Crying in the Rain (Hiding Behind The Couch Character and Festive Episodes)

3 Empty

Ade

T he building was somehow colder and more formidable without the bustle of delivery drivers and admin staff. Ade hurried along the windowless service corridor, pausing to calm his nerves before he stepped through the door into the public foyer, where a lone security guard sat behind the desk. The sign above him was still dark, but light from the computer monitor flickered across the guard’s face as he glanced up to see who was there.

“Morning, Mr. Simmons.”

“Morning, Abdul.” Same bad-ventriloquist act.

“Did you wet the bed?”

Ade made an amused grunt in his throat. “Something like that.” He wanted so much to enjoy a few minutes’ conversation with someone he knew was safe but who didn’t know him well enough to ask awkward questions.

“Want me to put that in the bin?”

“Mmm?”

Abdul nodded at the takeout cup Ade was holding by its rim.

“Mmm! Mmm-mmm.” He tried to unlock his jaw, by some miracle keeping the scream silent as he took a sip to prove he wasn’t done with it. “Nicer than the coffee here.”

“You’re not wrong. I bring my own.” Abdul raised a shallow plastic Thermos cup above the desk. “Cheaper too. Cheers,” he said and slurped a mouthful, grimacing. “Bit cold by now, mind.”

“When do you finish? ”

“Another twenty minutes.”

“Not long, then.”

“No, thank goodness. I’m ready for my breakfast this morning. Actually…” Wheeling his chair a few feet along the desk, Abdul grabbed the signing-in book and wheeled back again. “I think one of your actors is here already.” He tapped the last entry on the page.

“Guess I wasn’t the only one who wet the bed,” Ade muttered to himself, but Abdul heard him and chuckled.

“I sent him up to the cafeteria.”

“OK. Thanks. See you later.”

Ade continued past the reception desk to the lift and pressed the call button, pondering while he waited. Should he find his early arrival or head straight for the studio? On the one hand, he was in no fit state, mentally or physically, for small talk with strangers; on the other, he might keep his precarious hold on his sanity if he had company, and other than the breakfast show and news teams, upstairs would be a ghost ship.

The lift arrived; Ade stepped in and automatically pushed the button for the fourth floor.

Studio it is.

Now he was alone and somewhere he wouldn’t be heard if he did scream, he poked experimentally at his face, hitting a couple of spots that made him swear. He stopped prodding; the pain once again dwindled to a miserable ache, which was bearable but would dog him all day. Should’ve bought painkillers instead of cigs, idiot. Failure number three of the day, and it’s not even eight o’clock.

The lift stopped and the doors opened onto yet another empty corridor. Ade set off, concentrating on the warning jolts from his jaw that accompanied his every step. Better that than listen to the destructive thoughts. People saw the bruises; they didn’t hear the voices ridiculing, undermining.

To-do list . Those helped. They didn’t silence that whining, sneering chorus of insults and judgements—nothing did—but there were things he needed to do before the actors arrived. The rest of the actors , the voices sniped, seeing as one was sitting upstairs in the cafeteria. Who was it again?

Jotting ‘revisit CVs’ as point #1 on his mental list, he veered off into the toilets, tipped the rest of his coffee into the hand basin and ditched the cup in the bin, then took it out again.

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 best of 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 all led 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.

2. Buy mints.

3. Delete voicemails.

Pride glimmered in his periphery. He hadn’t even listened to them, but for safety, he overwrote item #3 with:

3. Breakfast.

Low-level chatter interspersed with clangs from the kitchen greeted him at the cafeteria entrance, and he slowed his pace, trying to appear casual and normal as he passed by the cleaners grabbing a quick cuppa mid-shift. A few of the clerical staff were in too, he noticed, but no management yet. No presenters, either; most came in, did their show and left.

Reaching the counter, Ade dragged up as much of a smile as he could. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best he had.

“Morning, Pip.”

“Good morning, Ade.”

He scanned the breakfast stuff on offer, fried eggs, sausages, bacon, shrivelled and unappealing, same as him with Pip’s glare burning into him. She wouldn’t say anything, but she’d know, and he hated that she’d know. Her concern hovered like a warm blanket, so close, yet he couldn’t reach it, didn’t dare try, so utterly ashamed.

“What would you like?” she asked coolly. “Coffee and a bagel?”

There was no chance of him chewing his way through a bagel. “Porridge, I think.”

“You hate porridge.”

“The one with—” Someone queued up behind him and he reworded on the fly. “—Tate and Lyle is OK.”

“Are you sure? I could do you some scrambled egg.”

Ade nodded. “Thanks, Pip. You’re the best.”

“I’m your bestie , and don’t you forget it,” she said sternly, and he nodded again but couldn’t look at her. She was the best friend he’d ever had, so kind and supportive, always there when he needed her whether he’d asked for her help or not. Still, it was hard to remember sometimes that she wasn’t angry with him.

“Go sit,” she prompted, her tone gentler now, which was somehow worse.

Obediently, Ade set off towards his usual table but then stopped mid-step when he spotted the man sitting alone in the back corner of the cafeteria, his poise relaxed as he watched distantly out the window, very much the chilled Scandinavian. He picked up the cup in front of him, glancing around the room as he sipped, not entirely coming off as someone amenable to company, but in the second or less that they made eye contact, Ade knew he had to take a chance and went over to introduce himself.