I follow Otty into the hall.
‘Nice boots.’
‘Thanks.’
Where is she going? Otty’s been preoccupied all afternoon and now, with no warning, she’s suddenly going out. Looking incredible. The kind of incredible that takes time and effort. Something’s off here, I know it.
It couldn’t be Langham, could it?
No. He’s looked terrified whenever he’s seen her. If they were planning a date he would have been lording it up in the writers’ room today, rubbing my nose in it.
‘Are you meeting someone?’
‘I’m just going out with a friend, okay?’
‘You don’t dress like that for a friend.’
‘I’m not. I’m dressing like that for me.’
Too defensive. It’s definitely a date. ‘Well, whoever it’s for, you look – beautiful…’
What the actual hell, Joe?
Otty reddens.
Why did I pick that superlative? Great, lovely, good – any of these would have been acceptable. But beautiful? There’s no way you can spin that. It’s a word straight from the heart.
‘Thanks,’ she says, turning away. ‘No creepy-weirdo-questioning tomorrow morning, okay?’
‘So it is a date.’
Her groan echoes in the hall. ‘No, Joe. Although apparently you’ve already made up your mind that it is. I might be late back, that’s all. I might not see you before I go to bed.’ The mention of the ‘B’ word sends both our eyes inspecting the tiles.
I step aside to let her fetch her coat.
‘Well, you know where I am if you need anything.’
Midway into her sleeve, she stops to observe me. ‘I’ll be okay.’
‘I know.’
‘And you will be, too.’ Her hand rests on my arm, just for a second. I don’t know what to say.
I could kick myself.
The house is too quiet when she’s gone. Restless. I flick through the films on Sky but can’t find one that appeals. Nothing on Netflix, either. Probably for the best. Picking plot holes in movies on my own isn’t fun. I think back to similar nights in this room, Otty and me on the sofa ripping strips off bad scripts and calling out lazy continuity. Laughing until we ache, Otty wiping tears from her eyes.
Us.
Like we used to be.
Our joke almost leaked out this morning. Rona has clocked the shift in tension between us and was trying to dig for details. She cornered Otty and me at lunchtime in the West One café queue.
‘I have a pitch idea for Langham,’ she said.
‘Does it involve a basement dungeon?’ I asked, ducking her swipe.
‘Not every idea I have is about sex, thank you, Carver.’
‘Probably just most of them,’ Otty said.
‘It’s simpler than that. Two friends sharing – a house, let’s say. And something happens…’
‘Meteor strike,’ Otty said, whip-fast, eyes twinkling at me – and instantly we were in a new game.
‘Zombie apocalypse.’
‘Psycho landlord.’
‘Robot invasion.’
‘Fig roll shortage!’
I clutched at my heart. ‘No! The fear is real!’
It was so good, such an instinctive thing, and I could see my own thrill reflected in her expression. And then, the beat of sadness that inevitably follows everything since that night.
‘Er, I’m still here?’ Rona said.
‘Sorry.’
‘So these friends – this couple – have a great thing going. They’re close and comfortable. It’s sweet. And then, something changes.’ She held up her hand. ‘And no: not a dragon plague, or the arrival of an alien race, before you both start again. Something simpler.’
Her scrutiny of us was discomforting. Maybe that’s why we made the mistake.
‘Not sex?’ I asked.
Otty’s eyes shot to mine.
Rona studied us. ‘You tell me.’
‘If they did, it would only be once,’ Otty said.
And that’s when I should have kept my mouth shut. But I didn’t.
‘Once would be enough.’
I shift on the sofa now, remembering the pause, the burn, the cold-drain of realisation. And Rona between us, eyes like saucers…
Rona’s said nothing yet, but it hangs over us now: a storm waiting to break.
No wonder Otty wanted to get away tonight.
I’m selling us short. We’ll style it out. I have to believe that facing it together will unite us, even if it’s mostly in mortification. The glimpses of the old Otty and Joe I’ve seen in recent weeks give me hope. If it was too much to take, I don’t think we’d still be here.
A sudden, uninvited memory of Otty kissing me forces me to my feet, moving away from the sofa as if staying there will bring everything back. I take shelter in the safety of an armchair, reeling from it. Our brave banter and careful jokes may be holding strong, but how can I forget this?
I’ve tried to forget. I’ve thrown myself into everything else as a distraction; I’ve stumbled into a war of wills with Fraser Langham and when I’ve had the chance to build on what Otty and I still have, I’ve taken it. But the night we spent together haunts me. It waits, out of sight, until I’m alone and my defences have dropped.
It will be better when we have an actual project to get our teeth into. Russ reckons next week we’ll all be assigned single dramas and shorts to start writing. Not working in a team with Otty these past few days hasn’t helped, either. It’s weird to sit opposite her and make decisions she isn’t part of. It also doesn’t help that our new script executive has us devoting precious hours to his pointless exercise. I think Russ knows it’s damaging the team. With any luck, he’ll keep us too busy to indulge Langham again. Maybe next week Otty and I will rediscover our rhythm and I won’t have time to think about anything else.
And hopefully, Fraser Langham won’t stuff everything up.
A thought appears. I dismiss it immediately.
No. Otty’s not out with Langham tonight.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
OTTY
I feel bad about lying to Joe. But this is lovely.
Fraser is waiting for me outside the restaurant, as we’d arranged, his original suggestion of picking me up at home swiftly sidestepped. I am not ready to run that particular gauntlet yet, not for anyone.
‘Hey. You came.’
‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’
‘I wasn’t sure you’d be willing to risk it. After I successfully managed to offend you twice.’
‘I’m glad I proved you wrong.’
‘Me too.’ He leans in to give my cheek the lightest brush of a kiss.
And of course, he smells good. There’s a fraction of a second before he moves back. I breathe him in.
‘Shall we?’
Fraser holds the door open for me and we go inside, shown to our table by a waiter. I’m a little nervous and I think he is, too. Which is exactly what should happen on a first date.
I didn’t even get a first date with Joe…
Annoyed with myself, I shake the thought away. Tonight is not about Joe. Tonight is about me – and my date.
Here, away from work and all the tension that’s surrounded the writers’ room since his arrival, Fraser looks calm and happy. And – handsome. I’ve been trying to think of another word to describe him – because, hello, Netflix movie – but handsome is the only one that fits.
He looks comfortable and cool in a dark grey T-shirt, brown leather jacket and blue jeans, his hair just a little tousled. But what I notice most is his slightly self-conscious smile, the fun that sparkles cautiously in those stunning eyes of his. It’s disarming: so different from the Fraser Langham he shows everyone else. I have that sense again that I’m being granted a rare view.
‘You look amazing,’ he says, adding, ‘if you don’t mind me saying so.’
Beautiful, Joe said…
‘So do you,’ I say, determined to kick away
thoughts of anyone else. ‘And I don’t mind at all.’
Once we’ve ordered food and wine, we both begin to relax. He’s careful not to joke too much about Ensign, which is very wise. In return, I don’t mention Joe. The night stretches long and unhurried ahead of us and I want to enjoy all of it.
‘So how long were you in LA?’ I ask, nodding my thanks to the sommelier who has just filled my wine glass.
‘Almost two years, on and off. I was very lucky with work. Stars aligning and all of that.’
‘You weren’t tempted to stay?’
‘A little. I mean, the place was fantastic, the people great, but it was crazy out there. The pace they work, the stress everyone’s under, it wasn’t sustainable. And I’m a born and bred Scot, so I melted in the heat.’ He raises his glass. ‘So, what will we drink to?’
I lift my glass in reply. ‘To feedback?’
He shakes his head. ‘I get the feeling I’m never going to live that down.’
‘It’s best you realise it now.’
‘Okay. Let’s drink to honesty.’
‘Why honesty?’
His expression stills – another glimpse behind the scenes. ‘Because you blew me away with yours.’
Did I? I’ve been trying to work out why Fraser wanted to see me outside of work, when all I’ve done is haul him over the coals for his mistakes.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘To honesty, then.’ Our glasses touch with a bell-chime of crystal. ‘I’m not usually so direct.’
‘You did the right thing. I was out of line. And you had the decency to tell me to my face. There aren’t many people in that room who’d do the same.’
He’s certainly got the measure of everyone.
‘It’s hard coming into an established team, no matter what you do for a living,’ I say. ‘I think nerves play a big part in misunderstandings.’
‘I didn’t think I was nervous but seeing how you all work together – how close you are – that’s daunting for an incomer.’
‘I know. When I joined the team it was already half-established. I felt completely out of my depth for a while. It took kindness and patience from them to help me feel I belonged there.’
It took Joe – encouraging me, supporting me…
Right, that’s the last time I’m thinking of him tonight. I turn my attention fully to the beautiful man sitting opposite, who wants to spend the evening with me.
I don’t really want to be talking shop all night, but there’s one more thing I want to say. ‘Here’s the thing, Fraser. We’re a great team at Ensign. I think you need to believe in us more. We’ve just delivered a first-season show with the potential to be a major hit – we know what we’re doing.’
Fraser studies me for a while. Have I just blown our first date within the first ten minutes?
‘There it is again. You wield honesty like a warrior wields a sword.’
I’m not certain that’s a compliment. But I can’t be anyone other than myself. ‘I don’t want to tell you your job. But I think you’ll enjoy working with the team far more if you believe we’re capable of being the best.’
‘And I’m guessing you’ll enjoy this evening more if we don’t fill it with work stuff. This isn’t an appraisal, remember?’
‘Nice comeback, Mr Langham.’
‘I’m glad you liked it.’
So we steer clear of work and talk about everything else – what we like and dislike, what got us into writing, what we do to relax. All pretty standard stuff, but with Fraser I feel I’m being given a personal guided tour.
‘I was born in a small village called Nethy Bridge, in Strathspey. My folks worked at an outdoor centre in the Abernethy Forest, nearby. Cairngorms on my doorstep, lochs and purple-headed mountains – the entire Scottish idyll,’ he says. ‘A little different from Birmingham.’
‘Which is a beautiful city,’ I counter.
‘Very beautiful, in some areas.’
Flirty. I like it. ‘I was born here. My parents worked at Longbridge in the car plant until that closed and they got divorced. Then Dad opened a bike-repair shop in Moseley.’
‘What kind of bikes?’
‘Mountain bikes and road cycles mostly, although he’ll fix anything. That’s where I worked until I started at Ensign.’
I like the way surprise lifts his features. ‘You worked in a bike shop?’
‘I’m a qualified suspension specialist, thank you very much. Studied Engineering at university, went to work for Dad when I graduated.’
‘Okay. That’s a plot twist. I figured you’d written for a living before.’
I laugh. ‘Nobody knew I wrote until a year ago. Ensign is my first professional posting.’
‘You’re joking.’ Fraser sits back, head on one side as he takes this in. I haven’t mentioned what I did before to many people, my lack of experience a cause of embarrassment to me. But seeing the effect it has on Fraser is a revelation. ‘I can’t believe you’ve not done this before. Your writing is affecting, engaging, accomplished.’
‘I think the term you’re looking for is great,’ I say, resisting the urge to giggle when I see his rueful grin.
When the meal is over, we pay and walk out into the mild night. It’s a clear sky that glows a bright indigo blue above the city. I don’t want to say goodbye yet, don’t want my time with Fraser to be over.
He shuffles his feet on the pavement, hands planted in the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘It’s been a good evening.’
‘It has. Thank you.’
There’s a pause as we share hesitant smiles. Should I kiss him? I feel like I want to and we’re standing so close that it could happen in a heartbeat. I see his gaze dance from my eyes to my lips and wonder if he’s considering it, too.
Then he gives a self-conscious laugh and the moment passes. ‘It’s still early. Would you take a walk with me?’
I feel my heart expand. ‘I would love to.’
He offers his arm – how cute is that? – and the leather of his jacket is cool against my skin as I loop my arm through his. He leans a little to bump against me. ‘You’ll have to lead the way, I’m afraid. I’m still getting to grips with this city.’
I know exactly where to head.
The lights of The Wharf ripple in the dark waters of the canal as we emerge from The Mailbox and follow the path towards the bridge. There’s a slight chill in the air tonight, but I’m acutely aware of warmth from Fraser’s body as we walk. Occasionally he touches my hand where it rests on his arm, his fingers lingering a moment longer each time. It makes the hairs on my forearms rise beneath the cotton of my jacket.
I love my city at night: the coolness of its canals, the bright lights of its buildings and the sound – music and laughter, traffic and life. People who’ve never lived here often mock it, the ones who have only seen terrible 1970s public information films portraying Birmingham as a grey sea of concrete. But I think it’s beautiful. We have history and innovation, the cradle of industry and the heartbeat of an ever-changing, ever-evolving future.
I doubt Fraser’s ever been here before. When I catch him looking at me it’s a jolt of joy, the electricity between us magnified by the landscape we’re travelling through.
‘I never knew this was here,’ he says, his eyes filled with the lights around Gas Street Basin. ‘It’s gorgeous.’
‘Told you. It’s one of my favourite parts of the city.’ I point up to one of the waterside apartments. ‘My friend Wren from university lives there. We’ve had many a drunken night along this towpath.’
‘I’ll bet.’ He looks down at me. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘You and Joe Carver – what’s the story?’
My heart plummets like a rock in the Worcester and Birmingham Canal. ‘We share a house and we write together.’
‘I just wondered because you seem close.’
We’ve reached the tunnel beneath the Worcester Bar bridge where two canals meet. It’s impossi
ble to walk two abreast on the narrow towpath through it, but I don’t want to answer Fraser’s question if we’re moving in single file. So I stop and dare to look up at him. I am going to be as honest as I can, without telling him everything.
‘We are close – as friends. I care about him. But that’s all.’ My eyes prickle. I blink the sensation away.
Fraser’s arm unfurls from mine and we’re standing apart. ‘Then—’ his hand takes mine, our fingers slowly lacing together, ‘there’s no one in our way?’
‘No,’ I say, pushing away the feeling that I’m lying to him. ‘Nobody in our way.’
‘You’d better come here, then.’
He pulls me close and I lean into him, his lips soft and his embrace unhurried. His arms circle me, warm hands resting at the small of my back as we kiss. It’s gentle and warm and wonderful.
When we break apart, he strokes my face. ‘I wanted that to happen since the day we met.’
I gaze up into his grey-green eyes, the lights of the city reflected there. ‘And now it has?’
‘I want it to happen again.’
Fraser’s lovely face fills my vision as I close my eyes.
There are no lights on in the house when I park outside. I sit for a moment in Monty, trying to steady my breath. I’m buzzing from Fraser’s kisses but the dread about seeing Joe has built steadily all the way home. I have no idea how we’re going to navigate this.
He hates Fraser. Really, properly hates him. I don’t know why exactly, but this is going to make everything a thousand times worse. I shouldn’t have to consider what Joe thinks – he didn’t want me, after all. But my heart is torn.
I don’t know what I was expecting from tonight, but it turns out I want to know Fraser more. It’s not just an act of defiance against Joe, although I suspect that impulse is part of it. I like Fraser. I want to see him again. Joe’s just going to have to deal with it.
At least I won’t have that battle tonight. I get out and lock my car, patting Monty’s brave yellow paintwork. It’s rusting a little along the edge of the roof but that only makes me love him more. The chill of the night whispers around me as I walk up the path to the house. On the doorstep, my heart contracts. I take a moment before I go in.
It’s quiet, just the distant hum of the fridge and the soft contrapuntal ticks of the clocks in the kitchen, living room and hall. I could stay up for a while, let everything sink in, but I’m tired, so I head upstairs.
Our Story: the new heartwarming and emotional romance fiction book from the Sunday Times bestselling author of Take A Look At Me Now Page 19
