostered dogs. First thing I learned is that discipline is a form of kindness.’
I hate being lectured, but there’s something undeniably noble about fostering dogs, damn him. I need to reel it in. It must be a shock to invite a stranger to move into your home and end up with a dog as well.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I completely forgot. This has all happened so fast.’
Hunter takes me in.
‘Is that all you’ve got?’ he says, pointing at my suitcase.
‘Yeah. I’ve been kicked out of so many rentals that I learned to pack light.’
As I look at Hunter, I feel like he must understand. He’s an immigrant. Surely he knows that feeling of being shunted from place to place across an unforgiving city? But if he does, he’s not in the mood to bond over it. He gives me a weary look.
‘Follow me.’
The house is no less impressive on the inside.
The hallway is vast and echoing, sunbeams from a fanlight spilling across a tiled floor.
High above, a dusty chandelier dangles precariously.
The walls are lined with faded silk panels and a scattering of framed playbills and oil portraits.
There are piles of unopened post on a side table.
Hunter leads me down to the basement flat where he lives.
Unlike the rambling splendour of upstairs, it’s calm, spare, and tidy, only a few carefully chosen paintings on its white walls.
He points out his bedroom but keeps the door closed.
My room is small but does the job. There’s a bed and a few dusty moving boxes stacked in one corner, next to a yoga mat and a folded drying rack.
A lopsided bookshelf holds some stray paperbacks.
It’s clearly been used as a spillover room, but there’s a quiet charm to it.
As Hunter shows me the bathroom, I catch my breath. We’re going to be sharing. Sure, we’re unlikely to be in there at the same time, but it’s a kind of intimacy I hadn’t considered. Hunter, however, is already striding past it.
The living room is large but minimalist: a few books neatly stacked on a low shelf, an upright piano tucked into one corner.
Hunter gets out a stainless steel Moka pot and packs coffee into it like he’s storing rations.
There’s so much to say that I don’t know where to start, but Hunter seems more than happy to stay in the silence.
I listen as the pot goes through the motions, from a slowly growing hiss to an unruly gurgling.
Hunter pours us each a cup, then takes a seat opposite me at the kitchen table.
‘I’m really sorry about Mr Peanut,’ I say. ‘I don’t know how I forgot.’
Hunter frowns. ‘You sure you didn’t choose to forget because you were scared it was a deal-breaker?’
‘No!’ I exclaim. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’
Would I do that? I hope not. Thankfully, Hunter is over it.
‘It’s OK. I just don’t want Doily to think I’m taking advantage.’
He looks pained at the suggestion.
‘What are you going to tell her?’
‘About what?’
‘Us.’
‘I already told her.’
My eyes widen.
‘I can’t lie to her, Max. Anyway, you spoke to her on the phone last week. You think she’d buy us meeting and moving in together and getting engaged this fast? Even four months is hard to believe.’
I’m reeling at the thought that someone else has been brought in so casually on this deception. ‘What did she say?’
‘She was thrilled. She’s looking forward to meeting you. So are my friends.’
‘Hang on a minute, who else have you told?!’
Hunter explains that two of his friends have been aware of everything from the start. He promises that’s it. He reveals that footage of my proposal has been shared by a few people online, but says he’s brushed off everyone’s enquiries. He asks me who I’ve told.
I stare at him. ‘No one!’
Hunter sits up in surprise. ‘You got engaged and you’ve told no one?’
‘I . . . no. I was waiting until we’d spoken. I can’t believe you’ve told three people what we’re doing.’
‘Like I said, we shouldn’t lie unless we have to.’
‘I don’t think we should tell the truth unless we have to.’
‘Wait,’ says Hunter. ‘Are you seriously telling me there’s no one you’re planning to be honest with?’