Chapter 11
Peter
Where on the first night, I had fretted about actually sleeping in the same bed as a stranger?
Another grown man? I needn’t have worried because Oliver had not only turned out to be good company but also the perfect bed mate.
He’d been fast asleep last night, when I’d stirred and remembered that I’d never brushed my teeth, having again partaken in our nightly ritual of drinking beer in bed like students.
My boys told me stories, and I felt like I was weirdly morphing into a caricature of every wild escapade they’d ever shared with me.
Almost. Well, drinking beer in bed before falling asleep.
Like slobs, both of us trying to avoid that awkward situation we were in.
Falling asleep next to each other was obviously a no-no.
Or perhaps it had been a gentle routine of giving each other the only small amount of space and privacy we could offer, despite the fact that he no doubt faked falling asleep before me and the slightly embarrassing fact that he constantly gravitated towards me in bed.
I’d woken up in the middle of the night to some of his body parts being flung over me or with him snuggled into my side.
I didn’t mind. I was a dad. I’d had the boys snuggling up during the night, soothing nightmares and fevers. Chicken pox, twice.
The week had rolled on exactly like that. With call sheets and ridiculous schedules and…scripted words. Stupid lines.
Not that Oliver was scripted, he was just…
nice. And seemingly attached to me, which again…
I didn’t mind. He’d check in on me during the day, in between sessions in front of the camera.
Staged encounters with other cast members.
Because that’s what we were. There was hardly any reality here, not even in the interviews with Gina, which I’d strangely started to both dread and enjoy in equal measure.
“So, Peter,” she’d ask. “Has young Oliver stolen your poor heart, or is this just a ruse before you go for that special person who has piqued your interest?”
“Oh, Gina.” I’d sigh and smile, putting on a now easily produced fake pose. “You know me. I am a private kind of guy. And Oliver is great company.”
“You devil, you.” She’d grin, giving the audience a knowing look. “What would Mary have said?”
Then she would turn to me and mouth, I’m so sorry. I hate this.
I didn’t dare to tell her that it didn’t matter. That Mary would have laughed and thought it was slightly hilarious, however wildly insensitive this production had turned out to be.
And then I’d find Oliver waiting for me, ready to drag me out for a walk. For my health.
“I got roped in to speak to the production well-being coordinator,” he said one blustery morning as we made our way along the huge metal studio hangars that surrounded our place of…work. Living quarters. Production offices. Set… Whatever they were calling it.
“And what is that?” I questioned, wishing I’d brought the awful purple jumper instead of this flimsy shirt I was wearing today. The sun wasn’t doing its job here, and I was a little cold.
“Some hobby-therapist wanting to ensure my mental health needs are met. I have no idea what that means, but I suppose someone thinks I’m going mad.”
“And are you?”
“Probably.” He smiled. “They tried to get me to go into Ben’s room for a heart-to-heart. And I refused.”
“Oh.”
“Well, Ben has ideas. It’s not the first time he’s got handsy with me, so I point-blank refuse to go anywhere near him unless there are other people around.”
“Ben,” I said.
“Bisexual Bonehead Ben.”
“I know who he is.”
“You’re such a granddad.”
“I haven’t got dementia yet, but it’s not far off. I still don’t know everyone’s name. But I’ll have words with Ben. Seriously, you need to speak up and get him to stop. And who’s that tall guy again?”
“Thom. Don’t say anything to Ben. I can handle it.”
“You shouldn’t have to. Let me know what I can do to help, because I will. Who’s the girl with the purple hair again? She was shouting at him the other day?”
“Priti. She hates him. Likes Diane.”
“Diane likes Gerald.”
“Anne likes Gerald. Priti likes Wren too, and Wren is one hundred per cent shagging both Minty and Chloe-Catherine.”
“I’m glad I have you to keep me up-to-date with all this. Even when we sit in the common room, I seem to get all muddled up because everyone is blurting out these insane phrases and it’s all rehearsed and…”
“We don’t know anyone. How on earth are we supposed to connect with people when they just blurt out the bloody script all the time? Everyone is on about being emotionally available and open and vulnerable, what’s that even supposed to mean?”
“Ready for anything.” I sighed. “Like Wren. She’s actually quite nice…”
“When she’s not on the prowl. She frightens me.”
“Well, I’ve got you.” I grabbed his arm. As he grabbed mine.
“I’m lucky to have you,” he said quietly. “At least I know you.”
“A little bit,” I admitted. I wondered if he actually did. Because I was starting to wonder if I even knew myself anymore.
Again, the days seemed to blend into one another, the same routine over and over again.
At least today had started well, and I could perhaps get used to this.
Getting woken up by a dishevelled-looking Oliver handing me a cup of tea in bed, then my microphone equipment, followed by getting the call sheet read out to me in small, palatable chunks.
Another little routine we’d seemingly developed, alongside the one where we would sneak back to our room and lie down on the bed, exhausted and weary after the insane exercises they made us do.
Stupid social activities that inevitably led to drama, and adult versions of juvenile playground games in different variations, leaving us both wrung out and exhausted.
And then I’d wake up to this. This Oliver, cross-legged on the bed, spreading out today’s paperwork and scratching his head, at the same time as he was trying to drink tea.
His hoodie still crumpled from having slept in it, his bare legs finished off with fluffy socks.
I half wanted to tell him off for his awful bedroom hair and weird clothing combos, sternly telling him to get dressed, but then at the same time?
It was him. Very much him. Messy. Funny. Easy to like.
“You’re saying I’m scheduled to sit down with Xanthe and Wren this morning, then?
” I said gently, trying to find the right piece of paper.
What was it with paper? Well, we had to sign the paperwork out in the morning, and then our scripts got signed back in every evening and destroyed.
No leaks allowed. Like this was some kind of undercover spy show or something.
“Yup, it’s some kind of sexuality challenge. That should be fun. A transwoman, a lesbian and a straight bloke with a boyfriend,” he teased as I gently thumped his arm.
He did the same back.
“Straight bloke with a boyfriend,” I smarmed, giving him a little wink.
“Best boyfriend I’ve ever had,” he joked.
“Bah.” I sighed.
“I’m being serious about this.” He pouted a few hours later, as we’d once again escaped outside for our walk. “You’re like my ideal boyfriend. Shame you don’t fancy me.”
Silly boy, no doubt trying to rile me up.
It sometimes made me laugh, but at other times, like right now?
I swallowed my response. It felt like I was missing what he was trying to say.
Communication was key, but I felt nauseous even thinking about finding the right words.
Too many. Too complicated. And now he was standing here with the wind in his face, wearing a colourful jacket that looked far too big for him.
Some brand we were supposed to discuss. We hadn’t because… well.
“What was it Wren called you earlier?” I tried to deflect, bringing our conversation back to something not so…difficult. “Babygirl?”
“It’s some kind of…hip phrase. Like, a sensitive kind of bloke.”
“Or a cute one, perhaps?”
“Peter,” he said, staring at me. “Don’t you dare.”
“What?” I smiled.
“We’re friends. If you start calling me that, it will open up a whole bloody volcano from Gina. She’s trying to psychoanalyse me to death, and I can’t bear it. I just want to sit there and talk about bloody clothes and curtains or whatever.”
“What does she ask you then? She only asks me about…like…who I like and what I had for dinner. Then she goes in for the kill and keeps trying to prompt me to admit my feelings. For the record? I don’t.”
“What feelings?”
He was smiling again. Good.
“I love my family. I love my friends. I loved my wife. I keep saying that, hoping she’ll just shut up and change the record.”
“She won’t,” he said softly, once again hooking his arm in mine.
Walking. A comfortable pace, with the wind in my face. His breathing next to me. Comforting, I thought. It was.
“I don’t have many friends,” he said quietly, to a passing car. Like he couldn’t even look at me. “But I like talking to you.”
“We make a good team,” I said diplomatically.
“Is that what I am? Team Peter?”
“I would hope so? I mean, I’ll be team Oliver for you. Any day.”
He stuck his tongue out at me. I wasn’t sure why he looked hurt.
“Anyway, you’re my babygirl. I’m going to shock Gina with that little comment later.”
“Don’t.” He laughed. “You don’t use it like that. And I’m not a babygirl. Not really.”
“Are you sure of that?”
He rolled his eyes and looked away.
“Gina will love it. Make a big thing out of it.”
“And then the interweb will come up with another Peter Felton meme. You need to be careful what comes out of your mouth.”
“I think it’s too late for that.” I laughed.
He gifted me another one of his little grimaces, making me all warm inside.
I wasn’t sure of anything anymore, and it was slightly terrifying.