The Show Must Go On

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Friends

Chapter Thirty-Nine Soundtrack: EP 2: Friends by Ian McConnell

It's rare for me to start a day both horny and guilt-free. But guilt, begone! I will not apologise anymore. I am ready for some action.

Tomas texts me: Remember to affirm yourself. You are worthy.

This is a cute habit he warned me about last night: he texts his friends reminding them that they're valued. It's pretty obvious why we weren't compatible. But I was charmed to be added to his list of friends. I think we'll get along just fine.

thx bb, I reply. you too.

Thank you Ellie, he replies a minute later. I am absolutely certain that it took him sixty seconds to type that response.

The office door dings open menacingly. Ah yes. There's my other problem, too.

My celibacy problem (and it is now, undeniably, a problem) is mine to deal with. Yes, Nas literally shoved me away when we kissed and promised it wouldn't happen again. Not a great start. But I don't have to sleep with Nas. There are other, less beautiful, men.

But Nas does have to be my friend, if that's what we are. He can't shudder every time we brush shoulders and make catty remarks about my romantic prospects. Friends don't do that.

Okay, so. First: tell Nas off.

Second: sex.

That's only two things. I can do two things.

What should I say?

'Hey, dude, how ya doing? Just wondering why you're repulsed by me? Do I have bad breath? No worries, hang ten!'

'Good morning Nasir, just circling back to our recent inter-oral merger. Are there any deliverables you were expecting that left you unable to proceed?'

'Why are you being such an arsehole when you know that I'm trying my best? Tomas says I'm worthy of respect so fucking respect me!'

None of these options sound right.

Nas has been in and out, pushing and pulling, for months now. It was almost easier when we threw pens at each other and spoke only in acronyms. At least I knew not to trust him.

But he's been sharing himself with me and inviting himself into my life. I think that I know him, both his habits and his desires, except for this one constant paradox.

What makes him change like that?

I think back to our recent interactions: him snapping that I should stop trying to date, pulling back when I leaned into dancing, pushing me away when we kissed. Clearly, he was rejecting me. That's obvious. But there's something else there, too. I thought he wanted me. Could I have been completely wrong?

Oh God. I'll have to do the worst thing imaginable. I'll have to ask him.

I enter our office like it's a warzone. My desk chair awaits, slowly spinning. Very ominous. Horror movies start like this.

No sign of Nas. He's late. That's bad.

Ideally my hair would look better than this, too. Not that I'm expecting any action. But it's not making me feel my most confident.

I can only maintain this panic for so long. My heart can't take the pressure. Finally, reluctantly, I stop staring at the door and look at my emails.

One of our shows was slated in a tabloid for 'Anti-Family Values', which means it's doing what it's meant to (depicting women as people). We've signed the headline talent for another upcoming series, who's paid an eye-watering amount that I quickly look away from. And our show, our animated baby, has its first animatic waiting in my inbox. I want to open it, but Nas should be here. We should watch it together.

I shoot Kehinde an email, letting her know that we've received the first sketch of the animation. All thanks to her script, I remind her.

And then I have a 10:30 production meeting, and at 10:32, Nas appears. He couldn't have timed it better. I can't even wave hello.

Naturally he looks gorgeous. His hair is doing that wind-wavy thing that on anyone else would look messy, but gives him a roguish James Bond charm. Glasses today, too. Glinting. And a perfectly ironed linen shirt. This man is going to kill me.

'Let's wrap up early,' I tell my colleagues 15 minutes before our meeting ends. Nas shoots me a hard look from his desk. Ah-ha! So he was scheduling his day to avoid me. Well, not anymore. I've got time now and he's trapped.

I hardly hang up before saying, 'Nasir, are you free?'

Checkmate. I know he is.

'Of course, Eleanor,' he drawls without looking up. 'Do you need me to check your spelling on something? I only ask because you used the wrong "there" in your email this morning.'

Bastard. No matter what Taylor says, spelling is hard.

Barry's door creaks. Is he in today? What could he possibly be doing in there? Certainly not any work.

'Maybe we should find a meeting room.'

'Why? Are you planning to shiv me without witnesses?'

'Don't worry, all the upstairs rooms have windows.'

'Thank God for that.'

He stands and gestures me forward with a motion that feels expletive. It's technically not swearing, but his body language is ripe with subtext.

We take one of the more awkward walks of my life down a flight of stairs to an unoccupied meeting room, which, ironically, has no windows. My heart sinks as I open the door. Clearly all the detritus of old productions has been piled up here and lives in dusty brown boxes and a wilting plant. There's a sagging futon which Nas immediately claims, leaving me to stand awkwardly in front of him.

Damn. Some planning would really have helped. I'm not a naturally gifted improviser.

Nas perches on the end of the futon, his legs spread. I pace like a chicken.

'Can we talk? I miss talking to you.'

I hate how pathetic I sound. He's won this game of ours: I have finally admitted that I don't hate him. 1-0 Nas.

He doesn't look smug, though. Instead, he runs a hand through his hair, mussing it until it stands upright, then slowly looks up at me.

'Sure. We can talk about anything you want.' He sounds tired—more tired than when we dealt with mass Hepatitis infections on location in Budapest, more tired than during his four-day hangover last July. I nearly lose my nerve.

'You kissed me,' I say. It sounds impossible out loud. 'And then you apologised.'

I brace myself for his response because I know that, however he delivers the rejection, it will be the most devastating blow I have ever received. No preparation can insulate me. I am opening myself up to a man who has never been kind and he will know exactly where to aim.

Now he's taking off his glasses, carefully folding them into his pocket, before looking very deliberately at me. His eyes are dark.

'Yes.'

'Why?'

He says, 'I kissed you because I had to. And I apologised because you're engaged.'

I can't process this. My brain has finally, catastrophically, stopped.

I blurt out, 'I'm not engaged.'

'You're not engaged.'

And now, things happen very quickly. Somehow, in the space of a breath, I am standing between his legs. He is pinning my hands against the desk. And somehow, he is kissing me.