Chapter 1 #2
five-star reviews and sold-out performances. Jonah felt the doubt in the pit of his stomach beginning to lessen. He’d proven
himself. Achilles, the role of a lifetime, one he’d poured his heart and soul into, one he’d molded and nurtured, truly belonged
to him now no matter what anyone else said.
The floor tiles felt cool against his back as he lay down on them, his chest heaving as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
Sun streamed in through the bathroom window, and the sounds of Camden Town spilled into the room, took one look at him on the floor, and left again.
A laugh escaped his lips, a thing of pure joy as little sparks of the night before pushed their way to the forefront of his mind.
He wanted to scream, to fling the front door open and run down Castle Road to alert all the residents that their house valuations had increased as they now lived on the same street as an Olivier winner.
His skewed perception of the win and the impact it might have on the unsuspecting residents on Castle Road didn’t matter.
He wanted the world to know; he needed to tell everyone, his mum, the woman who walked her dog past his window every morning, even the grumpy man in the corner shop near the tube station.
His laughter stopped abruptly as he recalled the first person he called once he’d downed a few shots at The Roundhouse. He
should have called his mum. Did he even thank her in his speech? God, she would kill him if he didn’t. Either way, he didn’t
call her; he called Edward instead. He could remember his hands shaking as he pulled his phone from his pocket, a mixture
of too much alcohol and the bitter chill of the night air working its way over his body as he stood outside of the building
where the joyous noise from inside became dulled. The desire to hear Edward’s voice, the need to revel in his praise was greater
than any happy tears his mum may shed over his triumphant win.
Jonah sat up, his stomach turning over itself, and he swallowed down another mouthful of vomit as the floor tilted beneath
him. Something didn’t feel right; not just his head or the perpetual sensation of being in motion, something else, something
awful, something his brain desperately wanted to scrub away.
Edward.
His voice sounded strange on the phone the night before, far away, like he’d submerged himself in water. Edward listened to
Jonah speak, he let him talk and talk and talk until he stopped and a vacuous silence lingered between them. Did Edward say
anything? Did he offer congratulations? Jonah couldn’t remember, all he could recall was the taste of tequila on his lips
and the promise of more alcohol on the horizon.
Jonah tentatively rose to his feet; he braced himself against the wall and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror above the sink.
His unruly curly brown hair clung to his forehead, his skin a deathly shade of ivory, so pale he could have been masquerading as a ghost, and a rather hideous one at that.
He averted his gaze, the devastation of his appearance sickening in itself, and clambered back to his bedroom, the walls morphing in an entirely unhelpful way.
As he reached for his phone on the nightstand, his fingers missed it, and he acknowledged the fact he wasn’t hungover but actually still drunk and forced himself to grab it like a toddler reaching for a wooden train.
Chubby mitts, his dad would say, clumsy chubby mitts.
A plethora of messages awaited him along with three missed calls from his mother, who’d apparently stayed up late to watch
the awards on TV the night before. But nothing from Edward. Jonah looked at the vacant space in the bed. The side wasn’t technically
Edward’s, since they didn’t live together. But it belonged to him, regardless. A fluttering feeling wormed its way into the
center of his chest, an unnerving sensation akin to the final moments before a drop on a roller coaster. Edward should have
been there. He should have joined him at The Roundhouse and downed shots of tequila with him. They should have woken up together
and complained about how much they drank and vowed never to do it again before having lazy hungover sex in the shower. Jonah
stared at the screen of his phone, then clicked the green dial icon, his breath frozen in his throat as he listened to it
ring and ring and ring until—
“Jonah?”
“I won an Olivier Award, did I tell you?” The words came before his brain clicked into motion. “Best actor in a musical.”
Edward cleared his throat. “Um, yeah, I know, you told me. It’s amazing, Jonah, well done, again.”
Jonah blinked, his brain still not working with the tequila still swimming through his bloodstream. He expected more, a little
enthusiasm at least; Edward sounded like he’d rather grate his ears off than talk with him. “I thought you might want to . . .
did you want to get lunch later? To celebrate?”
“Jonah.” Edward sighed. “We talked about this last night.”
They did? Of course they did, or Edward at least spoke to the hyped-up and incoherent Jonah who was definitely not the hungover
and filled-with-regret present Jonah. “Yeah, I mean, yeah of course we did.”
“You don’t remember.”
Jonah pinched the skin between his eyes and sucked in a sharp breath. “I do, yeah, of course I do.”
“Then why are you calling asking me to go to lunch?”
Silence.
“Fuck,” Jonah murmured. “I’m sorry. We all went out afterward, and drinking ensued. Last night was a complete blur, and I promise you I’m paying for it now.”
“So, you don’t remember?”
Jonah groaned and flung himself onto the bed, a poor choice given the movement made the taste of tequila work its way up his
throat again. “Did you tell me you have a sudden aversion to eating lunch?”
“No,” Edward said, his voice far away again, underwater, out of reach. “Jonah. I’ve met someone else.”
The bed creaked as the ceiling spun above him. Someone else. He must have misheard him. Someone else didn’t compute. There could be nobody else.
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. Wait. What? Someone else? What do you mean by someone else? As in, what, a person?”
“Yes, Jonah, a person.”
“When would you . . . how did you . . . wait, no, Edward, come on, let’s talk about this. You can’t . . . we can’t, Edward,
please, we can figure this out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out, Jonah.” His voice lacked even an ounce of empathy. “I’ve met someone else. Don’t make this
harder than it needs to be, okay? I will come over this afternoon to pick up my stuff and leave my key. Relationships end,
Jonah. We had a good run.”
Jonah bit down on his lip, the taste of blood kissing his tongue and mingling with the remnants of alcohol from the night
before. Tears caught in his throat, and the only words he could muster were, “But I’m an Olivier Award–winning actor.” The
protest came out weak, a pathetic plea mixed with a poor attempt at something resembling indignation. The spring outside the
window lost its romance, it lost the taste of bubble gum and lemon curd as the sky turned from powder blue to smoldering ash.
Edward said nothing else and hung up the phone, leaving Jonah with a never-ending dead dial tone to haunt him for the rest
of the day.
Someone else. It was always someone else.