Chapter 11 #3
“There is quite a lot of script to get through today,” he said, taking charge again. “Things they want us to ask each other. Oh, they want you to sit with Anne and talk about…gosh. They want you to talk about Mary again. Are you up for that?” And here he was again, back to normal. And…
Was I? Mary? It seemed that was at least something I could talk about.
“Is that all I am good for? Talking about my wife? Who’s coming up with all these rubbish scripts?
” I spat out. “Yesterday we were supposed to talk about vulnerability in relationships, and then we were talking interior design, and don’t get me started on those energy drinks we were supposed to be promoting.
” If they were trying to make me pick a fight?
They were slowly wearing me down. Because the truth was, I was tired.
Grumpy and tired. I’d just woken up, and I was already exhausted.
And there were only so many times I could sit on a sofa and be asked stupid questions over and over again before I’d once again say something stupid and get myself into trouble.
I didn’t want to talk about my wife. I thought I’d rather talk about probiotic yoghurt at this stage.
“I know,” Oliver said gently as if he could read my frustration.
“I’m as bewildered as you are. It’s not all fun in here, it’s really not.
We need to do our individual interviews at nine, and then…
we are supposed to all be in Room C for the luncheon party.
Where we are supposed to wear our cocktail attire and look our best. It’s day, what…
ten? Come on,” he whined, squashing the paperwork in his fist.
“The interviews I can do. Luncheon party? What happened to breakfast? I need more than free yoghurt today.”
“Catering truck downstairs. Chop-chop. It closes at nine, so we need to at least get some food before we need to be in hair and make-up.”
“God.” I sighed. What was all this again? Torture? An early admission to hell? I wanted to ring the boys and scream at them, but yes. I had surrendered my phone to production for the duration of this spectacle. I couldn’t even check if they were still alive.
“It’s fine. I’ve got your back,” he said quietly.
“Oliver. You’re here to meet the love of your life. Not babysit granddad here, who is losing the plot.”
“You’re not losing the plot. You said it yourself, go sit in that interview, and speak your mind.
Then we’ll go to that luncheon thing. There’s a rehearsal before.
It says here that we must only drink water out of the designated opaque glasses for continuity, and we must not drink out of the pre-poured clear glasses on the table. The wine poured is not real.”
“What?”
“Poisoned probably. This is a murder show. Did they not tell you?” Oliver winked. I did too.
“It’s a standard thing. My wife was an actress.”
“We’ve still not had a chance to talk properly about that. I mean, there is no time just to…you know. Talk. Properly.”
“We’ll have to sneak off for another walk. For our health.”
“Absolutely. Exercise is important.”
“Indeed. But how are we supposed to get to know each other when we don’t spend any quality time together?”
“Well, we are now?”
The laughter from the two of us might once have sounded honest. Now we were just laughing out of sarcasm.
“One day. I’ll tell you some stories.”
“Remember Diane ranting about how unfair it was that you were famous?” He grimaced. “Like it mattered. You should just shut that down if they try to go down that path again.”
“I’m not famous. Mary was.”
“But she was properly famous, even I had heard of her. And now I am sleeping with her husband.”
“Oliver!” I laughed. “And it was nothing like you think, okay? I was just the…you know. Husband. And we’re only sleeping together because like…”
“You’re a disaster.”
“I need to learn to control my mouth. I’m famous, you know.”
We did this. Tried to lift the mood. Lift anything. Just…talk. When nothing we said was actually real.
“If I had my phone, I would google you.”
“Don’t. If you did, you’d find lots of boring dentistry stuff and a few very unflattering photos of me going shopping and looking dishevelled and sad. And probably some stuff about growing tomatoes.”
“That does sound sad. And now you get to go to luncheon parties and try not to drink the poisoned wine. How your life has changed!”
“Oliver,” I warned. Again.
“It’s funny, though. Admit it. And you get to have a handsome young boyfriend on your arm. We can still win this thing.”
The thing was? He made me laugh, and that in itself was the only thing that was stopping me from getting up and following that Jorge and Gerald right out that door. Now. Despite the fact that my boys would never speak to me again and that the press would have a field day with me and…and…
“You can’t just walk out,” he said, like he could read the panic in my eyes. “It’s okay. We can just play along for a while and see what happens.”
I didn’t think I could. Because those thoughts had been rumbling around in my head last night and were there again this morning.
This was wrong. So very, very wrong. Fraudulently so, and if I was anything?
I wasn’t a fraud. Also, if my patients saw this?
Oh God. I hoped they wouldn’t watch. Colleagues?
Esteemed other associates in my field, people I kept in touch with?
I’d never be able to set foot at the British Dentistry Convention again.
The internet was everlasting, and unfortunately?
The boys would kill me. But I could live with that.
Which I tried to find words to relay to Oliver, who just shook his head as I spoke.
“But it’s not fair on you, Oliver. You should have a chance of meeting someone. And when you do? I’ll just quietly leave.”
“What?”
“There’s nobody here for me.”
“Diane really likes you.”
“Says who? She’s as desperate as that Wren. I fit the demographic, so she shows an interest. It will all end in tears. I may look clueless, but I wasn’t born yesterday, Oliver.”
“Okay,” he said quietly.
“Doesn’t mean I haven’t got your back,” I continued weakly.
“Well, if you’re going to leave?”
True. I wasn’t making much sense here.
“And I think you’re just digging yourself into a hole,” he continued. “A big one.”
He was right. Again.