Page 8 of The Interview
My mouth drops open. My hair has been back-combed and pinned up in a beehive style, but with long strands pulled out around the edges. My eyes are dark and smoky, with winged liner. The rest of my face and lips have been left natural, making my eyes the focus, the dark liner making the blue pop.
The door to the studio swings open, and when I slide my eyes to them, they meet my husband’s, who’s standing there with two large brown paper bags in each hand.
“Fuckme,” he states, making me smile. “You look incredible,” he continues as he moves towards me. “I was starving, so I ordered food from Bifta’s. It was easier to go and collect than wait for delivery.”
Stopping to kiss my temple, he moves to the kitchen part of the studio and sets the bags down on the island.
“Grubs up if anyone’s hungry,” he calls out. “There’s just egg, just bacon, or there’s egg and bacon. If you don’t eat any of thosethings, you’re on your own,” he states as he starts unpacking each small brown paper bag from inside the larger ones.
And there I was worrying he’d been uncomfortable. I watch as he unpacks a roll with G on the bag and brings it over to me.
Full Bifta is the café down the road that we often frequent. They specialise in a full English breakfast, otherwise known as a Full Bifta, but also do rolls and sandwiches to take away. Maureen, who does the cooking, knows I like my bacon extra crispy, and so does Cam. It makes my heart happy that not one, but probably both of them have made sure my roll contains the crispiest of bacon rashers.
“You’re too good to me,” I tell my husband as he hands me my unwrapped roll and some napkins.
“Don’t worry, you can leave your hair and makeup exactly like that and repay me later,” he says with a wink.
Even after all these years—around forty of knowing each other, over twenty married—this man still gives me fanny flutters.
Reaching out, I comb my fingers through his more-salt-than-pepper hair before raking my nails over his stubble-covered jaw. “I don’t think you could handle the kind of repayment I have in mind, old man,” I tell him.
“Try me,” he says while brushing his lips across mine.
“Get a room, you two. Ohh, bacon rolls! They from Bifta’s?” Lu asks as she comes through the door with an armful of my clothes.
An hour later, I’m wearing black leather trousers, a black, oversized Carnage tour tee with the red heart/eye band logo onthe front, red Doc Martens, huge silver hoops in my ears, and leather bracelets around my wrists.
Makenzie, or Kenz or Kenzie as she has asked us to call her, thought it was hilarious when we explained what a shit cook I am when she, once again, suggested shooting me in the kitchen. Instead of ruling it out, she got one of her assistants to make, bake, and burn a cake, and after taking shots of me in the stables, as well as doing some gardening, she now has me with flour on my face, cake batter down my tee, standing with my arms crossed, wearing the defiant scowl I wore for most of my teenage years—and maybe a few years beyond my teens. I’m surrounded by the detritus of my unsuccessful baking, with the burnt cake on the island in front.
I pout and pose, unfold my arms, lean on the island, sit cross-legged on it, hold up the cake, and perform various other poses. I’ve enjoyed myself so much that I’ve lost track of time, but I have noticed the natural light has started to fade, and so am I.
Stifling a yawn, my eyes connect with Cam’s, who’s spent most of the afternoon watching, asking if I’m okay, sending Lu over with water, and generally hovering within arm’s reach.
I know today has been the easy part of all this. Tomorrow is the day I bare my soul when I sit down with Daniel and start the actual interview, but having Cam nearby all day has still been a calming presence.
From the outside, our relationship may appear problematic with the number of times we bicker, but for over twenty years, we’ve spent almost twenty-four hours a day, for days at a time, in each other’s company. And since the kids have mostly moved out, a lot of those days are spent with no one else around. So, yeah, we do get on each other’s nerves. I’m a neat freak with OCD tendencies who likes to plan ahead and always be in control. Cam thinks wet towels hang on the floor or the end of the bed, while also thinking toothpaste is fine to be squeezedfrom the middle, and he likes to go with the flow and see where the day takes him. I like loud music, whereas he’d rather watch a documentary, but we work. Do we have to work to make it work? Of course we do, but he’s my world, and I have no doubt that I’m his.
“Okay, and I think we’re done,” Kenzie states as she lowers her camera. “I’ll go over these tonight and email through my favourites, then you can tell me what you think. I’ll be around on and off over the next few weeks to capture some more candid shots, but these should be perfect for the launch promo.”
Before she’s even finished talking, Cam is at my side, holding out his hand to help me down from the kitchen island.
“You did great,” he says as I slide down his body.
“She did,” Kenzie chimes in. “These things can be long and boring, not at all glamorous like people think they are, but you having some past experience made it so much easier.”
“Thanks,” I reply, offering up a genuine smile. “It’s been a while. I remembered most but had forgotten how standing around not doing a lot can be so exhausting.”
“It’s the opposite for me,” Kenzie says as she and her team pack up equipment and tidy my kitchen around us. “I’m wired while I’m working and can sometimes completely lose track of time, which isn’t always good for my subjects.”
“How did you get into it?” I ask while Cam helps carry a couple of the heavier bags out to the crew’s van.
“My mum always wanted to make a career of photography. She had a camera with her the night she met my dad, but they hooked up, and she got knocked up with me at eighteen. Then, just a few years later, my grandad and his wife were killed, and they took on Billie.”
“Yeah, I remember how they stepped up at such a young age.” I nod as I recall the story of how Cal’s dad and his wife were killed in a terror attack in Indonesia somewhere, but hisyounger half-sister survived, and the young couple took Billie on and raised her as their own.
“How are they all?” I ask. “Your mum and dad, Max and Billie?”
“They’re good. Dad’s producing, Mum still has her shops and does a lot of online business now, and Billie and Max are busy with the kids and the farm retreat they run.”
