Chapter 20
SOPHIE
I’ve borrowed Harlow’s easel from her room, setting it up at the end of the dining table, a thick pad of butcher’s paper clipped to the top. Drew has drawn two (rather wonky) lines, making quadrants – one for each ad.
‘Okay,’ I say, pointing to the first quadrant. ‘So, we’ve got Stevie at home with his wife, confessing that he’s homesick… Any way we could film him from the neck up? Do the whole thing with a body double and close-ups?’
‘Mmm… Maybe? But even if we did, how do we shoot that?’ he asks, pointing at quadrant two. ‘Him running through the airport with his wife and kids.’
‘Wheelchair?’ I ask hopefully.
‘I get that we’re in the no-bad-ideas phase of brainstorming b—’
‘Don’t you mean ideation?’ I take a sip of wine, staring at him over the rim.
‘It’s a real word.’
‘Sure,’ I say with a shrug, ‘but it is kind of—’
‘Corporate?’ he cuts in.
‘I was going to say wanky.’
‘Now who’s making up words?’ he teases.
‘Yeah, yeah, let’s just get back to my bad idea.’
‘Not bad, as such…’
‘Why doesn’t a wheelchair work?’ I ask.
‘Because he’s in traction.’
‘Fuck, that’s right.’
‘Whoa. Ladies and gentlemen,’ he says, turning from side to side as if he’s addressing a crowd, ‘behold this rare occurrence. Sophie Reid just said fuck.’
I flatten my lips into a line. ‘I’ll have you know that before Harlow came along, I swore just as much as the next Aussie. And in Australia, we consider it a national sport.’
‘Hah!’ he laughs. ‘So, do you have a swear jar? Chris and Gen do – I figure I’ve contributed enough over the years to put Maisie through college.’
‘We don’t, thank god. Harlow thinks bugger is a swear word.’
‘But doesn’t that mean—?’
‘Yes – technically,’ I interject, ‘but it’s basically the same as saying damn it.’
‘Hmm. Do you think we might have gotten a little off track?’
I breathe out noisily, then load up a corn chip with guacamole and stuff it in my mouth.
‘How long will Max be in traction for?’ I ask after I swallow.
‘Doctors say a month or more.’
‘Maybe we could wait? It’d be tricky, getting it all done before December – really tricky, but doable.’
‘But it’s not just the traction though – there’s also months of rehab ahead. It’ll be a long time before Max can run. He really did a number on himself.’
‘He needs a swift kick up the bum. Who goes heli-skiing on a forested mountain top?’
‘At least we’re not making a two-hundred-million-dollar movie,’ Drew counters. ‘The Cosmic Sentinels producers must be pissed.’
‘At least they can use CG.’
‘Hmm, true.’
He cuts off a thick wedge of cheese and goes back to the (literal) drawing board, frowning at it while he eats.
‘Do you have your pitch handy?’ he asks over his shoulder a few minutes later.
‘Uh, yeah, but why?’
‘Just an idea,’ he replies.
I open my laptop and pull up the pitch, then spin it around to face Drew. He sits at the head of the table and I sip my wine, studying his face as he reads.
He’s sitting in Daniel’s seat, one that by silent agreement Harlow and I always keep vacant.
Even when Connie stays for dinner, she sits at the other end.
And what’s weird is that it doesn’t smart, Drew sitting there.
Though they do say that time heals all wounds – even someone taking your deceased husband’s place at the table.
Then it strikes me that Drew is the first man I’ve had in my kitchen – or anywhere else in the house – who isn’t here to fix something.
He would want you to be happy. Harlow’s words pop into my head again – something they’ve been doing randomly for days. In the shower, on the train, while I’m making dinner…
Daddy wouldn’t mind.
Would he mind someone sitting in his chair? Or kissing me? Or stripping me nak—
‘Sophie.’
‘Huh?’ I ask, arriving back in the present. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘I do that sometimes too,’ he says.
Fantasise about getting naked with me?
‘Do what?’ I ask, holding my tongue.
‘Space out when I’m mulling something over.’
‘Oh yeah, totally. So…?’ I nod at my laptop.
‘It’s incredible.’
‘Really?’
It shouldn’t matter what he thinks. Until a few weeks ago, he was just the annoying hot guy from work who I avoided, except when I cast him in my fantasies.
But now I’ve had a front-row seat to a different Drew – the doting uncle, the collaborative colleague… The professional equal.
‘Sophie, if I hadn’t gotten Max on board, your campaign would have been chosen – no question.’
Just like yesterday at the café, his eyes bore into mine. And just like yesterday, my stomach seems to have a mind of its own, flip-flopping all over the place like a fish out of water.
‘Thanks,’ I reply, my throat suddenly tight.
Drew’s eyes dart away and he bites his top lip, twin lines deepening between his eyebrows. ‘Do you think…?’ he starts after a long moment. His eyes meet mine again. ‘What if we switch gears and go with your campaign instead?’
‘But would—?’
‘Hear me out. It’s a super strong concept, and we still have time to put out a call on social media, pick the kids, get crews out to film them… It’d be tight – but no tighter than the Home for the Holidays campaign.’
He pauses, giving me a moment to wrap my brain around it. I do love my idea but there must be something we can do to salvage Drew’s campaign. I’m not ready to give up on it just yet.
‘How about we put a pin in that for now?’ I reply.
Drew bursts out laughing. ‘Not sure that suits you – you sound like Lorraine.’
‘Okay, but hear me out. Jane has already done heaps of work on the Home for the Holidays set, including calling in a massive favour to get those set plans. She’ll have our guts for garters if we change directions now.’
I top up my wine and offer the bottle to Drew. He takes it, topping himself up.
‘That’s an interesting way of putting it. Anything else?’
‘Yeah. It’s Max Frigging Stirling. We brought them an A-list movie star.
They would’ve thought all their Christmases had come at once – pun intended.
We can’t go back to Hargreaves with cute kids saying what they want from Father Christmas.
My idea was good – you’re right – but my idea was Winter Wonderland, and you dazzled them with a VIP trip to Disneyland. They won’t want Winter Wonderland now.’
He exhales loudly. ‘Then we’re fucked. We’re gonna lose a longtime client, there’ll be no Hargreaves Christmas commercial this year, and Lorraine’s gonna fire my ass.’
He takes a swig of wine, then licks his lips, his scowl deepening.
‘Au contraire, mon frère…’
His eyebrows shoot up and he leans back, hooking an ankle over his other knee.
‘Now, she speaks French.’
‘Must be the wine,’ I quip, regarding my glass.
‘It’s from Spain.’
‘In that case…’ I look up and away – do I know any Spanish? ‘Nup, I got nothing.’
‘Nada – you got nada,’ he says, starting to laugh.
It takes a sec, but when I get it, I toss my head back and laugh along, relishing the release. A little while later, we both let out a phoof and our eyes meet.
‘So, backing up a bit,’ he says, still smiling, ‘You’ve got an idea?’
‘Yes!’ I say, pointing at him. I leap up and go to the easel. ‘Okay, so we only need to rethink three of the four ads, right?’
‘Only?’
‘Shh. This one,’ I say, indicating the ad where Stevie’s parents travel from the US to surprise him, ‘we pretty much keep as is.’
‘Oh-kay, but—’
‘Shh. Now this one’ – I point at quadrant one – ‘changes – dramatically.’
‘You don’t say?’ he asks, giving me a glimpse of the old Drew.
‘Why the need to editorialise everything? Can’t you please shut up for one second?’ I give him my sternest mum frown.
An expression flickers over his face – amusement… and something unrecognisable. Attraction maybe? I don’t know. I’m so out of the loop here. And if it is attraction then— Nope! Not going there.
‘Now, what was I…?’ I say to myself. ‘Oh yes – the start of the first ad. What if Stevie and his family are on a skiing holiday and we open on him in the hospital bed?’
Drew sits bolt upright, his eyes like saucers.
‘We lean into it,’ he says.
‘Exactly. His wife and kids are there – and it’s not a run-of-the-mill hospital room – it’s not sterile.
We’re talking wood panelling and snow drifts on the windows…
’ I take another sip of wine, my gaze unfocused as I picture the scene.
‘And let’s make it comical – the reason he’s in hospital.
What if he’s taken out by a ski school of little kids – no, toddlers – who come barrelling down the ski slope, shunt Stevie off the run, and he tumbles down the mountain. ’
‘On my god! Awesome,’ says Drew, leaping up. ‘Only, shit… How do we shoot all of that?’
He plops back onto his chair.
‘We don’t. It’s just him, his wife, and kids in the hospital room. They witnessed the entire thing and they tell the story – they bring it to life.’
Drew’s jaw drops and he stares at me for a long moment.
‘Holy fuck, that’s genius.’
I do a little curtsey. ‘Why, thank you.’
‘So, what about the other commercials?’ he asks.
‘Okay, so we start with Stevie, his wife and kids in the hospital room… They’re stuck there – won’t be able to “go home for the holidays”. Get it?’ I ask with a double brow raise.
‘I get it – move along,’ says Drew with a smirk.
‘Next up, we have his parents in the Home for the Holidays house, hatching the plan to surprise him – maybe Stevie’s wife’s in on it – maybe we add in the sister and brother…
The third ad is the American family racing through the airport – they’re on the plane ordering Christmassy stuff online from Hargreaves…
Then the finale is his family surprising him in hospital – and the room is fully decked out – Christmassy as all get-out. What do you think?’
Drew leaps out of his chair, wraps his arms around my waist, lifting me into the air and hugging me tightly. Instinctively, my arms encircle his neck.
‘I think you just saved our campaign,’ he says low in my ear.
Goosebumps prickle my skin, head to toe, and when he lowers my feet to the floor, easing back, we don’t let go. We just stare at each other until Drew’s eyes drop to my mouth, then meet mine again.
‘Sophie, I…’
All the times I’ve imagined being with Drew, wrapped up in his arms – none of them felt anywhere near as good as this.
His fingers slide to my lower back, gripping me firmly. My breath turns shallow and raspy, and I swallow, transfixed by the intense blue of his eyes.
And before I can second-guess myself, before my head even enters the equation, I rise onto my tiptoes and press my lips to his.
He gasps, as if he wasn’t expecting it, then an instant later his lips move against mine.
His hold on me tightens as the kiss intensifies, our heads angling, the tip of his tongue touching mine.
He tastes like the wine, only more delicious.
One of his hands snakes up my back, shivers in its wake, and finds the nape of my neck, his thumb resting firmly on my jawline.
His lips leave mine and he gently tilts my head and kisses my neck. Pleasure ripples through me, intensifying between my legs. I want his mouth on every part of me, his hands touching me everywhere – just like I’ve imagined a hundred times before.
I break out of his embrace and grab the hem of my T-shirt, tugging it over my head. But when I look into his eyes, he blinks, and reality hits like a slap.
‘Shit, shit,’ he says, leaping back and crashing into the corner of the table. He grimaces and rubs his hip.
‘Oh my god,’ I whisper, my voice hoarse.
I scramble for my T-shirt and jam my arms into the armholes, shrugging it back on.
‘Sophie, I’m—’
‘No, that was—’
‘We shouldn’t—’
‘No.’
Our words tumble over each other’s, but I don’t dare look at him.
What the hell was I thinking?
Actually, I wasn’t thinking at all.