Chapter 9 #2
That got a laugh from Tim. “Yeah. Got here early this morning. It’s taken two hours, but I’ve done the worst of the cleaning up and cutting back. Laying a proper path tomorrow.”
Wait, Tim has already been here two hours?
So, he’d arrived at, what—5:30 a.m.? At least that early.
Just to make sure we didn’t trip on the way to the front door?
That I didn’t trip, like I did last night.
Because Mum and Dad never used the front door.
They actually climbed out the windows, following one of the animals, more often than they used the front door.
Except Tim probably hadn’t done that just for me. He’d for sure been worried about the film crew.
“Curb appeal, amirite?” Trystan said, interrupting my thoughts.
“Ooh, listen to me being all Renovation Prince.” He gave us both a big smile.
“Now. Some variety of fancy coffee, Tim?” Tim indicated he’d take it black from the urn.
“Can I interest either of you in a cooked breakfast or bagels or fruit?”
“Tabitha?” Tim said without looking at me. “You first.”
“All of the hot, fatty, soaking-up things, please.” I pointedly didn’t look at Tim.
“Coming up,” Trystan said as he pulled up a plate and piled it high.
He opened each of the chafing dishes to reveal scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, baked beans, and toast. I nodded yes to each.
He handed me the heaped plate. “I love it. A woman who looks like Grace Kelly and has an appetite as healthy as her stunt double.”
“Thank you, Trystan.” I wasn’t terribly effusive on first meeting people, but I wanted to add, I love you. Too early in our relationship.
“I got you, doll,” he answered. He looked at Tim, eyebrows raised for his answer.
“Same for me, please,” Tim said. “This looks amazing, thank you.”
“He’s having what she’s having,” Trystan sang, as he piled up another plate.
Both Tim and I shuffled, embarrassed.
Other crew filed in behind the statuesque blonde I’d seen at the pub, who’d introduced herself as Freya, Simon’s assistant.
She quipped with Simon and Tim, and she seemed quite uninterested in me.
Mohammed introduced himself and said he was cameraman one.
He indicated the prayer mat under his arm and asked if there was a room he could use to pray during the day.
Setting down my plate and coffee, I showed him the library, and we chatted about his family.
Back in the dining room, Mohammed introduced me to Harry, cameraman two, who was dressed fully in red Arsenal football regalia, and the sound engineer, Phoebe, who wore her blue hair in a messy bun.
She said she loved the crew, though Simon could be a shocker.
“He says on the daily, ‘Can the girl lower the boom?’ ’Course, I put him bang to rights. ”
The rest of the crew joined in with more complaints about Simon, which didn’t seem to faze Freya, who laughed along with them.
The two interns, Solomon and Yuxi, both dressed in all black, were making themselves scarce in the hallway, and I invited them in.
They were both studying film at university and had been given no idea of their day-to-day duties during the filming.
I made a mental note that I should help them find out, even though it was the responsibility of the production company.
I’d had many interns, and it was just a matter of finding out what they were good at, even if it was only one thing. It was clear by the way Solomon’s gaze was fixed on Yuxi during the entire conversation that he had a huge crush on her.
My plate in hand, I tried to give them all a warm welcome. I emphasized they had the run of the house and anything in it, as my parents were incredibly laid-back about their home and possessions and, of course, unfortunately, although I didn’t mention it, their money.
Usually, I would have asked them more about themselves and their roles, but after that small amount of standing up and concentrating on the person in front of me, I felt too woozy.
The dining room started to get a bit cramped, so, already served, Tim and I wandered out to the kitchen and stood awkwardly, side by side, plates in hand.
I sat down at the kitchen island. Maybe because it would have been too rude not to, Tim sat next to me, setting down his plate and black coffee. Forking some eggs, I spun through what I wanted to say to him.
My eyes fixed on my plate, I swallowed a bite of eggs and stabbed a sausage. “I want to say again how sorry I am about last night.”
He glanced down at my forked sausage and winced. “It’s okay. Forgotten. We don’t need to mention it again. Let’s just get on with this project and get it done.”
I tried to swallow around a piece of toast, but it felt like a splinter in my throat. His reply was dismissive. He just wanted me out of his hair now. Which, fair enough. I wanted that too. Still, he’d been so thoughtful this morning, and I wanted to acknowledge that.
“And thank you for getting up early and clearing the front,” I said. “That was so kind of you. I know that’s not your job and that we planned to leave it to the end for the landscapers.”
He shrugged. “No biggie. Had to be done sometime.”
Why did he say that? It was a big deal. He’d gotten up extremely early to do something for our mutual benefit. Was he making sure I didn’t attach something to it? That I’d get the wrong idea, like he’d done it just for me, not for the crew? If so, that was embarrassing.
“You’d do it for your sister too, right?” I said, making a weak joke out of what he’d said last night.
He grunted.
We sat at the small kitchen island, side by side, and ate in silence.
I felt every slight movement of his large presence beside me.
The rustle of his trousers was amplified in my ears.
He smelled of dirt and grass and verbena, maybe deodorant.
An invisible string pulled me closer to him, to feel his soft gray T-shirt, the tough-looking tan fabric of his trousers, but I resisted the tug.
Instead, I watched his forearms, strong and corded and dusted with hair, his thick wrists, his hands—large and rough and brown from the sun. Only his left forearm was tattooed, and I wondered if that was significant.
A few seconds later, he cleared his throat. “Excuse me. I’m going to take this out to my truck. I’ve got some calls to make before we get started.”
What? He couldn’t even sit and have breakfast with me? Great. At least before, we bickered like we had some sort of communication. Now, he can’t even stand to be around me more than a few minutes. My self-esteem was certainly copping a beating.
“Well, enjoy!” I cried out, using an American expression I’d never uttered. Painful overcompensation.
I made a wild, flinging motion, presumably to emphasize the enjoyment, and my hand bashed against his coffee. Brown liquid flew into the air and landed, splat, all over his gray T-shirt.
“Fuck!” he yelled—in pain or exasperation, I wasn’t sure.
“Oh my God, did I burn you?” Without thinking, I leaped off my stool and swiped over his chest, making the stain worse. Then I realized what this seemed like—a reminder of last night, like I was trying to get my hands on him again. As if burned myself now, I pulled away.
I went to grab a clean tea towel from the drawer, but of course, there were none.
He stepped away. “Don’t worry. I’ve got another shirt in my truck.” He turned on a booted heel and strode toward the door.
“Sorry again,” I called after him. “See you soon.”
Or maybe I could live out my days being a hermit or a mole underground or something.