The Other Side of Us - By Sarah Mayberry Page 0,71
properly, probably two years. Maybe three, so we can get a true sense of the women’s journeys through med school. These kinds of documentaries are long-haul, big-commitment projects.”
“Well, have at it. The sooner you get started, the sooner you’ll be giving your acceptance speech. ‘I’d like to thank the Academy for recognizing this film....’”
“Can I have a kilo of your faith in me, delivered fresh to my door every morning, please?”
“What’s wrong? Don’t think you can go the distance?”
She knew he was playing devil’s advocate, deliberately goading her, so she didn’t bother rising to the bait. “There’s no money in it, for starters. I’d be living on the smell of an oily rag. And if I ever want to jump back into drama production I’ll have to start kissing ass at the bottom of the ladder all over again.”
“How much money do you need?”
She thought about her lifestyle, about her apartment and the beach house and her European car. She’d been paid well in her career—of course, she’d earned every penny—and everything she owned was hers free and clear. If she wanted to, she could live frugally without sacrificing much. After all, there was only her and Mr. Smith to provide for.
“Correct answer,” Oliver said very softly, and she knew that he’d guessed what she was doing in the privacy of her own head.
She rolled onto her belly and rested her chin on her folded hands, contemplating his profile.
“How did you get so wise?” she asked quietly.
“Am I wise? I don’t feel it, I can tell you. I only know that life is short and time passes anyway, so you might as well do something you believe in as something you don’t.”
“Does that mean you’re going to do something with that song you recorded this morning?” she asked.
It took him a moment to answer. “Maybe. I need to see if there’s more where that came from first.”
“Then?”
“Maybe I’ll record an album. Stick it up on the internet to see if anyone wants to listen to the midlife-crisis ramblings of a nineties pop star.”
“Me, me, pick me,” she said, holding her hand in the air like a child in class. Inside, she was deeply pleased to hear that he’d been doing a little stargazing of his own. It was good to move forward. Good to dream.
He started to say something, only to be interrupted by the ferocious growl of her stomach.
“Wow,” he said.
“Lunch was a while ago.”
“It was.”
“And being on top is strenuous work.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Do you have anything to eat?”
“A couple of pieces of slightly stale bread?”
“That’s not going to cut it.”
He slipped an arm beneath her, encouraging her to roll on top of him. “I had a feeling you were going to say that. We could send the dogs out for pizza.”
She settled on top of him, loving the feel of his hair-roughened legs against hers. “There’s a reason why dial-a-dog pizza didn’t take off, you know. The dogs always eat it before it gets home.”
She kissed him again, then rolled off him and threw back the covers.
She heard the rustle of sheets as he leaned across and flicked the bedside light on. “Where are you going?”
“To my place, where there is food in abundance.”
“Huh.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder as she began collecting her clothes again.
“You’re invited, in case you were wondering.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” he said, rising with flattering alacrity.
They dressed hurriedly and gathered the dogs, then raced next door where she turned the heating up high before making them scrambled eggs and ham on toast. Later, they showered together, then Oliver made good use of the stash of condoms in her bedside drawer.
Afterward, she kept waiting for him to make noises about returning to his place, but he seemed content where he was, taking up more than his fair share of her bed, his big body sprawling across the mattress.
Gradually it sank in that he wasn’t going anywhere. She knew she should be alarmed by the notion—or at the very least wary—but she wasn’t. She was, simply, glad.
* * *
“IT’S THAT ONE. Number sixty-five,” Mackenzie directed.
Oliver turned into the spacious parking spot, stopping his wagon in front of a large storage cage that looked as though it was filled to the brim with boxes.
“Tell me that’s not yours,” he said, even though he already knew it was. This was the allocated parking spot for her apartment, and it made sense for the locker to be hers, too.