George
I was running, which seemed my normal speed these days. Too much in my head, spreading myself so thinly that I could barely function. Everything felt underdeveloped, under-funded, under…under my control. The control that was non-existent. I was slipping, and my head was desperate to catch up.
I felt like I never did anything properly.
The headphones around my neck slid down my back as I tried yanking them up, only slowing down to press my pass against the reader next to the door that would bring me back into the studio area.
The red light above my head telling me that the cameras were on and to shut the hell up.
“Shhhh!” I screeched, reaching for the handle, only for a hand to slam the door back shut.
Gina. Gina DeSanto. Her hair all perfect and her make-up on point. Dress on. Stupid coverall on top.
She still made me blush. And freak out, just a little, because I was still me and she was the darling of the nation, and the girl every man wanted to fuck.
Apart from me. And the other gay guys in the world. Maybe.
“I’ve tried to ring you all day, and you don’t fucking pick up. Enough.”
“Sorry,” I yapped out, fishing my phone out of my pocket. “It’s been one hell of a day.” And…what?
“Tell me about it.” She rolled her eyes.
“Listen. Saying this to your face without anything to back me up. If anyone asks? I haven’t seen you all day, and we never spoke.
But you need to act now. You need to get Oliver out of here, pronto.
He’s not built for this, and he’s spiralling badly.
I sat down with him for an hour this morning trying to make sense of him, and he’s not doing well.
We either have an emergency on our hands, and I am talking minutes here.
Or you get him home, with someone he trusts. We have emergency contacts, don’t we?”
“I have no control…” I started as she slapped her hand in the middle of my chest.
“It says Manager on the call sheet, doesn’t it? I don’t care if you’re the piss-up manager or the toilet attendant or who the hell you think you are, George, but…you fix this. Now. I don’t want to find Oliver on my schedule tomorrow. And for heaven’s sake, leave Peter Fenton alone.”
I didn’t know if it was the fact that her face was in my face, or that she was Gina, or if I’d just at that point had about enough. Enough of the day, enough of this shitty job and enough of…just about everything.
“Peter Fenton is not coming back. Over my dead body,” I breathed in her face.
“You’d better not be lying.”
“I brought him in. I allowed him out. Bringing him on the show was a massive oversight on my behalf, and I have to own that. I thought he was…”
“He wasn’t.” Her voice was low and stern. Like we now finally spoke the same language. The relief in me was immense. I’d finally shared something that had needed to be said out loud, and I’d admitted to it. Actually owned it.
“Oliver needs out now. Not in an hour. Not tomorrow. He needs out. Go get him. I’ll get security to call him a taxi, but he needs to go to someone. With someone. I don’t have access to those files, but you do. Fix it.”
“I’m on it,” I said.
I felt lighter. Terrified, but shit. Yes. She was absolutely right, and I had sat in on a meeting with the mental health team earlier, and things had been voiced, and it was on my notes but…
Crap. How many other things was I slipping on? What was I allowing to happen here? And I still didn’t deserve the title on that call sheet.
The fear was real, and I knew it was there.
Someone would have to take the fall when this entire production came tumbling down. That person?
It would be me. Obviously.
“Oliver,” I demanded in a hushed voice, as I tiptoed behind the cameras and grabbed some other lowlife who looked like he worked here.
“No, I’m Kenny,” he said.
“I need Oliver. Where is he?”
“Four, they’re filming him pack.”
“Good.” I nodded, tripping on a cable and just about managing to hold myself upright before I lost my glasses and my balance all in one go. Calm the fuck down.
I didn’t bother knocking, instead walking straight into the scene where someone else – why did I not know anyone’s name around here? Some other poor person who’d probably started yesterday and would get fired tomorrow.
I almost laughed at my own joke. I was losing it. Fast.
“Get out!” someone hissed. I did nothing, just let the door fall shut behind me, ripping the headphones away from around my neck.
Enough.
He looked awful; Gina had been right about that. Flighty and subdued. His eyes were blank as I just stood there and stared at him.
I’d done this. Me. Me and my stupid self, thinking I was some grand master of television. I’d been given one job. One simple job. My first day in this company. A folder of paperwork, told to match everyone up. Then do the same again with the worst possible combination.
I’d done it. But I had put Peter and Oliver together. Because…
Because I had felt like God. And I was an absolute fool. I’d thought I was helping. I’d thought I was doing the right thing. I’d thought so many stupid, idiotic things when all I had done?
He looked broken.
“Come,” I said. “Grab your bag, and come.”
“George, we’re in the middle of…”
“Shut the fuck up,” I said.
It wasn’t me. None of this was me. But someone told me to do something? I tended to do it. Like this. Like…
Gina was not my boss. I was…
Jesus Christ.
“Come,” I said again, as Oliver followed me, too many steps behind for my liking. I grabbed his bag. Grabbed his arm. Pushed him down the corridor with determination in my step.
It was cold in here, the AC doing overtime. Then my glasses steamed up as I pushed through the door to the outside, where the balmy summer sun was in full glow.
“Taxi?” I asked. One was waiting in front of me, with the door wide open.
“Oliver? Go home. Go see someone. Please. Don’t worry about anything, but please trust me when I say this?”
He just looked at me. At my shaking hands. My steamed-up glasses. My total inability to be a grown-up and do the one job that had been assigned to me.
Don’t be the arsehole.
He’d said that. That first day when I’d gone to work. Him. No, no, not Oliver, who stood there looking like he was about to burst into tears. No. Him. He’d hugged me and whispered it in my ear. You’ll be grand. You’re the best. Just don’t be the arsehole.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. Then grabbed Oliver’s arm and shoved him head first into the back seat. I slammed the door shut. Slapped my hand on the roof of the car like I was the main character in some stupid production.
My phone rang. I didn’t answer it. I could hear voices in my headset. Shouting. I didn’t put them back on. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. So I switched them off and just stood there and wondered what the hell I’d just done.
.