Page 36 of Between Us
The screen went black. A friendly, youthful, and northern-accented female voice said, in a confidential tone:
Now on BBC2. A new series from the writer-creator ofSEEN. Get ready for the rule-breaking, fourth-wall-breaking, case-crackingHUNTER. Please be aware that this programme contains scenes of a sexual nature and strong language from the beginning.
A ‘wahey!’ roar went up. Roisin’s stomach cramped.
The screen filled with a group of thirty-somethings, laughing over nightcaps in a fashionable restaurant.
‘Is that the place in Didsbury?’ Dev said. Then, ‘Shit, sorry, no talking! I’ll save it to the end!’
The camera tightened in on the good-looking lead. The character Jasper Hunter was played by a leonine, much-lusted-after thirty-year-old actor called Rufus Tate, who was hovering at that level of fame between indie darling and prime-time heartthrob.
He had his arm round a doe-eyed girl, a cherubically pretty brunette called Becca. The group were teasing them about recently getting engaged, Jasper being a workaholic misanthrope who’d finally accepted he wanted ‘the chocolate Lab and the roses round the door.’
‘Or a Nespresso machine with the pods at least,’ he said.
‘Speaking of which.Jas.We should go,’ the brown-eyed girlfriend hissed behind a palm. ‘They’re wiping down the coffee machine parts.’
Roisin gulped hard as the nature of the ensemble emerged. Long-term girlfriend, sweetly steady in nature with an arch turn of phrase. A punkily dressed, forthright lesbian, Victoria; a loud, confident Indian lad, Avi … a petite blonde, Gwen, barely laced into a halterneck top, who seemed to be Becca’s best friend.
On screen, outside the restaurant, what Roisin thought of as the Fictional Brian Club group clambered into a taxi.
Moments later, Jasper leaned forward and called to the driver, ‘Can you let me out here, please?’
‘Fuck it. Forgot my scarf,’ he said to the other occupants. ‘I’ll go back.’
‘Are you sure? Looks like it might rain,’ said Becca.
‘Nah, honestly. You go on. I’d like the time to sober up.’
He grinned and banged the door shut, watching the taxi round the corner. Hands thrust in pockets, he walked back to the restaurant.
The series in general looked lustrous, Roisin noted: Manchester shot to look like New York. It was dark and rainy, in aBladerunnerway.
On arrival at the restaurant, Jasper sees the lights are dim and the doors are locked. He cups his eyes to peer through the glass and raps on the door. Then he tries the handle: it’s not locked.
He steps inside.
The place is deserted but for a strikingly attractive waitress with a sharply cut, Louise Brooks bleached bob, who was glimpsed bringing their espressos earlier.
She stops moving at the sight of him, her hands holding a broom. The camera lasciviously zeros in on her slender fingers with dark red manicure, gripping and unfurling round the broom handle. It cuts between Jasper’s face and hers.
‘Hi,’ he says, polite-reticent. ‘I … think I left my scarf behind? Ah. There it is.’
He draws it out from the back of a chair, puts it on. She cocks her head to one side, watching him.
‘I’m not sure blue’s your colour, to be honest,’ the waitress says, in a feline voice.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I also saw you take that scarf off and leave it on purpose.’
‘That’d be a strange thing to do.’
‘Wouldn’t it.’
A jump cut: to the sound of grunting and gasping, the camera pans over the top of a bathroom stall, where Jasper and the waitress are going at it like knives. The bird’s-eye angle ogles his chest and her push-up bra.
