The Show Must Go On

Chapter Forty-Four: skinny dipping

Chapter Forty-Four Soundtrack: skinny dipping by Sabrina Carpenter

We start early the next morning: too early, much too early, after the late dinner that spiralled into meetings. I think we crawled home after midnight, but in the endless Finnish sunlight, I'm not sure.

Today, I think I'm about to form a new trauma memory. Today, along with a dozen other producers, we're going to a sauna. I'm going to strip into my swimsuit and sweat my way through small talk, surrounded by some of the richest, most Botoxed people I know. I will, without a doubt, be the only one above 20% body fat. And Nas, too, will be there, and probably I will discover what Greek gods looked like in swimsuits, and maybe he will decide that I'm too ordinary for him. Maybe I'll explode at the sight of him: all those years of celibacy building up like a bomb until he tips me over the edge.

And Paul is there, too. Bloody Paul.

The sauna is on a tiny island in the city's harbour, and as we take the boat over I know the wind is doing nothing for my hair. Annoyingly Paul looks good in the sea breeze. He's sitting opposite me on the ferry, beside Nas, and in the warm summer sun Nas is lounging beside him. All the tension between them seems to have cleared.

I spit out a bug that flew into my mouth.

They're deep in conversation and I'm trying not to eavesdrop, but it's hard, when Paul keeps smirking over at me.

Finally, he can't resist. He interrupts Nas, leans across to me, and says, 'Did Nas send you my best?'

'Pardon?'

'When he was late to that screening? I didn't mean to keep him so late, but we had a lot to talk about. All that work on Pendleton he did is finally paying off.'

'All my work,' I say without thinking. Nas doesn't open his eyes but his mouth twitches.

So at the movie screening last week, Nas was late because he was with Paul. Whatever they spoke about frustrated Nas enough that he cracked and kissed me.

He looks okay now, but his earlier words come back to me. He's always been sought for sex. Maybe, when he's feeling vulnerable, it's the easiest thing to reach for.

Does that cheapen what passed between us?

Or was it one final defense he couldn't keep up?

It's something else we should talk about, but what I won't discuss anymore is Paul. He's so transparent in his attempt to make me insecure. And who could blame him, with his ex looking that good while being that successful? Losing Nas would ruin anyone. So I smile at Paul, and say, 'No, he didn't mention you at all.'

And I lean back, feel the wind in my hair, and don't speak for the rest of the journey.

*

Now that we're at the sauna, I can't put it off anymore: it's time for a swimsuit. This is very, very low on the list of activities I'd pick with my colleagues. Well, most of my colleagues.

In the changing room, I shrug off my dress and reveal my black Speedo. In London, it felt sophisticated and work-appropriate, but now it feels too demure. I'm desperate to cover the scars that bisect my stomach, and I think that insecurity shines out as I try to hide it. But it's too late now.

I leave the changing room chatting to a woman I kind of know. She wants to put together a co-production, focused on emerging talent across EMEA, and that's fiscally viable because...

Nas emerges from the other changing room. I have spent a lot of time imagining him naked, but none of it did him justice: the firm lines of his shoulders, his muscles just cut enough to reveal the outline of his abs, the line of dark hair leading down into his shorts. Before Nas, seeing someone naked would replace my fantasies and I could move past the lust. But now, my thoughts are spiralling and fracturing. Knowing that he looks like this is so much worse. I will never not fantasise about this.