Page 92 of Good at Being Alive
I laugh. “I thought you wanted Primrose Hill.”
“What’s halfway between them?” he asks.
“Iraq,” I reply.
He grins. “Then it’s settled. We’ll move to Iraq. I wonder how the school system is.”
“Cut!” Lars calls, stopping us in place. “We’re supposed to be showing the first chinks in the armor. Agreeing to move to Iraq makes you look like you’re head over heels.”
I flush, unable to meet anyone’s eyes…especially Theo’s.
We shoot the walk over again. Theo stiffly insists he wants to remain in London and I stiffly insist I want to remain in New Jersey, and then Theo tries to bribe me by offering to buy me a polo pony and I laugh, and we’ve ruined the scene for a second time.
Eventually, we get it right and after a quick trip through the fish market—where fish is sold alongside moose burgers and reindeer hot dogs—we climb into a van and return to my house…accompanied by the crew, of course.
“Which room is yours?” he asks as they get the cooking shoot ready.
I nod at it and sigh. “I had big plans for tonight. I brought lingerie.”
He groans quietly and runs a hand down his face. “God, don’t tell me that. I’m in hell right now.”
His hand brushes mine and my muscles tense. I lick my lips and he groans a second time, low in his chest. I’m increasingly appalled by the situation we’re now in: we’re pretending to be in love but also pretending we’re not. I’m supposed to act as if I’m unhappy with Theo when he’s the only part of this I’m pleasedby.
We are called into the kitchen to make a soufflé, and though we’re on our best behavior, Lars must continue reminding us that we’re not supposed to be quite so happy. The soufflé comes out flat and entirely inedible. This is meant to be a metaphor for our failing marriage.
It probablyisan apt metaphor for our eventual demise, but I’m too thrilled at Theo’s nearness to care.
“You might want to acquire some cooking skills,” he says as we both stare in dismay at the concoction.
“Youmight want to acquire the kind of income that allows us to eat out all the time.”
“Eating out is impossible,” he says, lifting me onto the counter and stepping between my legs, “when you have six children.”
I know we’re already too close, too flirtatious for Lars’s liking, and I just don’t care. Because a man who jokes about having six kids with you is definitely not seeing anyone else. Not when that man is Theo, anyway.
“Six children?” I reply, pulling him closer by his belt. “Have youmetme? They’d be removed by the authorities for neglect almost immediately.”
He smiles. His mouth is so close to mine. Close enough to graze my lips. “I’ll have to earn enough for a team of nannies too, then.”
“Cut!” shouts Lars. “Guys, come on! That was the perfectmoment for you to show the audience your marriage won’t work, and you made it look like you were about to bang instead. Try to dislike each other a little more tomorrow, yeah?”
We promise we will. He does not appear to believe us, and I don’t believe us either.
Jon and LJ pack up the gear and Theo helps load the van. Thanks to the midnight sun, it’s only dusk out, though it’s well after nine. I cannot believe our night together is ending so soon—Theo’s house isn’t even in the same section of Bergen as ours, so there’s no way we can both “happen to meet on a walk”—probably for the best, as I don’t know the local laws on public nudity.
When they’re ready to go, his fingertips brush mine. “I’ll see you in the morning?”
“I’m going to be much better at hating you then,” I whisper.
“I hope not,” he says with a quiet smile, and my heart goesthud, thud, thudso loudly I’m worried the crew can hearit.
I don’t ever want to be better at hating him. I don’t think I’mcapableof hating him. And if that’s true, how am I going to survive it if I’m not what he wants in the end?
• • •
The next morning we ride to the top of Mount Fløyen via funicular to get a bird’s-eye view of Bergen—tiny and uniform below us, with the North Sea encircling it, and what appear to be mountainous islands in the distance. The air is crisp at the top, and Theo hands me a sweatshirt he shoved in one of the crew’s bags.
“You sure you don’t need it?” I ask.
