“Is it salvageable?” Jackson asks from behind me. I glance at him over my shoulder. He’s pulled his jeans back on but left his belt unbuckled letting them hang loose around his sculpted hips.
“No,” I say, turning back to the alarm that is still ringing through the flat. I attempt to fan it again but he reaches up and easily presses the button that I usually use a broom handle to hit.
“Thanks,” I mumble as I try to dissipate the smoke. It’s mostly gone now but I need to do something. I’ve never burnt dinner before, never been sodistracted.
“Can you pass me a spoon please?” I ask, not looking at him. “I’ll see if there’s anything to save.” I poke at the charred remains of dinner.
“Rosie,” Jackson says, “Why are there muffins in your cutlery drawer?”
16
JACKSON
The phrase “just hormones”is probably going to be ingrained behind my eyeballs soon.
It’s all I can think about, mostly because Rosie insists upon repeating it after every time we hook up. Which has thankfully happened more than a few times.
Our weekly Saturday night Strictly session has been pretty effortlessly replaced with Saturday night orgasms and I would have no complaints if it wasn’t for the doubt in the back of my mind that I’m just here to scratch an itch.
So far we’ve done almost everything apart from kissing. And penetration. I want nothing more than to go further but I’m trying to hold the line for as long as I can. I can’t let myself be consumed with her when all she wants to do is keep things casual. I can’t go that final step until the day she admits she wants everything, not just the occasional hit of oxytocin.
But, if it means I get to spend time with her, then I’ll legally change my name to ‘hormones’ and be with her every minute of the day.
The shoot is ramping up, with a cluster of intenseshooting before it starts to taper off closer to Christmas. I don’t usually mind. I’d rather be working hard for days, weeks at a time with barely any time to sleep in between. It keeps my energy up, keeps my mind focused. No distractions, no plans, just the character I’ve stepped into and my responsibility to the team.
It’s harder now though with Rosie and a baby on the way. Every minute I’m not reciting lines to the camera or throwing fake punches, I’m reading baby books in my trailer or driving across London to get a few stolen hours with her.
I’ve even downloaded an app on my phone so I can track how big Smudge is getting. She’s currently a bell pepper. We’re still a few weeks away from finding out the gender but I just know she’s a girl. A little mini Rosie.
“That’s a wrap guys,” Shaun calls and I let out my breath, stretching my neck. I can’t wait to get out of this costume. I had hoped I’d left the skin tight lycra days behind me, but the scene is a heist so I’m kitted out like catwoman. Sure, on the screen it looks cool, but in real life surrounded by a bunch of guys in North Face jackets and lighting rigs, I feel like a giant tool.
Eric appears at my shoulder. “Ready?”
I send him a nod and follow him. It’s easy to feel like a child when I’m escorted at all times, but I also respect that that’s the way it is. Me getting lost in the backlot or running late to set would cost a lot of people wages and time. It’s not worth the hassle of fighting it. And hey, I love my job. I’m riding whatever waves are put in front of me.
Plus, it’s kind of sweet how Eric puffs up his chest when he escorts me, as if he’s my personal bodyguard protecting me from a rogue craft trolley.
“You up to much tonight, man?” I ask Eric as we cross the row of trailers.
He blinks at me. “Uh, yeah me and my boyfriend are heading into the city to go see a comedy gig.”
“Oh nice, who you seeing?”
“Thatcher Price.”
I stop with a gasp and tug at his arm. “You’re kidding. I didn’t know he was doing shows! How is he doing that whilst on Strictly?”
Eric’s brows furrow. “Uh—I,” he fumbles when we get to my trailer.
“If you speak to him,” I throw over my shoulder. “Tell him I’m a big fan.”
I check my phone and text Rosie the news. I’m about to invite her to go see Thatcher with me, but then I remember.Just hormones.
We’ve been to at least three National Trust sites in the last few months and that wasn’t hormones or a date. Just two friends, hanging out and looking at old shit. We can upgrade that to a gig, right?
No matter how many times I try to convince her to go on a real date, she bats me down. Combined with my new official position as sex assistant, it’s enough to give my ego a bruise.
It’s as I’m getting dressed that I get her reply.
