Wish You Were Here

Chapter 19

Another day in his hotel, comforting and familiar. You lay face down on his bed with your laptop while he sits beside you with a cup of tea, blearily working his way through a bunch of electronic paperwork for his townhouse. Something vibrates in the bed and he nudges your phone closer to you. "It's your mum," he says.

You don't really want to pick up a call from your mom in front of him, but it's weirder if you don't. She asks you if you're doing anything, if now is a good time to chat or if you're getting ready to see "that actor friend of yours."

"He's actually here with me," you admit, putting your phone on loudspeaker. He greets your mom by name, which she loves, and you are somewhat stunned by – you are certain you had only told him her name once, several months ago. He is good with names, and you suppose he does charm people for a living, but there's something very funny about hearing it work on your mom in real time.

They make small talk for a few minutes, him asking her about work and she about his time in the US. "It's so sweet to hear an English accent," she says. "Do you travel home often?"

"I'm going to be moving back in a few weeks," he tells her. "Literally signing the form for my new house as we speak."

She coyly asks if you're going too, and you confirm you're staying in New York. "You know I don't even have a passport," you tell her reassuringly, and she does seem to believe you. But now that she knows you're on a time limit with him, and has spoken to him over the phone, she seems to trust your judgment a little more.

He climbs off the bed and showers with the door shut, giving you privacy with your mom for ten minutes or so. When he comes back, naked, he sits on your thighs and lifts up your skirt to see what you're wearing underneath. Lucky you're not on FaceTime. "Mom, I've got to go," you say quickly as his hand slips into your underwear. "Our, uh, room service is here."

Afterwards, he reaches for you in the bed and says, "You doing anything tonight?"

"I don't think so." It's not a day you'd expected him to be free. He's usually at the theater. "Why do you ask?"

Long pause. Even his hand on your bare skin is hesitant. "You want to come to the final showing?"

"Of the play?"

"Mmm."

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling, lost for words. His hand slips away, but you can still feel the warmth from his body heat, his breath on your skin, to indicate he's still close. "Do you think it's a good idea?" you ask eventually. "Me being there?"

"Everyone already knows we're seeing each other," he points out. "We can be subtle without having to hide. It probably looks worse if you don't come."

"I would have thought tickets would have sold out ages ago."

He reaches for his bedside table and flings something back at you, an envelope, landing on the quilt with a soft flump. You fumble for it and peek inside. One spare ticket, an excellent seat. His habit of sneakily getting you tickets without asking you first is starting to get annoying. But he looks so pleased with the idea of you being there that you have to say yes.

The show is great, of course, and the final applause drags on for a ten-minute standing ovation. He sneaks you backstage afterwards, and then off to the cast party, stopping to introduce you to everyone. He doesn't leave your side, but you don't hold hands. Holding hands is the universal paparazzi signal for "we're together" and you're enjoying the plausible deniability of being pictured together without being physically affectionate, even if everyone is staring at you. You excuse yourself and slip away to the bathroom for a moment of privacy, and end up hiding in the stall for so long your legs go numb.