Any time I make Nicholas laugh – which is rare – it’s more of a polite titter. His sense of humour is polar opposite to mine and I have no idea if he genuinely thinks I’m funny or if he’s patronising me.
But Nick’s compliment makes me feel warm all over. Or that could be the three Aperol Spritzes – off the back of two martinis. I’ve got a nice buzz going on.
‘I’ll wheel this out to the balcony,’ he says, already halfway there.
I skirt around him to open the doors, then let him pass, and the bed frame clanks in protest as he rolls it over the threshold – not evenremotelysleep-worthy. Nick leaves it in the corner furthest from the door, then appraises the sun loungers.
‘What do you think?’ I ask, joining him.
‘I suppose I could bring one of them inside, maybe use both mattresses.’
I bend down to examine these so-called ‘mattresses’ but they’re nothing more than foam pads, a half-inch thick. I look back at Nick, my face scrunched. ‘Pretty sure this would suck to sleep on.’
His shoulders lift, then fall back into place. ‘I’ve slept on worse.’
‘Oh yeah,when?’ I ask, straightening and putting my hands on my hips.
His lips twitch like I’m about to be schooled. ‘On location shootingDeadfall. We had to sleep on the ground for three nights in a row.’
‘Wait, you did the stunts forDeadfall? Ilovethat movie,’ I say, sidestepping the part where he slept on the ground – we can come back to that.
‘Love?’ he asks, sitting on the edge of the lounger. ‘Fairly certainnobodyloves that film. More like indifference – or even hatred.’
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong, my friend,’ I retort smugly. ‘Deadfallhas cult status amongst my college friends. And I went to film school – most of us are making movies now, so we know what we’re talking about.’
His lips twitch again.
‘You don’t believe me,’ I say.
‘It’s not that.’
I stare at him –hard– my eyes extra wide.
‘Okay, I am dubious –Deadfallwas nominated for a Razzie, remember?’
‘So wasThe Godfather Part IIIthe same year it was nominated for seven Oscars. Those things are BS,’ I assure him.
‘Razzies or Oscars?’ he asks.
‘The answer to that depends on how cynical and disillusioned I’m feeling.’
I sit on the other lounger facing him, our knees almost touching, and we both scoot back at the same time.
‘And what about right now – where’s your cynicism sitting?’ he asks, his gaze intense. ‘Out of ten,’ he adds, as if it’s possible to quantify.
I contemplate his question, absently biting my lower lip. It’s only when I taste blood that I realise I’ve been doing it. I wipe my mouth.
‘You okay?’
I nod, going back to his question while staring out at the view. Still no sign of the ash cloud – something to be grateful for, I guess. It’s so beautiful here, with the twinkling lights of the town reflecting on the water, and the moon – only a day or two from being full – casting a milky glow. Might as well enjoy it while we’re allowed out on the balcony.
‘You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,’ says Nick, mistaking my distraction for deflection.
‘I was just thinking that even if we’re locked inside for the next week – or longer – at least we had today.’
He smiles. ‘That’s a good reminder.’ He taps the side of his head. ‘Sometimes I get fixated on the deficits, not the pluses.’
‘Like not taking credit for an awesome movie because the critics panned it?’