Page 11 of Crying in the Rain

“I don’t know that I can.” He picked up his tablet and glanced over his checklist.Everything’s done. I’m out of excuses.

“I’m sorry,” Kris said.

At the same time, Ade said, “Yes, OK.” He turned to face Kris and nodded. “I’ll come for a drink.”

“I didn’t mean to be pushy.”

“You weren’t. I was being indecisive.” Ade put on his jacket as he followed Kris out of the door and caught Kris’s ear with his cuff. “Oh God. Sorry!” Ade gasped and backed off. Kris rubbed his ear and laughed.

“It’s OK. I have two.”

In what was clearly a valiant attempt to put Ade more at ease, Kris struck up a conversation about Sally O’Connor’s other plays, which carried them along the corridor, down in the lift and out onto the street. It was a neutral topic familiar to them both, and it was working because by the time they reached the pub opposite the radio station building, Ade was back in his fully-in-control producer persona and joked and chatted with the actors, no trouble at all. Every so often, he glanced Kris’s way, and they shared a smile, but they didn’t get the chance to talk until later in the evening, after the crew had gone home and the actors decided to go out for a meal. Kris waited to see what Ade wanted to do before he too declined their invitation.

“I hope this isn’t because you feel sorry for me,” Ade said as they laid claim to a couple of bar stools vacated by the others.

“Not at all. Aside from the fact that I’m still eager to know more about you, I’m severely allergic to shellfish, so I tend to avoid going to restaurants I’m not familiar with.”

“Ah. So you carry an EpiPen?” Ade asked. Kris nodded in confirmation and took it out of his pocket, handing it to Ade. He’d never seen one before and handed it straight back, terrified he’d drop it and leave Kris without his life-saving medicine. “How does it work?”

“It’s really easy. You pull the tape off the top, press the other end to your thigh and hold it there for ten seconds.”

“That’s clever.” Ade wasn’t watching Kris’s demonstration, still with the tape in situ, he hoped. He was actively staring at Kris’s profile. The Nordic slope of his nose, the defined anglesto his temples, cheekbones and chin…the puzzled amusement in the inquisitive blue eyes that met Ade’s. He blushed. “It’s quite a common allergy, isn’t it?”

“So I’m told. That and peanuts, but I don’t have a problem with those. I do have a problem with cats, though.”

“Because they eat fish?” Ade asked innocently, but the corner of his mouth twitched, giving him away.

Kris shook his head and chuckled. “I actually have no idea if they eat fish or not.”

“They do. We used to have a cat. Well, I say we…when I was a kid. My mum called her Tiddles, but I don’t think that was her real name. She belonged to one of our neighbours, an old lady who died, and Tiddles was always at ours, so Mum took her in.” Ade smiled to himself. He hadn’t thought about that cat in years. Hadn’t visited his mum in a while either. He should probably rectify that…once the bruises were gone.

Realising he’d hijacked the conversation, which was absolutely not his intention, and that Kris was waiting for him to say more, Ade said, “Anyway, we were talking about you.”

“We were,” Kris agreed, “but I’d much rather hear about your early career on stage.”

“Really?” Ade pulled a face, making out it was a tedious chore, though a quiet fluttering had started up in his stomach, and it wasn’t the fear-born kind. “It’s not very exciting, I’m afraid.”

“I’d still love for you to tell me.”

“Well, OK, then…” Ade took a long suck of the straw in his G&T in preparation, but it was such a novelty having someone pay an interest in what he had to say, he didn’t know where to begin, so he went right back to the start, his uni days as an English Lit. undergraduate, his friends talking him into joining the drama society, discovering how much he enjoyed acting, getting the first role he auditioned for after graduating, and then another and another and another…until his run-in with the director who’d refused to cast him because of his rhotacism. What he’d told Kris earlier was true—hehadsuggested that some of character’s linescould be rewritten if his ‘R’s were that much of a problem—and he had Equity behind him, but there’d been other things going on by then, and his self-confidence was, he’d thought, at an all-time low.

He’d since learnt it could sink a lot lower, but at the age of twenty-four, he’d known nothing. He’d given up acting, taken on an unpaid internship with a national radio station and built up huge debts paying his living expenses. If his dad hadn’t died, he’d have ended up on the streets. Instead, he’d been able to pay off his credit cards and go back to college to retrain.

“So that’s it, really,” Ade concluded. Kris wasn’t to know he’d skipped most of the past eleven years. “Told you it wasn’t exciting.”

“Not action-packed exciting, no,” Kris said, “but you’ve achieved so much!”

“And failed a lot too.”

“Tripped over and picked yourself up. I mean, you’re a producer for the second-most popular talk radio station in the country. And that’s your second career!”

“OK, if you put it like that…” Ade conceded with a smile. And yes, he’d maybe become a little bit animated talking about the roles he’d undertaken when he was a young actor with the world at his feet. Between the alcohol and attention, he felt like he was glowing. “But that really is enough about me. Another drink while you regale me with your life story?”

Kris laughed. “Better make it a coffee or you’ll fall off your stool with boredom.”

“I doubt it.” Ade waved to get a bartender’s attention and ordered their drinks, then turned back to Kris. “So you…oh. Problem?” Kris was on his feet, putting on his jacket.

“I didn’t realise the time. I’m going to miss my train.”

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