‘You have your food now, why are you still snapping at me?’
‘I don’t think you handled today well.’
‘I think you’ve been jet-lagged, moody and irritable all day,’ she says. ‘Extra sensitive – which, for you, is saying a lot.’
‘You scared Laura.’
‘I scared Laura,’ she repeats, as she always does, as if saying the words again will help her to process them. She does the same during interviews with interviewees’ responses. It can be unsettling for them, as though she doesn’t believe them, but really it’s her trying to grasp what they’ve just said.
‘You could tell she was frightened. You could see a young woman, surrounded by four people in a forest. Three of us dressed in black for a funeral, like we’re ninjas. She was terrified, and you were filming.’
That set-up seems to occur to her suddenly. ‘Shit.’
‘Yes, shit.’ He sucks his fingers again and studies her. ‘What’s going on?’
‘What we saw today was remarkable. What that girl did—’
‘Laura.’
‘What Laura did, those sounds she made, it was like magic. And I don’t believe in magic. I’ve never heard anything like that before.’
‘Me neither.’
‘I got excited.’
‘You got greedy.’
Silence.
He finishes his rib, watches the news on the TV in the corner.
‘You know everyone keeps asking me what I’ve got coming out next,’ she says.
‘Yeah, they’re asking me too.’
‘I’ve got nothing. Nothing like The Toolin Twins. All these awards we’re getting – people are interested in my work now, I have to be able to follow it up.’
He’s known she’s been feeling the pressure, and he’s glad she’s finally admitting it.
‘You should be happy you made one thing that people like. Some people never get that. The reason you were successful in the first place is because you took your time. You found the right story, you were patient. You listened. Today was a mess, Bo. You were rushing around like a headless chicken. People would rather see something authentic and worthy, than something that’s been thrown together.’
‘Is that why you’re doing Fat Fit Club and Grotesque Bodies?’
The anger bubbles inside him as he tries to remain calm. ‘We’re talking about you, not me.’
‘I’m under pressure, Solomon.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘You can’t tell someone not to feel pressure.’
‘I just did.’
‘Solomon …’ She doesn’t know whether to laugh or be angry.
‘You lost yourself in the forest,’ he says. He hadn’t planned on saying it, it just popped out.
She studies him. ‘Who are you talking to? Me, or yourself?’
‘You, obviously,’ he says, then throws the rib down, it makes a louder sound than he intended, as the bone hits the ceramic plate, and he starts a new one.
Bo folds her arms, studying him for a moment. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t say a word.
‘We both saw something fascinating in the forest. I jumped into action, you … froze.’
‘I didn’t freeze.’
‘What were you doing there, all that time, while I was at the cottage? Was she there the entire time?’
‘Fuck off, Bo.’
‘Well, it’s a valid question, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. We had sex. In the two minutes I was away from you, we had sex. Up against the tree.’
‘That’s not what I fucking mean and you know it.’
Wasn’t it?
‘I’m trying to figure her out and you’re not giving me anything. You must have had a conversation but you keep ignoring the question. She told you her name. You were alone with her before I got there, I want to know what you talked about …’
He ignores her; the desire to yell at the top of his lungs in front of everybody is too great. He buries the anger, buries it, buries it deep, until a simmer is all that remains. It’s as much as he can manage. He looks at Sky News but doesn’t see it.
Bo eventually leaves the table, and the room.
He could think about what Bo said, analyse it, understand it, look within himself for the answers. He could think about what he said and why, he could think about all of it. But he’s jet-lagged, hungry and pissed off, so instead he concentrates on the news on the TV, starting to hear the words coming from the presenter’s mouth, starting to see the words that scroll by at the bottom of the screen. When he finishes his last rib, he sucks his fingers dry of the sticky sauce and leans back in his chair, feeling bloated and satisfied.
‘Happy now?’ Rachel calls across the empty restaurant.
‘A night’s sleep and I’ll be grand.’ He yawns and stretches. ‘How’s Susie?’
‘A bit pissed off. Weather’s too hot. She can’t sleep. Feet and ankles are swollen up. Baby has a foot in her ribs. Think we’re going home tomorrow?’