6.
Towards the end of January, Oliver becomes a regular at James and Amy’s flat. It helps matters that he lives only a short train ride away and ever since he got back from Ireland, he had started to frequent the spacious living area more and more.
Both James and Amy know that something has happened over the Christmas period, but neither want to mention it, so nobody says anything and life goes on as usual. What they don’t know, is that Oliver had come straight from the airport to their flat, so desperate for company after his disastrous argument with his father, that he had completely eschewed the idea of going back to his own empty flat. It wasn’t that he disliked the apartment; it just felt… lonely. He doesn’t want to admit it, but yes, the feeling of emptiness is definitely down to being lonely.
Because of this, it is no surprise to anyone when he turns up at Amy and James’s flat one Friday evening. Becca is already there and the four friends break open the drinks and order in dinner, enjoying each others company.
As the night draws on, the weather outside the windows becomes less and less desirable. The cold January air would whips at the windows, rattling the glass in their frames. Just as icy cold rain begins to fall from the sky, Amy stirs from where she is lying on the sofa. She is leaning on James who sits to her left, with Becca on his other side and Oliver who has placed himself on Amy’s right. Becca and James are talking quietly, laughing every now and again and it makes Amy smile to see her two friends getting on so easily. Things hadn’t always been like that for Becca and James- Amy can’t help but smile as she remembers how Becca used to harbour a secret love for the older boy back in their school days, and how James wouldn’t even give her the time of day. It’s funny, how things change, she thinks.
Oliver is sat leaning on the arm of the sofa reading a newspaper, looking rather calm. The four friends are cosy and close under James’s enormous king-sized duvet and a film is playing out from the television, but nobody is paying it much attention, all too dozy and full of food to notice. Oliver looks down as he feels Amy move next to him and grins at her when he realises she has woken. He gently folds the newspaper, so careful not to crease it anymore than necessary before swivelling round to place it on the armrest behind his head. He shifts slightly to allow her room to sit up and stretch her arms above her head. She smiles at Oliver and he is about to open his mouth to reply, when James cuts across him.
“Hey sleepy head,” he says softly, placing his hand gently on her back. Amy’s voice sounds slightly husky as she tries to shake off the last traces of sleep.
“Hiya Jamie. Are you guys okay?”
“Yes, we’re good!” Becca and Oliver both say in unison, before leaning forward to laugh at each other.
“Urgh, I could murder for a cup of tea,” Amy says, her voice muffled as she digs the heels of her hands into her eyes. Oliver pulls himself up off the sofa and the duvet falls from his lap,
“Earl Grey right? Lots of milk and two sugars?” he asks with a reassuring smile, leaving Amy to stumble over her words, feeling horrifically guilty for making Oliver get up from his seemingly comfy position.
“Oh no wait, Ollie! I didn’t mean-”
Oliver turns around and shakes his head.
“No, no it’s okay, I don’t mind. Kitchen’s just through here anyway, and I might as well make myself useful.”
James removes his arm off the back of the sofa and reaches for the remote. He switches of the television and turns his head awkwardly to look at Oliver who is standing just behind the breakfast bar.
“Oh Olls, if you’re boiling the kettle can you do me a coffee mate?” Amy turns and gives James a glare.
“For Godssake, he isn’t a servant James,” she says crossly, kicking the duvet off her legs, getting up as quickly as she can so she is able to help Oliver with the tea. As Oliver pours water into the kettle, Amy reaches up to get the mugs from the cupboard. She can only reach three of them- the rest of them have been placed towards the back of the cabinet. She makes a noise of frustration and is about to shout at James for pushing them so far back when Oliver appears behind her. He stands close, too close, but neither of them think to move away, so they stay there- his chest pressed flush against her back, his hand coming to rest on the counter top by her waist as he extends a long arm to reach the mugs the she can not. The close proximity makes Oliver nervous in a not entirely unpleasant way and he feels as though he will do something stupid like drop the mugs or spill the water, but the moment passes when she turns in front of him and he presses the mug into her hands.
“Thank you,” she says.
From the sofa, James coughs indignantly and Oliver springs back, the moment ruined. He takes a moment to scold himself but then Amy smiles at him, gives his shoulder a gentle nudge and the fluttering feeling is back, refusing to go away.
-x-
“I like her,” he blurts out one day, causing James to raise an eyebrow at him. Oliver then realises that what he actually said probably resembled, “Aszsdjj,” and he flushes slightly, staring into his tea mug. The scent of herbal tea drifts up to meet him and he puts the colour in his cheeks down to the heat of his drink.
“Sorry mate, didn’t quite catch that.” James says helpfully, leaning back in his chair. Oliver curses him for being so blasé about the whole matter and clears his throat.
“I like her,” he says quietly, “she’s nice.”
James nods, clasps his hands together on the table- top.
“Hmm,” he agrees, “nice. Lovely. Who are you talking about?”
“Amabelle!” Oliver cries, suddenly tired of it all, the nerves, the feelings he hasn’t felt for a good five years or so, “she’s lovely.”
“We are speaking about the same Amabelle?” James asks cynically, “because I wouldn’t quite describe her as lovely. Manipulative? Sure.”
James looks at his friend then, really looks and he sees how embarrassed he is, how awkward he finds this topic of conversation and he can’t help but pity him.
“You’re serious about this aren’t you?” he says slowly, “you actually do… good God Haydon, of all the people.”
Oliver worries his bottom lip with his teeth and pushes his drink away.
“Do you think she’d go out with me?”
James can’t help himself- he laughs. Then he notices the hurt expression on Oliver’s face and his laughter stutters and dies in his throat.
“Look Ollie,” he says quickly, “you want to ask her out? Go for it. But she’s a tricky character and I just feel like I should warn you. She doesn’t really ‘do’ serious relationships and she hurts easily so just… don’t hold out any high expectations yeah? If things go tits up then don't blame yourself.”
Oliver nods and wishes, prays for the ground to open and swallow him up because really, could this get any more humiliating?
“Look, I’ve gotta dash. Just think it over okay? Don’t jump into anything.”
Then James is gone, in a flurry of movement and leather jacket, hurrying out onto the street outside.
-x-
He waits until a few weeks later, when the fleeting touches and lingering glances become too much for him and they hear the news that a second series of The Noble Art of Living has been commissioned- then they are all so happy, so ecstatic that the words just fall out of his mouth and before he knows it he has a dinner date for two that night at eight o clock.
The date itself goes rather well.
They find themselves in a small Italian restaurant not too far from Oliver’s apartment, sitting at a cosy table for two with a single candle flickering gently between them both. Conversation flows easily and if Oliver loses himself in another pointless ramble then Amy says nothing about it- instead she smiles at him in an endearing way and takes delicate sips from her wine glass.
Oliver himself stops after one glass, only too aware of his alcohol intolerance and takes to drinking lemonade with his meal. They eat in a comfortable silence, Amy pausing now and again to steal bites from his salad. He lets her, a smile on his face and feels happier than he has done in a long, long time. He still hasn’t quite recovered from his argument with his father, but this is what will heal him, he knows that as well as he knows himself.
“You’ve barely eaten!” Amy exclaims when the waiter comes to take their dishes away, “are you sure you’re full?”
And there it is, the punch in the gut, the kick in the teeth and Oliver has to force a smile, take a drink of his lemonade and try to ignore the words of his father running around and around his head.
-x-
Filming starts again and the cast and crew head off to France. Oliver has forgotten how much stress and worry comes with the job and is finding it increasingly difficult to settle back into the routine of early mornings and late nights- all work no play. The success of the first series has meant that the amount of stress has multiplied; so many people are now depending on him and his professional resolve is now beginning to crumble. Of course, it is different this time. He has Amy by his side and James at his other; his girlfriend (and he can say that now… it has been a good few months and their new relationship has been going from strength to strength) and his best friend. And then there is Becca. She is always there for him, there for all of them and for that he is grateful. If that isn’t enough, his older brother Oscar has come up from Cornwall to play a supporting role in ‘The Noble Art of Living’.
Everything would be perfect, if Oliver didn’t feel so ill and tired all the time. It is causing more trouble than it is worth, but it has spiralled out of control... his control. He has constant purple bruises under his eyes, which have to have makeup applied constantly to cover them up and his face has hollowed somewhat. He has lost count of how many people have come up to him to enquire after his health. He doesn’t want to have to count the number of times he has brushed off those closest to him; he can’t bear to have to count, so he doesn’t.
“Hey.”
He turns to see Amy and a wave of guilt washes over him, like it does every time he sees her. He knows how worried she is, but it seems she has given up trying to make him see sense. Instead, she just looks at him sadly when he misses breakfast and lunch. She always opens her mouth to say something when he leaves his plate at dinner nearly full, but Becca lays a hand over hers and she stops. James, Alice and Nancy go on with life, seemingly oblivious, but Oliver catches the worried glances that are frequently sent his way. He doesn’t mean to make everyone worried; he just can’t help it.
“You alright?” she asks him now, wrapping her arms around his waist and pulling him close. He wants to warn her that the fans will see them, but his mouth is so dry he can’t form even the shortest of words. He swallows frantically, but he suddenly stills when he feels her hand tracing the length of his spine, forcing him to calm down.
“Take the evening off?” she begs him quietly, looking up into his face; Oliver averts his eyes, finding the look of hurt in her eyes unbearable. She knows what his answer will be. It is the same every time and yet still she keeps asking.
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“You can,” Amy insists, squeezing his middle and burying her face in his chest.
“I can’t,” he continues, “we’re under a lot of pressure this time. We-”
“Oliver!!”
They are interrupted by a shout from the French director and he nods.
“I have to go,” he says softly, “I’m sorry. I’ll see you later.”
He doesn’t miss the tears that his girlfriend rapidly blinks away, refusing to be seen as weak; determined not to show him that he has got the better of her.
“Of course you do,” she says, giving him a watery smile. “I’ll see you later.” She turns to walk away, but Oliver catches her hand, twining their fingers together.
“I...” he starts. She nods, as if she knows exactly what he’s going to say, before gently pulling her hand away, trying desperately to keep it together, before leaving Oliver to fumble with his words, crossing the courtyard and walking out of sight as Becca beckons her into the white tent.
“Alright brother?”
This time, Oliver doesn’t even turn around.
“I have filming now Oscar,” he says as he sets off at a brisk walk.
“You have five minutes,” Oscar says angrily, “for god’s sake Oliver, slow down.” He grabs his arm and pulls on it roughly, forcing him down to sit on the stairs.
“We’re worried about you Ollie. Everyone just wants to help you, but you won’t let them.”
Oliver tries to stand up, but Oscar holds him down easily, his bulk no competition for his younger brother’s delicate frame.
“I don’t want to hear this,” he says, emotion flooding into his voice, making is accent thicker and rougher, “please let go of me.” He knows that Oscar can easily translate, ‘I don’t want to hear this,’ into, ‘I can’t hear this,’ and prays that it is enough. His brother doesn’t stall and simply brushes off Oliver’s remarks, continuing as if he hasn’t said a word.
“I won’t let you do this to mum and dad again Ollie. Or your friends... Or me. You’ll ruin mum and you’ll ruin yourself. You have to start eating something. I’ve seen you skip meals and I’ve heard all the excuses before. Come on Oliver, get it together. We all love you. Are you ever going to admit to yourself that you need help?”
“I don’t need help!” he whispers furiously, “now let go.”
Oscar just shakes his head.
“I won’t let you do it Oliver,” he says quietly, “I won’t. Last time was... last time...”
Oliver yanks his arm free, narrowing his eyes at his brother because how dare he bring his past, his personal issues into his workplace and strides back across the courtyard to where James is waiting to start filming. He is desperately trying to remember his lines for the upcoming scene, but he stops and looks up to smile at Oliver as he approaches.
“You alright Oll?” he asks.
“Don’t ask me if I’m alright.” Oliver snaps, unable to help himself. James backs off, with a mumbled,
“Ohhhh-kayyy...”
“Action.”
“Come on then Tommy,” James drawls as they set off down the walkway, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you today. Got something more important on your mind?”
“I-” the words stick in his throat and a sudden feeling of nausea hits him hard. “I... I don’t...”
For the first time, he is so painfully aware of the eyes of the crowd boring into him, expecting something extraordinary from his performance. He feels sick and tired and everything is closing in on him. His head is spinning and the world won’t stop going round. He can hear voices but he doesn’t know if they’re inside or outside his head. Everything, everyone gets closer and closer and he can no longer breathe. Then it all stops, and he is falling, unable to do anything about it.
-x-
The first person he sets eyes on when he wakes up is Becca.
“How nice of you to join me Oliver,” she says drily in a monotonous voice. Oliver simply gives her a sheepish grin, hoping that it will put her mind at ease. They sit in silence for a while, before Oliver asks,
“What time is it?”
“Nearly ten past eleven. You’ve been out for hours because you haven’t been sleeping properly... your body is trying to make up for that now. James’s taken Amy out to dinner much against her will, but I’m not having her starving herself just because you won’t eat anything. She wanted to stay with you... James practically had to carry her out of the hotel. It was quite an amusing sight, it’s a shame you missed it.”
Oliver hangs his head in shame, but doesn’t say anything. He knows that Becca is trying to lighten the mood, but he can’t bring himself to crack even the smallest of smiles.
“Do you want to tell me about it Oll?” Becca asks softly, leaning forward slightly in her chair. Oliver shakes his head.
“There’s nothing to tell,” He replies lightly, “everything’s fine.”
Becca stares at him.
“Oliver, they wanted to get a doctor out here. Everyone’s really worried about you and nobody knows what’s going on. You’re bloody lucky I managed to persuade them that you didn’t need another professional because they were all set on taking you to hospital. Oscar is really worried about you. He was panicking and wanted to call your parents for Godssakes, so don’t tell me there is nothing to this!”
When Oliver looks at her again, a single tear trickles from the corner of his eye, ghosting over his cheekbones before falling from his pointy chin.
“When will Amy be back?” he whispers, his voice catching in his throat.
“I don’t know. James’s taken her out to get her mind off things. Do you want me to send her up when they get back? I think she was planning on sleeping in either mine or James’s room tonight... to give you some space.”
Oliver just nods. He doesn’t know what to say, but he is fighting the emotions that threaten to take over.
“Can I... could you maybe...” he doesn’t get the question out, but Becca seems to understand his need to be alone. He is glad that she doesn’t ask any questions of him, but simply stands up and takes her leave, turning off the light and carefully shutting the door behind her. Even then, lying in the dark, he refuses to give in to his emotions. He merely pulls the duvet tightly around him and tries to remember when his life got so complicated.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he opens his eyes once again, a stream of light is flooding into the room. It is gone as soon as it appears and he slowly pulls the duvet down as the door shuts once again. He can vaguely make out the silhouette of his girlfriend stumbling blindly towards the bed and he stills. He can hear her moving cautiously around the room, picking up objects and suddenly he remembers Becca’s words-
“I think she was planning on sleeping in either mine or James’s room tonight... to give you some space...”
In a panic he sits up, which makes his head spin unpleasantly. Amy turns to him from the doorway.
“Please don’t go,” he begs. He doesn’t care how pathetic he sounds; he cannot be alone. She sighs and puts down her belongings on the chair that Becca had occupied earlier. She slides easily onto the bed, extending her legs out on top of the covers without a word until-
“Oliver... I...” she starts, but Oliver scoots closer to her, wrapping his arms around her waist.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, finally allowing the fat, salty tears to fall from his stinging eyes, “I’m so sorry... I... I don’t know what to do...”
Amy rocks him, kissing the top of his messy black hair, before letting her cheek rest there, soothing the man in her arms.
“Please don’t talk Ollie. We can talk tomorrow. Just sleep.”
Oliver buries his face in her stomach and takes a deep breath; her shirt smells of wine, good food and
James’s cologne, with perhaps a hint of the end of the day.
“I’m just so sorry,” he sobs brokenly, “I didn’t mean to...”
“Hush...” she whispers, “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”