Chapter 27
Hunter
I had to get him out of there. What was the point of sharing a bed for a week to bond us if he’s going to ruin it with a performance like that?
That boy has made progress, but he slips into old habits far too easily.
We gather up our belongings and shuffle through the train.
As soon as we’re in the next carriage, I turn to Max with a frantic look.
‘What the hell were you doing back there?’
‘What do you think I was doing? Trying to make us look like a couple.’
‘By pretending I have cold sores and anal fissures?’
‘Yes! Do you not think Flora would bring Quentin’s medication on a trip if he needed it?’
‘That’s not the point. Literally no one asked.’
Max gives me a sheepish look. ‘I just feel like such a fraud next to them.’
My heart floods with sympathy. ‘I don’t know a single real-life couple who travels like those two. If anything, Quentin and Flora are the ones putting on a performance.’
Max looks surprised by this. I forget how inexperienced he is in relationships.
‘Look,’ I say, ‘I know it’s nerve-wracking to be on show. But I thought we agreed we wouldn’t lie unless we had to.’
Max glances away, embarrassed. ‘I told you, they make me feel inferior.’
‘I don’t think that’s it.’
Max frowns.
‘Trust me,’ I say. ‘Our real-life relationship is a lot more authentic than whatever you were doing back there. I think you’re just used to performing around these people.’
Max looks like he’s received a bullet wound to the head. But sometimes people need to hear the truth, plain and simple.
‘You’re not going to convince anyone this weekend with lies,’ I say. ‘I think we make a pretty convincing couple as we are.’
As I look at him, my mind drifts back to this morning in bed. Could Max tell I was awake? I was so close to acting on my impulses, but how can I do that when it was me who suggested that we shouldn’t have sex?
I think Max and I can agree that particular experiment has failed.
We’re incapable of being friends who cuddle in bed.
It’s clear we both want something more to happen.
But I’m scared of where that would leave us.
Scared of how we would come back from that.
There’s no good answer – except for the fact that the tension between us is so electric, so charged with unspoken desire, that there’s plenty of material for Max to use without having to make anything up.
I lead him through the train to find some new seats.
We’re passing through the next carriage when I catch sight of a middle-aged man dressed in a velvet jacket and cravat, snootily observing a woman seated opposite him reading a tabloid newspaper.
He’s so busy judging that he doesn’t notice me. But I know exactly who he is.
That’s Gerald Pope.
He’s one of Doily’s clients, a wannabe Shakespearean who ended up doing walk-on parts in soaps and commercials and now he’s bitter.
He must be going to the opera festival, which is exactly the kind of high-minded thing he’d do at the weekend.
I quicken my pace until we reach the final carriage, which is almost empty. We take some seats.
‘What was that about?’ Max asks.
‘What?’
‘Back there . . . there was someone you didn’t want to see.’
Sometimes this guy notices more than I give him credit for.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Gerald Pope, one of Doily’s clients. He’s the worst.’
‘Wait, isn’t he the one who auditioned with the animatronic rat?’
‘No, that’s another Gerald. Doily has a thing for them.’
‘A what? A thing for Geralds?’
‘Yeah. She thinks they have an inherently tragic quality. She’s got about twelve on her books. Some of them are lovely. But Gerald Pope . . .’ I shudder. ‘He’s everything I hate about actors. I’m terrified that will be me one day.’
We’re interrupted as an attendant comes along with a snack cart and makes an uninspired attempt to sell us her last KitKat. I’m hoping that Max will drop this line of questioning, but once the cart has passed, I see that he’s looking at me with curiosity.
‘Why did you come to London?’ Max asks.
I’m surprised at the question. ‘For my acting career.’
‘Yeah, but you had a career in New York. You left right after your big break. You turned down a role on Broadway.’
I look alarmed. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Broadway_Baby_86.’
‘Who?’
‘There’s this forum—’
‘Max!’
‘I was curious.’
I can hardly be mad at him for googling me. This was going to come up eventually. I look out the window for a moment, then turn back.
‘I was dating the director. When I got all that attention for Grease, he couldn’t cope. It killed him. Not that he would ever admit it.’
I pause. These memories are painful, but it’s time for Max to hear this.
‘I was so desperate not to let it ruin us that in the end, I did the only thing I could think of. I gave up the role. I honestly thought it would save our relationship. But because he hadn’t been honest with me, I couldn’t tell him why I’d done it.
He definitely couldn’t tell me how grateful he was.
And then our relationship was built on a whole pack of lies.
It was doomed. After that, I promised myself two things.
I would never lie in a relationship again.
And I would never, ever put a man ahead of my career. ’
Max swallows hard. Does he think I’m talking about him? Am I talking about him? Are we not letting our relationship progress because we both know that ultimately, we’re not prepared to give up our dream careers? I’m no longer sure. Everything about Max is one big question mark.
‘I’m so sorry that happened to you,’ says Max. ‘He punished you for shining.’
I’m momentarily speechless. Whenever I tell this story, people’s reactions focus on Rafferty.
Thiago announced that he wanted to punch him in the face, then stood up and jumped around like a boxer.
That felt good at the time. But nothing has hit me like Max’s words.
That’s precisely what Rafferty did to me.
‘Thanks,’ I say, hearing my voice quiver.
‘How long ago was this?’ Max asks.
‘A few years now.’
‘So you were young. In a new city. You must have felt so alone.’
I nod at Max. ‘I did.’
Why is this such a revelation? My therapist must have said similar things to me.
But Max isn’t being paid. More to the point, he’s been there himself.
I can’t imagine all the ways that people have talked to him about his mum dying.
How often he must have longed deep down for them to recognize his pain rather than try to make him feel better.
‘Thank you for telling me,’ says Max. ‘No one deserves that.’
He smiles at me with such tenderness that I feel like my heart is going to explode. He’s not trying to console me, and yet it’s as if a crack of light is bursting through. It’s the same feeling I had watching Mr Peanut run around in the park, only this time it’s clearer.
When Max is in my corner, life is less dark. New things are possible. And maybe, just maybe, my wounds can heal.