by Carrie Elks
Because she was beautiful. That was impossible to ignore. But more than that she was talented, strong, and not afraid of speaking her mind. There was a wildness to her that enticed him, made him want to know more. That was why he’d been so absorbed by her play. Seeing her intelligence laid out in black and white, in the dialogue between the characters she’d so carefully crafted, had been an eye-opener. Giving him an insight to the woman beneath the hard exterior. Last night, when he was reading her words and adding in comments, it felt like a dialogue between him and Cesca, even though neither of them had said a word.
It was a conversation she hadn’t wanted, though. One she’d openly rejected, and it felt like a swift, sharp kick to the gut. It had wounded his pride – of course it had – but it had also made him want to curl up into a ball.
Because he liked her. Damn it, he more than liked her. Somehow, since that first night when she’d screamed at him in the driveway, he’d become more intrigued by Cesca than any girl he’d met in his life. By her straight way of talking, by her refusal to take any bullshit, and by the quiet way she managed to slide into his consciousness.
He liked her, and it only made him feel worse.
It was his stomach that made him climb out of bed. The hunger pangs that made him put one foot in front of the other and walk out of his room. Sam wasn’t sure what time it was – his phone was dead and he wasn’t wearing a watch – but the stillness of the air told him it was some time after midnight.
Walking past Cesca’s bedroom, he felt an urge to push open the door. To see the girl lying there, her hair fanned out across her pillow, her body curled up the way it was the night he carried her to bed. His empty stomach lurched at the memory of her soft skin, the way her breath had breezed across his cheek. Even then, the protectiveness he’d convinced himself he felt had been something more. Something deeper.
In the kitchen, there was a plate of food in the refrigerator just as Cesca had promised. He inhaled deeply when he took it over to the microwave, lifting up the clingfilm to allow the air to circulate. A different man would have eaten this food when it was fresh, sat opposite the pretty girl and talked until he made her smile. Maybe he would have poured her a glass of wine, made her mellow, seduced her with stories, until he could see the thrum of her heartbeat reflected in her gaze. He might have moved a little closer, until he could feel the body heat radiating from her, let his arm rest against hers, until their fingers began to entwine.
Sam knew how to seduce. He’d done it before, with women he could barely remember. But he didn’t want to seduce Cesca, he didn’t want to give her sweet words that meant nothing.
The microwave pinged and Sam pulled the plate from inside, using a fork to swirl the pasta in the creamy sauce. It was a little thick from being in the cold for hours, but apart from that it smelled delicious. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator door, popping the cap open and taking a long, slow drink. After hours of fasting it was like a balm to his rough lips.
He was halfway through eating when the sound disturbed him. As ravenous as he was, he barely noticed it at first, but when he paused to take a breath, the mechanical whirring made its way through his consciousness, registering in his brain.
It was so familiar, yet out of place in the middle of the night. It took him a while to realise it was his father’s old printer, creaking and bitching as it spewed out paper. It had been in the office for years, brought in by Foster when he was trying to work from the villa, until Lucia had chastised him and said that vacations were for relaxing.
When he finished eating, Sam tidied up, then walked out into the hallway where he stopped for a moment. The library was directly opposite, only fifteen feet away, and yet he hesitated, waiting for a sign.
She was behind that carved oak door. Separated from her only by air and wood, Sam tried to imagine what kind of mood Cesca was in. She’d made him dinner, after all, and left it for him to eat later. Hadn’t even poisoned it, he didn’t think. Yet it didn’t tally with her response earlier, or the vitriol that had poured out of her mouth. It was that memory that stopped him from closing the gap that lay between them. Stopped him from doing anything at all, apart from stand there. Because he was drawn to her, in spite of her anger. Like a kid picking at a scab he couldn’t help but want to see her again. To tell her how much he loved her writing, and he was sorry as hell for what he’d done to her.
But his feet remained stuck. He stood there for the longest of minutes, watching, waiting, wishing. And when he finally made his mind up to go back to bed, and sleep off whatever madness had stolen hold of him, the door to the library creaked open. Cesca walked out, coming to a complete stop as soon as she saw him. She was holding a whole pile of papers in her arms, white A4 pages printed with black. Her mouth dropped open, her brow dipping as she stared back at him, neither of them saying a word.
Then the pile of paper fell out of her arms, the sheaves falling to the marble floor, spreading out until the cream and brown marble was covered by a sea of white.
Before he knew it, Sam was at her feet.
She hadn’t expected to see him there, that’s why her heart was racing. That and the fact she’d managed to drop her entire script across the floor. There was nothing more to it than that, Cesca told herself. Simply a reaction to the unexpected shock.
‘Oh shit,’ she breathed. ‘And the bloody ink cartridge dried up, too. I can’t even reprint it.’
Sam chuckled as he surveyed the mess, scooping up the sheets of paper, frowning as he looked at the typed words printed across them.
‘There are no numbers,’ he said.
‘What?’ She’d felt surprised to hear his voice. As if she hadn’t spoken to him for an age.
‘The pages aren’t numbered. How are we going to get it in the right order?’
Cesca blinked. ‘I don’t know . . . ’ She shook her head. ‘I hadn’t thought to add any. There must be a hundred pages here.’
‘The acts and scenes are numbered, though?’
Cesca felt as though she’d just woken up, her thoughts clouded by the treacle in her mind. ‘Yes, they’re numbered.’
‘Then we’ll have to read through it. Make sure we have it ordered in the right way. I’ll just pick it all up for now, and we can take it back into the library. Lay them out.’
‘It’s OK, I can do it,’ Cesca said, dropping down to help Sam pick up the papers. ‘It’s my fault anyway.’
‘I’d like to help.’
Well, that shut her up. Cesca couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Instead she nodded, moving back to allow Sam to scoop up the papers that were left. Once he had them all, he neatened the pile with a shuffle of his hands, then tucked them under his arm as he offered his other hand to Cesca.
Wordlessly, she took his proffered palm. Let him curl his fingers around her hand. Allowed him to pull until her legs were straightening, and they were both standing, a little too close to each other.
‘Thank you.’ When her words came, they were breathless. A smile curled at the corner of her lips, and he grinned back in reflection, his eyes crinkling as he stared down at her.
He was still holding her hand.
For some reason that sent a shiver down her spine. An electrical pulse that kept bouncing up and down, unwilling to unleash its hold on her nerve endings. A gift that kept on giving.
‘It’s really good, you know.’
She licked her dry lips. Was it only a few hours ago that she was screaming at him? Now she was pretty much lost for words, unable to come up with any of the repartee she used to be so lauded for. ‘It is?’
‘You must know how good it is. You can’t write something like this and not see how it will affect people. It’s amazing.’
It had been a long time since she’d received praise for her writing.
‘It’s only a first draft,’ she said softly. ‘Well, a second if you count the changes I made.’
‘Changes?’ Sam pulled her into the library, his large hand
still enveloping her own. When they reached the large rug in the middle of the room he finally released her, kneeling down to place the pile of papers on the floor. Without being asked, Cesca knelt next to him, her skin still tingling from his touch. Her body was flushed in spite of the huge wicker fan that was circling on the ceiling above them.
‘Your suggestions . . . they were good.’ Her voice was quieter still. ‘I added them in.’
‘But you hated them.’ Sam frowned. ‘You were furious about them.’
Cesca couldn’t meet his gaze. ‘I didn’t read them before I came to find you.’ She was talking as much to the floor as she was to him. ‘I wish I had, I’m so sorry. I never should have said those things.’
She sensed rather than saw Sam’s frown. It was in the way his breathing changed, in the movement of his body when he shifted next to her. More than that, it was in the way the air thickened between them, crackling and spitting like a freshly lit fire.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have read your play. It was like reading somebody’s diary or something. I’m sorry I upset you, it was wrong.’
‘You didn’t mean to upset me.’
Sam shook his head slowly. ‘No I didn’t, but I managed to do it anyway. It’s something I do a lot, and let’s face it, it’s not the first time I’ve behaved like an asshole to you. I’ll try to make it the last, though.’
She pulled her lip between her teeth, sharp edges digging into the skin there. ‘I was an asshole, too. I didn’t even give you a chance to explain, I just screamed like some kind of harpy. People must have heard me for miles around.’
‘You were only saying the truth. Getting it off your chest. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’
‘No.’ She was certain of that. The churning in her stomach was enough evidence of her mistake. ‘I could have waited to hear you out, and explained why I felt so violated. Instead I just launched at you, without giving you a chance to explain.’
‘Maybe I didn’t deserve a chance.’
She blinked rapidly. ‘Doesn’t everybody deserve to be heard?’
It was Sam’s turn to look down at the floor. He was staring at the pile of papers, his forehead wrinkled. ‘When I read your play last night, it was like hearing you speak. I wanted to know those characters, know what happens to them. They felt real already.’
Her throat felt scratchy, her voice hoarse. ‘I guess they are real to me. I based it on my family.’
‘You did?’ Sam asked. ‘Just like your last play.’
It felt as though her heart was stopping. ‘You remember that?’
‘I can remember hearing about your mother and putting two and two together. Her death was a big thing in the theatre world. And those four sisters – they’re your sisters, right?’
His eyes were shining when he looked at her, reflecting the soft light glowing from the desk lamp.
‘My sisters and me, yes.’
‘It’s heartbreaking to read about their story. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. And I’m desperate to see them all get to happier times. That’s if you’ll let me read more of it.’
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. It barely reached his lips, really. She wanted to touch his face, rub the sadness from his expression. Take his pain away, so hers could go, too. And it was such a strange feeling, in stark contrast to her emotions earlier. Where she’d wanted to hurt him only hours ago, she now wanted to comfort.
‘Of course you can read it. I’d love that. All your suggestions, your edits, they were really helpful.’ She bit her lip again. ‘I should have read them before I reacted.’
‘You don’t need to keep apologising. If anybody should be sorry, it’s me.’ He reached out for her hand, taking it in his. She was getting accustomed to the feel of his skin. ‘And I am sorry, so fucking sorry for ruining your dreams. For hurting you. If I could go back and change it all I would.’ He blew out a mouthful of air. ‘You must really miss your mom.’
A lump formed in her throat. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly.
‘It must have been horrible losing her so young.’
She wiped the budding tears away with the back of her hand. ‘It was.’ She wanted to say more, but the words seized up in her throat.
‘When the play folded, it must have felt like you were losing her all over again.’
The tears spilled out. She tried to swallow the emotion back down. ‘It felt exactly like that,’ she whispered. ‘Nobody’s ever described it that way before. But yes, writing the play had been cathartic, and seeing it staged was beyond my wildest imagination. When it all went wrong, it almost killed me.’
‘I was such an asshole.’
‘Whatever you did, you must have had your reasons.’
‘I thought I did . . . I was . . . ’ He faded out, staring at her. ‘Yeah, they seemed important at the time.’
‘And now? Are they still important?’
His expression changed. He stared over her shoulder, his eyes cloudy. She wanted to reach out and smooth out his worry lines. ‘It’s boring,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘Family stuff.’
‘But as you said, it must have been important at the time.’ Her stomach twisted. There was something about the way his eyes were watering that made her feel anxious.
‘It was,’ he whispered. He exhaled loudly, then rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. ‘But it’s boring. Nothing to write a play about.’ He refused to meet her stare.
‘It doesn’t sound like nothing,’ she said softly. ‘You know, sometimes it’s good to talk about things.’
Sam still stared at the floor, his body as still as a statue. His jaw was twitching, as though he was grinding his teeth. When he finally looked up at her, his expression was blank.
‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ he told her. ‘And even if there was, I don’t go around spilling my guts left, right and centre. Unless it’s written in a script.’
It felt like a verbal slap. ‘I was only trying to be nice. I’m not as interested in you as you think I am,’ she snapped.
‘What?’ He frowned. ‘Where did that come from?’
She felt hurt that he’d thrown her sympathy back in her face. Did he really believe his own hype? But then, why wouldn’t he: he was gorgeous, successful, and had everything he’d ever wanted. Why would he even care what she thought?
She shrugged. ‘From you. Look at you: everything about you is perfection. You’ve got it all, haven’t you? The looks, the career, more money than you know what to do with. It’s all come so easily to you.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’ His tone was a warning.
‘I know what everybody else knows,’ she told him. ‘It’s hard to avoid you. You’re in every magazine.’
‘And you believe that shit?’ he asked, his hands clenching and unclenching. ‘You believe everything you read? Well maybe you should grow up, Cesca. You know nothing about me. Nothing at all.’
He stood there, his expression furious, staring at her, awaiting a response. She opened and closed her mouth three times, trying to find the words, but failing miserably.
In the end, only two would do.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly.
He blinked a couple of times, his thick lashes sweeping down. He looked as lost as she felt.
‘I shouldn’t have said that,’ she continued, wanting to kick herself. ‘I know the papers lie, I’ve seen it enough times. It must be awful being on the receiving end, and knowing that people are judging you. I should just keep my mouth shut.’
The anger dissolved from his face. ‘It’s OK.’
‘No it isn’t. But thank you for being gracious.’
‘I’m as much to blame. You were only trying to help. It’s just that . . . ’ He trailed off, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands. ‘I’ve learned that talking about things doesn’t always help.’
‘OK.’ She didn’t know what else to say.
He gave her
one of his trademark grins. Easy, sexy, completely false. ‘We’ve probably argued enough for today,’ he said. ‘How about we get to work on your play instead? It’s going to take us all night as it is.’
He reached for the papers, shuffling them in his hands. This time his smile felt genuine.
She wanted to call him out on his bullshit. For a moment there he’d allowed himself to be vulnerable, and she’d felt drawn to him. But the moment had passed, and he was clearly in no mood to talk.
‘Sounds good to me.’ And though she was full of questions that kept knocking at her brain, she swallowed them down, grateful they’d reached some kind of understanding.
They had time enough for talking another day. Tonight she needed to work on her play.
16
He hath eaten me out of house and home
– Henry IV Part I
By the time they’d finished, they could hardly keep their eyes open. Cesca glanced over at Sam who was trying to swallow a yawn.
‘You know, we did this all wrong,’ she said. ‘It would have been so much easier if I’d printed it out again. I could even have added in the page numbers this time.’
Sam started to laugh, the tiredness making him almost giddy. ‘If you hadn’t used up all the ink the first time, that would have been a great idea. But unless you want to wait a week for a replacement, then we don’t have a choice. A better idea would’ve been for you to read it out from the computer. We would have got it in the right order in half the time.’
‘I’m such an idiot, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry.’ The truth was he couldn’t remember a time when he’d enjoyed himself this much. Reading out the lines, taking on different accents. Letting his voice rise in a horrible falsetto whenever he read out a woman’s words. His antics had made Cesca chuckle, and hearing her laughter had been a miraculous thing, especially after the awkwardness of their confrontation.