Page 5 of Crying in the Rain

Well, that’s a stroke of luck.

It was a bit slummy, but he fished the discarded hair gel tub out of the bin and unscrewed the lid. Scraping what little remained from the sides with his fingertips, he spiked his hair, all the while aware of his failings reflecting back at him in the wide mirror running the length of the wall…but not of the person in one of the cubicles until a toilet flushed. Ade launched the empty gel tub at the bin and fled before the door opened. It was probably only Gavin, but Ade felt unworthy enough without forcing his ugly mug and bad breath on to someone else. If his luck held, there’d be some mints or gum in one of the desk drawers so he could get rid of the cig-and-coffee stink. Not much he could do about his face.

Studio Three was in darkness, as he’d expected; he’d told his engineer not to bother coming in until after lunch. He switched on one set of lights and the air conditioning, breathing the cool, fresh air in deeply through his nose, releasing it through narrowed lips, easing them apart. Another breath; another couple of millimetres.

“OK. Let’s see if proper talking is a possibility. ‘She sells seashells on the seashore.’” So far so good. “‘The raging rocks and shivering shocks shall break the locks of prison gates, and Phibbus’ car shall shine from far and make and mar the foolish Fates.’ Well, at least my Bottom is still in good shape.” He snorted a laugh at the irony. Excruciating waves of hot pain raced over and through his head. “Shit!”Too much!

He sank down, not even thinking to check if the chair was there first and honestly, would it matter if he dropped humiliatingly to the floor? He wasn’t the most talkative of producers at the bestof times, having to plan the words in advance as much as he did. Now he couldn’t even smile without swearing or sobbing his guts out.

But something else was brewing in the midst of all the misery and self-pity. Anger, and it was no longer directed inwards.

He picked up the folder containing the actors’ agency profiles and flipped it open but couldn’t see the words through his tears.

Anger. Yet he never lashed out.

He shut it again and rooted through the drawers for mints, chewing gum or anything that would make him remotely less disgusting. Pens, pencils, stray paperclips, spent staples. No mints.

Anger that he couldn’t just get on with his work, the one thing he absolutely knew he was good at.

He slammed the drawer and sat back, squinting at the overhead light, the pretty prisms dancing on his lashes. He felt dizzy, not surprisingly, as his last meal was lunch the previous day, and he had a headache—the tailing edge of the hangover, perhaps. That was definitely the least damaging way to think of it.

Anger…subsiding.

“List.” They were his saving grace, stopped him forgetting the important things when the other stuff was shredding his thoughts. He had apps and paper notebooks full of them, checked off or crossed out, never deleted, records to remind him he wasn’t really a…what was it again?Useless airhead. Everyone knows it, but it’s cheaper to keep you on than fire you.

“Shut up.”

Unlocking his tablet, he opened a new checklist.

1.

Nothing.He stared at the blankness, trying to recall what it was he needed to do, but despite his determination, his mind was a fuzzy mess, meandering towards dark, haunted alleys that allled to the same place.Where was I? Coffee…Abdul…did you wet the bed—got it.

Sitting upright again, Ade made a second attempt with the folder, flicking through the pages until a name jumped out at him.Kristian Johansson. That’s the one.

And evidently, his head had been up his backside for the past month because he recalled nothing about Kristian’s CV. Like, for instance, that he’d been on a retainer with their rival local station, which Ade used to listen to, not that he’d ever admit it to his bosses. They’d rejected a series about a small-town GP that went on to become their rival’s most successful show, with the lead role played by none other than Kristian Johansson.

You should’ve known that, but of course you didn’t. You’re a hack…

Ade ignored the accusations and kept reading, through the other actors’ CVs, taking an interest, committing details to memory. When he was done, he thumbed back and studied Kristian’s cover photo: pale complexion, light-brown hair with blondish tints, very Scandinavian—an easy assumption to make, given his last name was Johansson. The smile, while fake, showed a man who was also happy in front of the camera.

Ade closed the folder and set it back on the desk, drumming his fingers in time with the thrum in his jaw. If he moved carefully, didn’t do anything too stupid…

“List.”

1. Don’t do anything stupid.

He almost smiled at that but stopped himself, backspaced, started for real.

1. Revisit CVs.

2. Buy mints.

He had an hour, plenty of time to pop out and get back before the rest of the actors arrived, so that was what he did, taking the stairs down to the service corridor, out the side door, past Gavin, smoking again, and Abdul, cycle helmet on, about to head home.

A mob of schoolkids had descended on the newsagent, who ignored their clamour to take Ade’s money for a packet of extra-strong mints. Ade immediately slotted two into his mouth, groaning in relief…pleasure?…as the sharp menthol paradoxically soothed and aggravated his aches.

Back in the building, safe and maybe a little sounder than before, he booted his phone on his way up the stairs so he could check off item #2, wavering when he reached the studio floor. His stomach clenched, begging to be filled. Could he stand the pain? The scrutiny? He wasn’t sure, but this was going to be a long day.

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