“Looking gaunt am I?”
“I was going to say . . . exhausted, but if the shoe fits . . .”
He laughed. He was exhausted.
He had been for a long time.
He ran a hand through his matted hair. Not a symptom of fatigue. He had abysmal water pressure in his shower and had barely managed to rinse—he really ought to fix those pipes. He just . . . kept putting it off. Let’s face it, he wasn’t the handiest when it came to home repair.
His mum had always been good at that stuff.
He set down his coffee and picked up a banana, holding it tightly for a few seconds.
Louisa smirked. “It’s the funniest thing. Every time you touch a banana, you smile. Without fail.”
He peeled it open. “I was thinking of my mum.”
“Do I want to know what kind of shenanigans you and your mum got up to with bananas?”
Elliot almost spat his mouthful out. He managed to swallow, just. “You sure are lacking a filter.”
She smirked. “Keeps things interesting. But hey, honest communication is what it’s all about, right?”
“There are times being judicious is warranted.”
“Was this one of those times?”
Elliot laughed. “On the contrary. I haven’t laughed like that in . . . a long time.”
“Phew. I never want to hurt your feelings, but I can’t be judicious. I must speak my mind and I must live and love.”
Elliot’s phone rang. “Excuse me.”
He sighed. Mary. His neighbour. She probably wanted him to check in on her puppy again. He loved doing it, of course, but it wasn’t professional to keep leaving work to take Honey for walks.
He debated with himself and guiltily swiped to voicemail. He’d call back at the end of his work day.
“Sorry, where were we?” he said, and narrowed his eyes on Louisa. She kept fiddling with the lace on her—very pretty—bohemian blouse, which she’d paired with trousers in a lively floral print. “Huh. You’re dressed up.”
Usually she wore old jeans and shirts. Practical shoes for climbing about rigging.
She gestured down her body with the swish of her hand. “I keep my canvas in good condition, but I only paint it when royalty comes.”
“Is royalty coming?”
She gaped at him. “Haven’t you heard? Brandon sent out a mail about it yesterday.”
“Maybe that didn’t include temps?”
“He was ecstatic with the news, he cc’ed everyone.”
“Probably didn’t see it. I get a hundred mails a day.” He was a little behind answering them too.
Louisa crossed her legs. She was even wearing heels. “Oh my God, so like, you won’t believe it. You know how Excaliburry pulled out their songs for this movie?”
Elliot jiggled his leg. He wanted her to get to the point faster. Talking about famous musician-songwriters was not a particularly favourite pastime.
“So they left Brandon’s project in the ditch. Musically, anyway. So Brandon needed to land a replacement. Someone talented, but also, like, willing to work on our small, indie, gay-as-fucking-rainbow-pooping-unicorns film.”
“Thank you for that, Louisa.”
“You’re welcome. Anyway, he found the perfect guy.”
“Is that right. And who’s that?”
“You’ll never believe it.”
“Certainly not if you don’t tell me.”
“Wentworth McAllister!”
Every drop of blood drained from his face. He felt faint.
“You know. The famous singer songwriter. The one who wrote ‘Buzzing Breakup’ or something.”
“Bumblebee Breakup,” Elliot whispered.
“Right, yeah, that’s it. So he’s been back from Hollywood for a year or so, working in Wellington for Park Road, but he quit recently. There was a whole big interview with him in Gala last month. Maybe Brandon read the copy in the break room, because, like, it’s perfect timing right? He begged the guy to come here to help us out. And Wentworth McAllister agreed!”
Elliot couldn’t quite make sense of anything. Louisa was talking but none of it . . . made sense.
He had to be dreaming, surely?
God, had he fallen asleep and Beth and Walter were still arguing on his couch?
He pinched himself, hard. Hopeful. But while he caught only fragments of what Louisa was saying, in his heart, he knew the moment was real.
Wentworth McAllister.
Fifteen years had passed, and he’d never forgotten his face. How could he? He was everywhere. In films, on Netflix specials, in tabloid magazines. He looked exactly the same as he had then. The same sparkle in his eye. The same rust red hair. Only now it covered his face in a very short but constant beard.
Wentworth. He’d been living his dream for the last decade and a half.
“Elliot?”
Elliot shoved the image back into the recesses of his mind, managing the feat with much-practiced ease. “So, he’s your royalty? Why you’re dressed up?” Oh God, wait. “That means he’s showing up today.”
“Smart cookie. He’ll be here soon, and I’m hoping to leave a lasting impression.”
Elliot frowned. “I thought he was dating an Irish woman?” Clara Walsh?
“No, that one didn’t last either. None of them ever do.”
Elliot shouldn’t take comfort in that. But he was only human.