Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
“You’re a farmer’s son?” William says between bites of panini, as if he’s just heard something utterly fascinating.
“Got the war wounds to prove it,” I say, pointing to the scar above my left eye. “Not as exciting as it sounds, though. Fell off my dad’s tractor when I was a wean. Got a right bollocking for it an’ all.”
“For hurting yourself?” William’s face melts in concern.
I hope my chuckle reassures him. “I shouldnae have been up there in the first place. Totally my own fault. But yes, I’m a farmer’s son. By accident, I s’pose you could say.”
“How’s that work, then?”
“My conception was the result of my dad being a little too hospitable with the daughter of one of the guests in the holiday cottages the farm rent out every summer, back when my grandad ran the place. I wasn’t born and raised there like the generations before me. Although, I am a dab hand with the harrow.”
William exhales a breath of laughter, and I try not to marvel at how handsome he is. “I’m not even gonna pretend I know what that is.”
“Maybe I could show you sometime…” I start to choke on the stupidity of my words the moment I hear them out loud. Why in God’s name would this practical stranger want to see me plough and harrow a fucking field? That’s why I quickly add, “Your family would love a break in one of the cottages, I’m sure. It’s beautiful out there. Anytime you want, you just let me know, aye?”
The smile I receive reassures me. I recovered well, I think. “I might just do that. Thank you.”
I sip on my coffee. He drinks his Sprite. There’s no tension, no awkwardness. The silence is comfortable. Pleasant. A welcome respite.
“Did you see him a lot? Your father?”
William’s question cutting through the stillness surprises me. It’s the most personal question he’s asked so far. “Oh, aye. Spent whole summers on the farm. Visited in the school holidays. When I got older and more passionate about acting, I moved there for a while to be closer to the better drama academies they have down south. My parents are both great people, but wildly different. My mum’d saw her legs off before wading knee deep in muck at the crack o’ dawn every morning and my dad wouldnae live in a city for fifty-million quid and a harem of virgins.”
“Not even a harem, eh? Now that is a man of conviction.” His laugh is infectious. Husky. Deep.
“Bloody stubborn is what he is. What about you? What’s your old man like?” I regret the question faster than I asked it.
The mood’s changed. William’s head sinks uneasily into his shoulders as he looks away. I watch his expression, see his nose scrunch and his cheeks puff. “Not a man of conviction,” is all he says.
Damn, I want to know more. I sense many layers have been built around this electrician, and I feel an insane urge to peel them all away. As I stuff hot potato in my mouth, I want to know why my new friend looks so suddenly lost, so…burdened. Why his shoulders look like the weight of the universe has just landed on them. It’s the strangest thing. I want to know if he’s the type of man who lives out of a suitcase on trips or unpacks straight away. Whether he likes pineapple on pizza. If he reads. Does he prefer morning or night. Coke or Pepsi. Where does his beautiful Mediterranean complexion come from? Does he know he tucks his ring finger under his thumb when he’s nervous? But saying, “So, you coming to Stan’s party tonight?” seems more appropriate.
“Stan…” Confusion knits his eyebrows together for a brief moment. “Oh! You mean Stan? Stan Ryan?” William chuckles, shakes his head. “Yeah, uh, I highly doubt I’m on Stan Ryan’s guest list.”
Right. Shit. Yeah. Different worlds. “Come with me.” I can see I’m losing him. He either hates the idea or thinks I’ve lost my mind. “I’m serious. I need support, man. I’ll beg if you want. I hate parties. Hate the lah-de-dah shit that comes with this fame thing. It’s actual torture.”
“Ohhh, why didn’t you lead with how absolutely horrible it will be? I would’ve said yes immediately.”
I choose to repay his sarcasm by accepting it at its word. “Great!” I say, clapping my hands together. That’ll teach him. “My driver and I will pick you up from your hotel at eight,” I continue, gathering my rubbish from the ground before hopping to my feet.
“No, wait…Laurence—”
“Catch you later, pal!”
“Laurence!”
But I don’t turn back. Something tells me this guy has never seen a night of glitz and glamour before and, damn, am I determined to show him what it’s all about tonight. Why work in the movies without living like you’re in the frigging movies?