Page 48 of Hot Nights in Morocco
Swatting the flies off my face, I tuck my bangs behind my ears and wipe the sweat off my forehead. I’m just reaching for another water bottle when my phone starts ringing.
“Max Dalton’s office. Can I help you?”
“I bloody hope so!” cries a voice, but I can’t identify the caller at first. The static on the line is horrendous. It sounds like a swarm of hornets are on the rampage in there. “Can you hear me, babe?” The voice perks up through the buzzing again, and my heart leaps. I’d recognize those shrill, raspy tones anywhere.
“Lucy!”
In that moment I love my best friend more than life itself. Somehow, she always knows when to call. My misery transcends entire continents for her.
“You’re in big shit, lady. You haven’t called inages. What’s happening out there? Have you gone and fallen for some spicy Bedouin chief?”
Not exactly.Hearing her voice again, so familiar and oh so pragmatic, makes me realize how much I’ve missed her. I need her no-nonsense approach to emotional stuff right now.
“Oh fuck, I was only joking. Who’s the lucky man?”
“Lucy, how did you—?”
“Your silence gave you away.”
What, the two-second one?“Look, I really can’t talk about this right now.”
“Why? Is he there? Who is it? Shit, I bet it’s Max Dalton. He’s such a slut.”
“Erm, no.”This is painful. Rachel has started paying an inordinate amount of attention to the ancient office photocopier behind me.
“Then tell me and I’ll shut up about it.” Lucy’s tone is brusque and intrusive. There’s no doubting her interviewing credentials at a time like this.
“I can’t really—”
“God, it’s not Max, is it? Oh, fuckity fuck, it’s the other one. Oh,Charlie.Has he broken your heart yet? Is his dick as big as his ego?”
Her questions are coming at me from all angles. I’m under siege.
“Lucy, please!”
The phone on the other side of the office starts ringing and Rachel is forced to abandon her eavesdropping to answer it.
“Yes or no?”
“Um—”
“Charlie!” Lucy howls again. “Iknewthis would happen. You were looking for trouble as soon as you got that call. I warned you not to go. You’re so vulnerable. You didn’t stand a chance.”
She’s right. Jake has ripped through every single one of my defenses like a bullet through paper.
“It’s notallmy fault,” I say crossly. “We were in L.A. and it just sort of—”
“L.A.? Wait, I’m lost. I thought the film shoot was in Morocco?”
“It is, but then he wanted me to go back to America with him for a few days. Work stuff.”
“Racking up the air miles, I see. This job is intense.”
I tip my head back and groan. “Lucy, you have no idea—”
“Where thefuckis my call sheet?”
Jake’s angry voice pierces my misery as he stalks into the office looking tired and irritable. After weeks of chilly indifference, the heat finally seems to have gotten to him. There are damp patches under the arms of his blue linen shirt, and his Levi’s are streaked with dirt. His forearms are glistening with sweat and his hair has been shoved under a Red Sox baseball cap all day. It’s left a faint line around his forehead. Despite all this, he can still make my stomach drop.
