London
The days had slipped away between the fingers of the two Walsh, they were still talking sitting in the bathroom as they had always done. Without embarrassment. They were confronted like this. They had always confronted themselves like this. In Minnesota and California. They had made a long video call to Jim and Cindy in which they had appeared more close-knit than ever, making their parents happy and proud to see their children so united despite their lives flowing thousands of miles away. They promised to join at Christmas or even earlier.
Brandon had taken a look at Brenda's scripts. A couple of projects to stage. He laughed several times and she liked the idea of being able to make him laugh again. Brandon looked alone. Always unassailable but alone. And it's not that she fared better. But that wall built, the armor of her independence had defended and protected her just as it defended and protected him.
On the last night they went to a small Italian restaurant not far from Brenda's house. A place not badly hidden in the narrow streets of Soho, which Brandon had found and appreciated almost immediately after his arrival in the city.
Brenda had chosen mussels and clam linguines, without questioning the origin of those seafood; the brother who as a journalist asked certain questions, opted for bolognese fettuccine, trusting in the goodness of the beef raw material of Great Britain.
Brandon's cell phone began to vibrate on the table.
"But don't you ever turn that thing off?"
"No, never," he replied. He kept the screen and recognized the Washington prefix.
"At this time?" Brenda asked.
Without looking away from his cell phone "sister, on the East Cost it's just 3 pm"
"Ops," She smiled embarrassed, sticking her head into the wide wine list.
"Yes, Phillip, you finally remembered your man at the Colosseum, tell me everything....yes uh......."
Brandon's expression became increasingly frowning "what should I tell you? It's a nice professional opportunity. Let me think for a moment. I didn't even come back from Europe. I know there is no time. The day after tomorrow I'm in Wash.. ok.." and he hung up.
"So? From the expression you have.It looks like he just fired you. Yet I felt like this is a good opportunity; what's boiling in the pot, little brother?"
"It's not a pot, Brenda; it's a pan with boiling oil and baking a mixed fried food. And there's everything inside, believe me. Of everything."
Brenda had planted her eyes on him "do you stop being so sibylline? What is it about?"
The waiter served the former and Brandon waited for him to walk away.
"There Is a position opened up in Los Angeles." And he pounced himself with the fork on the fettuccine.
"Los Angeles?" Brenda repeated the name of the city.
"As a manager," he concluded.
Brenda expected him to say something, she wanted to grab an emotion but Brandon seemed worried.
"And you're going there?"
Brandon stopped eating, put the fork on the plate.
"I don't know"
Washington
Brandon took the taxi and went to the office immediately. The jet leg made itself heard but it was late and pretended to ignore it. He pushed the glass door and hurriedly greeted Secretary Sherlyl.
"He's waiting for you," he shouted behind him.
Brandon framed the door and walked in without knocking.
"Welcome back Walsh"
"Hello Philip"
He was a man over fifty. Not nice. But A great journalist and a famous poker player.
"Three months Walsh. We don't ask you for more"
"What happened to Barret"
Thompson looked at his shoes.
"His wife is not well, it's a good opportunity"
"Yes I know"
"Three months and you come back here"
Brandon didn't reply.
"Oh! Thanks Philip for the great opportunity" the ape Thompson
"That's not this.."
"So what?" Thompson had raised his voice without realizing it but apologized almost immediately "I had a bad day".
"Yes, me too," he replied.
Brandon came out giving the answer everyone expected.
When he open the door, the coldness of the ice-colored walls welcomed him. He stood by and watched the dishes still dirty from when he left.
He sank on the couch untying his tie.
"Los Angeles" whispered.
Beverly Hills
The bedroom was still immersed in the twilight, despite being 9 am; the decor was simple, sometimes Spartan. A two-door wardrobe, a chair, a chest of drawers surmounted by a mirror, a bedside table next to the bed with stacked underwear; clean, but still to be arranged. And clothes. Everywhere. Clothes thrown in bulk. Shirts, t-shirts, jeans, trousers. It looked like the thieves had just passed by. And instead it was the chaos that had reigned for months in that room. The cell phone began ringing to the notes of Beverly Hills Cop and mercilessly warned Steve that maybe it was time to leave the bed.
One hand came out of under the sheet and began to feel the bedside table in search of the harassing object, falling on the ground the photo of little Maddy smiling in a delicious Minnie dress.
He finally found the screaming object, to which he asked for mercy by swiping his finger across the screen "Who is?" Said blatantly annoyed; a distant voice, overseas, exclaimed, "Wake up Sanders, it's time to get up!"
"Brandon!" He immediately seemed to recover all his intellectual faculties such was the joy in hearing the friend "How are you?"
"I'm great, in dazzling shape. I'm going to the airport. I'll call you to ask you for two courtesies."
"Shoot friend" Steve was already out of bed, projected towards a shower and a black coffee.
"You have to pick me up at LAX tonight; no limu, your small car is fine... by the way, what car do you have now?"
"A Corvette, why?"
"Some things will never change," Walsh thought and continued. "Nothing, just curiosity; but let's go to the second request slightly more challenging."
"What do you have in mind, Walsh?"
"How many bedrooms do you have?"
"Only one, small and smelly, why?" Brandon looked up at the sky, as the taxi driver asked, "At the airport Sir?"
"Yes, thank you"
Steve hadn't understood anything except that he had to pick him up. A smile surfaced spontaneously on the tanned face "You mean...." "
"Bingo boy!" Said B. "work my friend, do you know or am I sending you a videotutorial?".
Steve started jumping like burning coals had suddenly lit under his bare feet he grabbed a torn piece of paper and a pencil... "tell me the flight number."