‘Why the fuck would he know an anthropologist, Bo? He’s a washed-up fucking crooner. This is bullshit – you rang him because I’m away and you wanted to hook up.’ He’s not quite sure where the anger is coming from, where the jealousy has surged from. He knows he has a right to feel a little put out, but certainly not this much; he can’t help himself though. It’s guilt for how he’s been feeling for Laura, added to the natural protective role he’s taken on. It fires him up.
She squeals down the phone, her absolute fury and disgust at being accused, but he talks over her, neither of them listening to one another but catching the occasional insulting word and jumping on that. They go in circles. And finally they go silent.
‘If Laura auditions, it would help interest and funding for the documentary,’ she says, businesslike.
‘I thought you didn’t need funding. I think it’s a tacky idea. I don’t see how this will help you as a serious documentary maker. I think it will undo all the good that you have done this year,’ he says coldly, hopefully his iciness comes across, wondering if he should give it more punch.
She’s silent and he’s wondering if he’s made her cry, which would be unusual for Bo, but when she speaks again she’s as strong as before.
‘As producer, I am keeping all options open. So there’s a change of plan. I’m not going to Cork on Sunday, instead you’ll need to bring Laura to Dublin for the audition. Happy birthday to your mother. Good night.’
Before he can speak, she ends the call.
Bo stares at the phone in her hand, the screensaver illuminated, a photo of her and Solomon holding an award for The Toolin Twins. Tears of frustration prick her eyes. She feels such loathing for her boyfriend right now, but mostly hurt. Irritated, frustrated, suffocated, stuck in a box. It is so predictable. She knew that he would act like this, that he would stomp all over this opportunity, but despite knowing it, she still went to him with her enthusiasm and still was hurt by his reaction. She does the same thing over and over again and expects different results, she’s sure that’s the definition of insanity.
She feels arms slide around her waist. She closes her eyes remembering that feeling, savouring it, then slithers away.
‘Jack, stop,’ she mumbles.
He looks at her. ‘Phone call with Prince Charming didn’t go well?’
She can’t even lie, can’t defend herself or him. She feels the weight of his stare on her. He always did that: staring at her until she said things she never planned on saying. Well, she’s not giving in now.
Jack zips up his leather jacket and pulls down his cap as a crowd passing stare and whisper about him. ‘He’s in Galway with another woman, you’re here with me. There’s something wrong with you two.’
‘We trust each other, Jack,’ she says tiredly.
‘Come back to me,’ he says and she laughs.
‘So you can cheat on me again?’
‘I never cheated on you. I told you that. You’re the only person I never cheated on.’
She gives him a suspicious look. She never really believed that. Her definition of cheating and his was always different. Jack in a club, surrounded by a crowd of near-naked young women fawning over him, wasn’t technically cheating, but he never stopped them brushing up, touching up. Never stopped himself either.
‘So what makes me so special?’ she asks, cynically, feeling like it’s a line.
‘You shouldn’t have to ask me that,’ he replies. ‘You should already know what makes you special. You should be told every day,’ he says gently.
‘He tells me all the time,’ she says, her voice flat. ‘Good night, Jack.’
He reaches out and runs his thumb down her chin, the way he always did. She smells the cigarette smoke from his fingers.
‘You should quit smoking.’
‘Would it bring you back to me?’
She rolls her eyes but her irritation with him disappears. ‘Would that make you stop?’
He smiles. ‘Get home safe, Bo Peep.’
She stands outside the pub alone, surrounded by a dozen smokers laughing and chatting, but alone. She thinks about what he said. When was the last time Sol praised her, or told her she was special? She can’t remember. But it’s been two years, that happens, doesn’t it. Things go stale, that’s natural. At least he’s loyal, that she believes, or has always believed in the past. She never worried when he went out at night, came home late; he wasn’t that kind of guy. All she can think of is the times he’s talked her down, the times he’s tried to change her mind, in that soothing voice that now feels patronising. But that’s natural too, that’s the result of working and living together. There is rarely a break from each other, things overlap, lines become blurred, they’re doing well, she thinks. Perhaps they need more rules, more help on how to maintain their relationship while working together. No more talking the director and producer down, he wouldn’t do it on any other job. But then, she knows herself that she often needs it. She runs head-first into things, Solomon helps her to see other angles. Angles that seem obvious as soon as he says them, but that weren’t there for her at the time. They’re a good team.