Sounds Like Radio Episode 18
Once Paavan and Arya had gone home she tracked down Miriam in the office and asked why a bulb hadn’t arrived yet.
“I ordered one!” Miriam said. “I did it online with the usual supplier.” She held up the catalogue.
“Page eighty-nine – panel bulbs. Right?”
“Yes,” Cesca said. “Thanks.” She hated to disbelieve Miriam, but the girl was forgetful. She seemed to be tired a lot.
“There must be a delay in posting orders out.”
She sat at her computer and logged on to the company account, opening up a record of recent orders. She found an order for a single red bulb, 8 cm diameter.
Order cancelled.
Cesca felt bad that she’d doubted Miriam, and muttered to herself.
“They don’t bother to e-mail that they’ve not got one – they just go ahead and cancel!”
Bill came wandering in at the end of the day in his lackadaisical fashion.
Cesca, Kevin, Gerry and Miriam were all in the office looking at the schedule.
He asked if anyone would like to take a snoop around the house next door.
“They’ve gone away,” he said. “The place has had more than a hundred grand spent on it, not including my bill, so it’s worth a look.”
Kevin said there was no way he could spare the time.
Miriam wanted to but was behind with the invoicing and worked out that Cesca wouldn’t be thrilled if she left it.
Gerry was on her way home for the day but said she had “something on”.
Cesca suspected from Gerry’s expression that she was playing matchmaker.
“I could take a quick look, for a laugh,” Cesca said.
Next door was another country – carpet a foot thick, a huge shiny black kitchen, abstract art on the walls.
Bill said he was allowed to help himself from the fridge and they shared a bottle of delicious fresh lemonade, the sort of thing made by an artisan in Tuscany and shipped over in small wooden crates.
Bill was nearing the end of the job and Cesca felt something like grief that soon he would be gone.
“I could show you the drama studio in return,” she said. “It’s a lot less clean than this, but –”
“Sure,” he interrupted. “Just whenever.”
He was looking up at the ceiling, and Cesca wondered whether he was agreeing out of politeness and really just wanted to get on with his work.
So Cesca gave Bill a tour of the studio. He took his time, peering into things and asking questions.
Cesca knew they both should be getting back to work but she could not bear to end the moment: she was so attracted to him that it made her head spin.
He was kind, and gentle, and uncomplicated – so unlike other men she’d dated – even if he took no real notice of her.
There was also a sort of magic about being with him here, in her favourite place.
“What’s this?” he called, breaking her daydream.
He was in the upstairs part of the studio, in the “bedroom” area with its sound effects sash window and rattly chest of drawers.
“Do you mean the famous bed?” she called back. “Everyone is fascinated by the bed.”
As she climbed the stairs she began to explain about how Mr Chopra had built the bed, and the way it pivoted up into a niche in the wall to save space, but when she walked in she saw the pillows and duvet scattered on it.
There hadn’t been a production with a bedroom scene for a while.
And anyway, as she told Bill, the bed was no use because it made no noise.
“What, none?” he said, and without warning he fell across the bed.
He lay with one muscled arm behind his head, looking like a photo from a men’s fashion magazine.
Cesca swallowed.
“Oh, you’re right. It doesn’t creak at all,” he said, wriggling.
“There’s a dent in the middle like someone’s been kipping here, though.”
He rolled sideways, about to stand up, and Cesca tried hard not to look at him too much.
Flustered, she tried to find something to do, and bent down to gather up the pillows. Her foot caught on a cable beside the bed and she tumbled forward.
But Bill had not been about to stand; he had only moved aside to show her the hollow in the mattress.
She crashed down on to the mattress and bounced, and when she recovered there he was, propped on one arm again, his blue eyes an inch from hers.
Cesca tried frantically to distance herself but her hands sank uselessly into the bedding and she only made it worse.
Bill appeared to be frozen. His breath was lemony and sweet.
Later, Cesca could not work out if she allowed her lips to meet his, or if he was the one to kiss her.
Whoever took action, the kiss was brief because the movement of his body sent her tumbling off the bed.
She stood up and brushed herself off, her face scarlet, sure that she had just made a massive fool of herself.
“Ruddy cable!” she said. She dropped to her knees and tugged wildly at the offending article.
It meant she could not see what he was doing, and when she looked up again he was upright, facing away, running his hands through his hair.
Cesca wanted to run and stay at the same time.
For a second she had lived in a world where Bill liked her, but now she saw it: she had invited him here and now he’d be thinking that he’d been manipulated by a girl with a crush.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Got to get back.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Bit late.”
He left quickly, barely looking at her, and all she wanted to do was cry.
Later, when Cesca went home, she passed Bill hauling tool bags up next door’s steps and he waved with the usual boyish grin.
That was the story of her life, Cesca thought – loving a man who was in quite a different place from her.
Why was she such a fool?