Page 75 of Caught in a Storm
“Got any tissues in this jacket?” she asks. “I may start weeping for you.”
“All right. I know how it sounds. Absurd, right? Not wrong, though. When I was in primary school, birds ignored me. I was a…what do you call it here…a theater nerd? Suddenly, when I was eighteen, I transformed into a young version of this.” Lawson points at his own face. “Then, after Hustle came out, nothing was ever the same again. Suddenly, temptation was everywhere. I loved you, Mar—so bloody much. And I thought that marrying you would force me to grow up, like adult boot camp. No such luck, though. Turnt out I still had the emotional intelligence of that skinny lad from nowhere. I failed you. Failed us—Poppy, too. And yeah, I said it before, I know. But…I’m sorry, Mar. I am.”
An old man with a beard rides by on a squeaky bicycle, and Margot allows what Lawson has just said to sink in. From his perspective, it’s the most sympathetic version of the story of their end. Hearing him tell it, though, it rings true. They never stood a chance. Lawson wasn’t ready. They were kids, basically. They married too young, both of them in search of normalcy. Maybe it’s time to stop being mad at him for that.
He’s practically shivering beside her now, which he deserves, she supposes. She pokes one of his biceps, which feels like smooth skin stretched over stone. “What do you even eat, anyway, you skinny bastard?”
He scoffs. “Not much. It’s all laid out for me by my nutritionist. Little packets that I heat up. Everything tastes like oatmeal.”
“Poor thing.”
“I’ll give you a thousand quid right now if you have a buttered roll.”
“Sorry, mate,” she says.
They’re a former husband and wife—parents—smiling on a bench in a city that, despite a few rats, is nicer than either of them would’ve previously guessed. Margot looks up the street. There are a few restaurants with decent bars over the hill. A drink would be nice, because a drink is always nice. Not tonight, though, because it’d be a shitshow. This bench, however, is quite pleasant, and she’s in no hurry to leave it.
“I liked myself more when we were together,” Lawson says.
“Shut up,” she says. “You love yourself always.”
“Right, true. I was less awful, though. My roles were better. I was taken seriously.”
“Eh. You were always too pretty to be a serious actor.”
“Fuck off. I’d be British Denzel by now if I hadn’t cocked us up. You joke, but I was legitimate. I was in films I was proud of. I wasn’t having a laugh before about that alien thing. In my next film, I will likely be playing Dr. Trent Hammersmith, intergalactic negotiator for the United bloody Nations.”
“Shit, really?”
“I’ve become very much a joke, Mar. It’s possible to love yourself while also loathing yourself. Trust me.”
“Wait, did I watch the wrong ceremony on TV?” she asks. “Were you not nominated for an Oscar?”
“Supporting,” he says. “Important distinction there, I’m told. And I didn’t win. Also, I had to beg my way onto that cast. Did it for scale. And I’ve got nothing to show for it. The parts I want are still going to the other blokes. You legitimized me. You were part of my cachet, love. My cool. I’m ridiculous without you.”
She wants to laugh—to dismiss this. But Lawson was part of what made her cool, too, and she knows it.
“Not a bad team back then, you and me, right? Tell me you weren’t happier.”
Margot doesn’t tell him that. She says nothing.
“I’m not proposing here. I didn’t show up with a ring. I’m just saying, baby steps. Have dinner with me. Maybe come back to L.A. for a bit. Or New York. Is our sushi place still there? The one you liked with the dodgy aquarium?”
“No. It’s Thai fusion now.”
“Well, somewhere new then.”
Lawson’s naïveté seems intentional, like he’s constructing an alternate reality in which they’re in their twenties again. He takes out his phone, taps a few times, and shows it to her. “Remember these two gorgeous idiots?” It’s the photo from the Grammys. The smile seen round the world.
“I’ve avoided looking at that picture for years.”
“Really?” he asks. “I look at it quite often. Especially when I need a wank. I mean, your bum, love. Look at that thing. Here, turn over. Lemme get a bite of it. Just one.”
“Stop it, you idiot,” she says, but she’s laughing, because forgiving him has allowed her to admit once again that Lawson is actually quite funny.
He holds his phone between them. “Look at us. All promise. You, the badass drummer of the hottest rock band on the planet. Me, the next big thing.”
“That was a long time ago,” she says.
