Page 72 of Caught in a Storm
Margot looks down at the cup he’s slid before her and makes a note not to touch it, even though taking a sip would feel like returning to a home she’s long since left. Her feet in his lap while they watched The Sopranos. Sunrises when he had early call times on New York shoots. Steaming mugs after walks in the park in the fall. Margot never particularly liked tea, but she liked having it with him, the fucker.
“Yes, I look a bit absurd,” he says, dipping a Nilla Wafer. “I still regret getting my teeth done, if I’m being honest. Like I betrayed king and country. It was Rufus’s idea, though. Part of the bloody uniform.”
Margot doesn’t reply.
“You, though,” he says. “I’m not just being polite. You look wonderful. When I saw you online—that little show you played. Couldn’t take my eyes off you. You looked smart. Mature. Powerful. A grown, proper adult woman. You looked sexy. You look sexy. The years, love, they’ve agreed with you. Well done.”
The tea smells good, and the house is chilly, so she gives in and takes a sip, and he smiles, like he’s won a minor battle. “Lots of sugar cubes,” he says. “A bit of cream, enough to make it not taste so much like tea.”
“You remember how I used to like my dirt water,” she says. “I regret every bad thing I ever said about you. Here, let me just take these pants off.”
Lawson slaps the table. “See, Mar, that. That’s what I miss. That edge. That bite. You, my dear, are the real deal. All these years, more birds than I could count, and I have met exactly no one quite like you.”
“Quite a feat there,” she says. “You’re telling me how good I look while also referencing how many women you’ve slept with. Bravo. But just showing up here? This is my life. You’re not part of it anymore.”
Lawson’s phone rings. He looks at it, laughs, shows Margot. Poppy again. “She’s just like you, you know. I’m proud of her. I told her she didn’t need to bother with a bloody job. I’d open whatever doors she wanted—movies, music, entertainment management. But no, she’s determined to go out on her own and be a…what is she again?”
“She’s a graphic designer at an ad agency, Lawson. And she’s very talented.”
“Ah, right.”
When his phone stops ringing, Poppy texts him. dammit dad!!!
“Counterargument to the whole showing-up-was-bad thing,” he says. “If I’d just called like a normal person, would you have answered?”
Margot admits that she wouldn’t have.
“Plus,” he says, “I wanted to get a look at this bloke. This Billy chap who you’ve gone and made semifamous. Snogging at baseball games, Mar? You saucy minx. What do we think, love? Do we…do we fancy this one?”
Margot feels herself get defensive. “Yes,” she says.
“Really? All right. I’m not particularly blown away, if I’m being honest. Just an American in a jumper. And…this?” He gestures vaguely. “You like this, then? Baltimore? Flat above a bloody carport?”
She doesn’t owe him an explanation. She doesn’t owe him anything.
“And can you fill me in on the supporting cast? That friendly couple, their enormous child. Are you being held against your will? Mar, blink twice if you need me to save you.”
“You’re being an asshole,” she says. “What I like and what I don’t like are none of your business. You forfeited your right to an opinion a long time ago.”
He sips his tea. “Did I mention I’m sorry about all that hullabaloo from before?”
Margot laughs. She can’t help it—the understatement, the nerve. “The hullabaloo?”
“That naughty business from…what year was that again?”
“You’re referring to the affair you had with my best friend and creative partner that broke up my band, destroyed my livelihood, ended our marriage, and ruined my life?”
“A bit dire that, but…well, yeah.”
“Let’s table the time machine,” she says. “Focus on the present. Aren’t you living with…” As Margot trails off, she’s surprised that she has trouble saying her name aloud, the actress. “You know, the skinny child with the boobs I keep seeing you with.”
Lawson takes a longer sip of tea now, hugs the cup with his hands. “Willa, like these perfect teeth, was also Rufus’s idea.”
“What does that mean?”
“There’s a certain synergy to it, you’d have to agree. Our own little Oscar campaign. And she’s a darling girl. You’d like her, if you unclenched for a moment.”
“Oh my God,” she says. “You’re serious?”
