Wish You Were Here

Chapter 14

"Good lord," you say, staring at the house. You lean forward in your seat, try to take in as much as possible, but his friend's house is so huge you can't look at it all at once.

"I know, right?" He shakes his head. "You wouldn't believe the shitty little apartment we had when we first lived in LA."

"What does he do for work again?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? You know whose house this is, right?" And then he names another actor, Irish, roughly the same age but muuuuch more famous. Your pop culture-obsessed friend would classify him as a permanent A-lister. You're immediately feeling much more nervous. "You'll like him," he says. "Talks a lot of shit, but is a good bloke."

The boys are yelling at each other before the door is open, immediately going in for a hug. He doesn't even need to introduce you – his friend grabs your hand and says your name, cackles when he makes an easy joke. The wife is nice too, compliments your dress and tells you she's heard wonderful things about your book. "Thank you," you tell her. "You, um, have such a nice house."

Nice is an understatement. It's so huge it could house a small village. You're lucky you have a guide to the dining room. She shows you to the table where you take your seats side by side. Your actor touches her arm, thanks her for having you two over. Out of anyone else's mouth, such a gesture would be cringy, but he comes across as so sincere. He catches you looking at him and smirks, and you look away quickly. His arm slides along the back of your chair and he whispers, "Hi," in your ear, sending you into a fit of giggles.

While you're alone in the room you take a moment to look around at the decor. It is nicely decorated, not just full of random expensive furniture. In the corner sits a small white box on wheels, a bassinet. It's still and quiet, and from the way the brim is tilted you can't see if the baby is in it. You look at your actor, who shrugs, then calls out, "Oi, where's your kid?"

"Oh, he's in there. Don't worry. You'll hear him when he's awake." The husband comes back with a wine bottle, pours a bit into your actor friend's glass. "Do you want some?" he asks you.

"No thank you. I'm fine with just water."

"Are you even old enough to drink?"

You know it's a joke, and he doesn't mean to offend you, but it's a pretty solid burn. His wife is younger than him, too, but still easily has seven years on you. She elbows him when she squeezes past, but you can take it. "I'm still in recovery from last weekend," you say. "No more for me for a little while."

"No, please, have some if you want. There's a cot upstairs if you need a nap."

You're smirking. "I'm good, thank you."

He looks at your actor friend. "Did you check her ID before you started seeing each other?"

"You're an arsehole," he says, laughing.

"Hey now." He fills your water glass. "I'm just getting all the easy jokes out of the way so we can have a decent conversation." Then, to you, "Do you want ice?"

You twist your mouth, trying to figure out if it's weird to ask for a slice of lemon. As though reading your mind, your actor asks for it for you. His friend chuckles, makes a big deal of cutting one up in the kitchen and coming back to put the slices in your glass with little tongs like they do in bars. "Tell me when to stop," he says. You like the gentle ribbing, know it's just him trying to break the ice with you, and you let him stack lemon slices in your glass until your drink is almost overflowing, both of you trying to hold straight faces. "Lifestyles of the rich and famous," he says to you with a wink. "It's gone straight to your head."

"Tell me about it," your actor says. "She corrected my pronunciation of 'seitan' the other day."

"Satan?" He looks at you, realizes what he means. "You veggie?" You nod and he pulls a face that you can't tell if is impressed or just surprised. "Interesting. And for you, sir?" He dangles a lemon slice over your actor's wine glass.