Good at Being Alive(11)
“Caspian? Aslan?”
“Now you’re just naming characters from The Chronicles of Narnia.”
“Draco, Voldemort…”
“So many little Voldemorts running around London these days. It’s overused.”
“But you can see why I’d be disappointed with Theo.”
She’s incredibly irritating. I suspect a fake marriage is the only kind she’ll be able to achieve, and it’s definitely the only kind I intend to achieve. I resolve, for the second time in five minutes, to remain civil. “Anyway, are you busy at the moment?” Given that this is Rebecca, I’d wager the answer is no.
“I’m eating donut holes in bed. I keep thinking that if I had a stroke right now, they’d find me with this box of donut holes and my vibrator and struggle to put the order of events together.”
I choke a little and tug at my collar. An image of the exquisite Rebecca with her head thrown back and her legs open wide is in my head before I can stop it. Alas, I remain a heterosexual male, whether she’s Rick’s daughter or not.
“Why are you eating donut holes in bed?”
“Because I can. Because there’s no one to tell me not to. And I quit my job so there’s nothing else to do.”
“So you’re unemployed and staying in bed all day, eating donut holes.”
“Yes. My father packed his lunch every day for thirty years so that I’d have the money to eat donut holes in bed. I’m sure it’s what he’d have wanted.”
A laugh is working its way up my throat but I fight it back admirably.
She’s so strange. And interesting, yes, but the sort of interesting that ends up drugging you or persuading you to join a cult. “He said as much, many a time,” I reply. “Anyhow, I just thought I should check in with you. I assume you saw Emil’s email?”
“I did.” I hear her steps moving through the room, which I suppose means she’s no longer near her vibrator. Probably for the best. “We should discuss some things.”
I roll my eyes. She apparently didn’t read the email carefully, which isn’t much of a surprise. “Right. That’s the entire purpose of Friday’s meeting, Rebecca.”
“No, not about that,” she says, and the hint of discomfort in her voice warns me that I won’t enjoy what comes next because…is there a topic that makes Rebecca uncomfortable? She just told a near stranger that she’s got a vibrator in her bed. “We’re actually saying vows. Promising fidelity and whatever other bullshit. So, what are the rules for when the camera isn’t rolling? Are we free to do whatever, or whomever, we want?”
Ah. Yes. That.
“I realize this will be a challenge for you, but some discretion is required. I think we need to agree that, at least while we’re traveling for the show, neither of us is doing whatever or whomever we want.”
She exhales loudly. “Look, dude. I have needs. I’m sure you’re happy to masturbate to Chaucer in your room alone, but I am not.”
I groan into my hand. “For fuck’s sake, Rebecca.”
“Oh, sorry. Not a Chaucer fan? What about the poems of Lord Byron? That also seems British.”
I’m fighting a desire to laugh. I’m also beginning to see why so many marriages end with one spouse murdering the other. “If I can survive a few months without it, you can.”
“Please. I could probably meet your needs right now by reciting ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn.’?”
“I assure you that—”
“?‘Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness, / Thou foster-child of silence and slow time’…I bet that already made you hard.”
“It definitely did not.” Though the repeated references to her needs and masturbation have produced a regrettable ping of interest in that vicinity, as has that mental image of her with her legs spread wide, a picture I can’t seem to banish from my mind.
Which confirms my original theory about Rebecca: she’s quicksand. Lovely and funny and interesting and unexpected—the precise combination that will have you moving across the world and hiring a skywriter to propose and jumping off a balcony when you discover she never felt the same.
No matter how lovely the quicksand is, no matter how many times the quicksand mentions its vibrator…
It’s still fucking quicksand.
Bex
He’s already waiting in the conference room when I arrive. He’s in another expensive suit, today paired with a pale blue oxford that brings out his eyes. We look more mismatched than ever: now that I no longer need to impress anyone with my professionalism, I’ve reverted to everyday Bex—fewer blazers and silk blouses (none actually) and more leggings, sneakers, and sweatshirts, which are basically my entire wardrobe aside from my going-out clothes, which would definitely not be appropriate for this setting.
Emil is not around, but Lars and his team already have their laptops open. Caden, the little prick, is barking, “Just fucking make it happen,” into his phone. His father is a big-name director, which explains the overconfidence, as well as how he acquired this internship.
“Who’s ready to talk wedding details?” asks Lars cheerfully.
Suddenly the room is too warm. Theo pulls off his jacket and I lose the sweatshirt, under which I’m wearing a cut-off sorority T-shirt.