Well, that’s what I picked up anyway.
“I’m his wife,” says Suze stonily.
“Of course.” He lifts his hands. “Suze, I respect you.”
There’s a really weird chemistry between Suze and Bryce. She’s practically sparking as she squares up to him.…
Oh my God, does she fancy him? I mean, everyone kind of fancies Bryce—you’d have to be inhuman not to—but does she really fancy him?
“Come on.” At last Suze swivels and addresses Tarkie. “We need to go.”
“I’ll see you, Tarquin,” says Bryce, apparently unoffended.
“Call me, Bryce,” says Tarkie. “If you and the chaps are playing volleyball, or if there’s another hike …” He’s so eager and hopeful, he reminds me of a little boy running after the cool kids in the playground.
“I’ll call.” Bryce nods kindly, then turns and leaves.
“Well!” Suze exhales as the door closes.
“Interesting guy,” says Luke noncommittally. “What’s his background, Tarquin?”
“I don’t know,” says Tarkie. “And it doesn’t matter.” He turns on Suze. “I think you could be a bit more polite to my friends.”
“He’s not your friend,” retorts Suze.
“He is! He’s more of a friend than most of the people in my life! He’s cleverer, and kinder, and he understands more—” Tarquin breaks off, and we all gape at him. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Tarkie so impassioned in my life.
I mean, I’d have to agree. I’ve met Tarquin’s friends, and most of them can only say about six words: “Good shot” and “ ’Nother titchy?” and “Damned pheasant.” I can’t imagine any of them talking about the soul finding the answers.
And if you ask me, Suze is making a big mistake. Why shouldn’t Tarkie blabber his guts out to the sea if it helps him? He was in a real old state before he got out here. At least now he has a glow to his cheeks.
“If you can’t see it, then I don’t know how to explain,” Tarquin finishes at last.
“Well, I can’t,” says Suze angrily.
In silence, Tarquin heads up the stairs, his Frisbee dangling at his side. I exchange anxious glances with Luke, then look at Suze. She’s standing with her hands on her hips, her cheeks puffed out defiantly.
“Suze!” I hiss as soon as Tarkie is out of earshot. “What’s your problem?”
“I don’t know. I just …” She exhales. “I just don’t like that guy. He winds me up.”
He winds her up. Well, that proves it. She does fancy him, even if she doesn’t realize it herself. It’s a sexual-chemistry thing, and she’s trying to resist it and is taking it out on poor Tarkie with an irrational prejudice. Boom! Diagnosed!
Honestly, I should go into psychology. I’ve clearly got a real knack for it.
“You don’t know what Tarkie’s like,” Suze continues. “You haven’t seen him much recently. He’s started saying weird things. He’s changed.”
Yes, and that’s a good thing! I want to exclaim. Have you forgotten what a wreck he was? But now isn’t the moment.
“Look, never mind,” I say soothingly. “Let’s go out and have some fun and talk about it another time.”
The truth is, Suze could probably do with some sea-talking natural-healing soul-finding stuff herself. (Only I won’t say that, because she’d probably stamp on my foot, and she’s wearing her spikiest Louboutins.)
The Actors’ Society Awards are being held at the Willerton Hotel, and according to the program they are for lesser-known actors whose art may not find recognition elsewhere. The trouble is, the whole place is stuffed full of major celebrities, so the poor old “lesser-known actors” aren’t getting a look-in. I’ve already seen Diane Kruger and Hugh Jackman and the blond one off that show with the kangaroo. And now the photographers outside are yelling, “Tom! Tom!” in a total frenzy, although whether it’s Cruise or Hanks I don’t know.
(Or Selleck?)
(Or some other new hot Tom I don’t know about?)
At least there was only one red carpet this time, not that my feet touched it for more than thirty seconds. All the stars were posing on one side for the photographers, while we lesser mortals were pushed along briskly by men in headsets who were practically holding cattle prods. I mean, I was virtually running, and Suze twisted her ankle.
“Best Hairspray,” says Suze, nodding at a woman with rock-solid hair.
“Best Fake Boobs,” I chime in, pointing to a girl striding by in a strapless dress.
“Ooh, look! Best Producer Being Mean to Her Assistant,” says Suze, gesturing at a scrawny woman in a tux, who is talking fiercely through the side of her mouth at a young girl who looks like she might start crying.
The actual awards don’t start for another whole hour, and as far as I can see, neither Sage nor Lois is here yet. Suze says her ankle is too painful to mill around, and Tarkie has disappeared off with a friend of his from volleyball, so we’re sitting at our table with glasses of wine, giving out our own awards.
“I saw that girl in the loos.” Suze nudges me as a beautiful red-haired girl walks by. “She gets Best Use of Concealer. And Best Drying Her Armpits under the Hot-Air Dryer—oh!” She breaks off. “April! Hello!”
I swivel round and gulp. There’s April Tremont, looking very slinky in a peacock-blue dress. And standing next to her is …