The set teemed with attractive women—fantasy women, really, from magazines and commercials, who looked unreal at close range, with ludicrously svelte figures and angular, alien faces. But any grand plans for one of those on-set romances the magazines rejoiced in were thrown from his mind as soon as he spoke to these people. They were only interested in one thing: Sofia. Either they wanted to know the gossip on her breakup, or they wanted to be introduced. Fred refused to indulge in the first, but he did naively introduce a couple of them to his sister early on. He regretted it almost instantly. The first woman gave Sofia her show reel. The second woman ignored him afterward, defeating the purpose.
He sipped his beer. That’s why when he’d met Jane, she had confused and infuriated him. She spoke nothing of acting, dancing, show reels, agents, platforms, publicity, high-protein low-carb, or influencing. She bore none of the falseness of the other women, who were nice to him solely to get to Sofia. In fact, her behavior was quite the opposite. She made no attempt to conceal her dislike for him. She was downright hostile. He still found himself reeling from the exchange, and he felt agitation. She infuriated him. She was bewildering.
Fred put down his beer again, a little too hard. Paul looked at him and sighed.
“Okay,” Paul said. “You asked her out. She turned you down.” He sipped his drink.
“She didn’t turn me down. I asked her out and she said yes,” Fred argued.
“Then what happened?” Paul asked.
Fred shrugged. “Then she ran away,” he mumbled.
Paul folded at the middle like a hinge, silently chortling. He taught PE and Health at the school where Fred worked. His preferred teaching method for safe-sex education was to show his students close-up photos of gonorrhea.
“Are you finished?” Fred asked. He rolled his eyes.
“Sorry,” Paul said. He composed himself and sat up. He raised his glass. “A toast. To the woman who ran away. Good luck to her, I say!” He offered his glass toward Fred’s. Fred made no move toward it. Paul scoffed warmly and chinked the glasses together anyway. “I’m so happy right now,” Paul said. “It annoys me how much luck you have with women. I really like this Jane character. Too bad she ran away from you. I would have liked to shake her hand. First woman to turn ‘Mr. Sexy Eyes’ down. You normally don’t even try. Women just flock to you.”
“They don’t,” Fred said.
“They do,” Paul said with a nod. “You’ve got that dark, brooding, self-destructive look about you that women go gaga for. And you’ve got great hair, like your sister. You never have to romance women. They just sit next to you and flick their hair and then it’s on for young and old. No one ever flicks their hair at me.”
“You’re married,” Fred said.
“That’s even worse,” Paul said. “Not even Nadine flicks her hair at me, and she’s legally obliged to. It’s ironic.” He sighed. “The first woman you’re actually interested in, she runs away from you.”
“I wasn’t interested in her,” Fred insisted.
“Sure,” Paul replied. “I’d happily believe that, but you’ve had a great many admirers over the years, and this is the first one you’ve ever spoken to me about.” He took another sip of his beer and looked over for Fred’s reaction. “Another one?” Paul asked.
Fred looked down; he’d emptied his glass.
“Thanks.” He shrugged. Why not? He’d checked with Sofia three times that there was no rehearsal tonight until, eventually, she told him to stop asking and declared he was weird. Fred and Sofia had both inherited the same creative streak from their father, a deadbeat poet and drunk. Sofia embraced it, while Fred buried it deep down, so it only revealed itself in odd, strangled places. Teaching was safer.
“Fred. We’ve been mates since teachers’ college,” Paul said then. He put his glass down and cleared his throat.
Fred watched him, uncomfortable. It felt distinctly as though a declaration of manly affection was looming. “Because I feel sorry for you,” Fred said, hoping to bat the conversation in a less serious direction. “No one else will talk to you.”
“I’m not good at the mushy stuff, so don’t expect a grand speech.”
“I’m fine, seriously, Paul. I will be fine,” he insisted, a little too loudly.
“I know you will, mate, this is about something else. Yikes.” He looked at him with mock concern.
Fred swallowed and nodded for him to continue. “What’s it about then?”
“If it’s not too much trouble, will you be Maggie’s godfather?” Paul looked proud, hopeful.
“Oh,” Fred said. He inhaled. He had expected an invitation to an ill-planned hunting trip in the woods above Bath, where one of them ended up shot in the buttocks, or a hastily booked drinking weekend to Prague, where they each lost a shoe and their dignity. Those were the invitations he normally received from Paul. But this? To be the guardian of the most precious and beautiful little bundle, whose hobbies included drinking milk and smelling like heaven? He smiled. “I’m flattered, Paul, thank you. Maggie’s an awesome little girl.”
“She’s pretty cool, isn’t she?” Paul said with a smile.
Fred nodded and held up his glass. “To Maggie,” he said.
“To her godfather,” Paul replied, raising his own.
“Fred?” a female voice called. Paul and Fred both looked up.
“Hi,” Fred said. Two women, vaguely familiar, were walking toward them. He searched his memory frantically for their names.
“It’s Laura, from St. Margaret’s?” the first woman said mercifully. “We played against you guys at Teachers’ Games.”
Of course. “Laura, hi,” Fred said. “You guys creamed us, as I recall.”
“I didn’t want to say, but yes,” she replied, with a laugh. Fred remembered now: Laura, the bubbly lady who had turned into a swearing dominatrix on the netball court. She’d almost made Paul cry at one point. “Netball is a tough game. You guys did okay, considering.”
“I think the ref could have thrown a few penalties our way,” Paul said. “That game was unfair.”
“How
