fuck him, exactly. She sort of wanted to swim in him.
‘Sorry about the hike – but the lift’s due to be condemned,’ he told her as they took a flight of stairs at a light run, weightless in his case. ‘Except of course no one will bother to do it until there’s actually a disaster of some kind.’ He dipped back towards her, making some gesture. ‘So glad.’
Probably gay, she realized with pang. Although it was harder to tell with English guys. Already she was worrying about how she’d feel when they parted. She’d come down, she knew. She wanted to live in Hughland. For ever. She was even in love with his watch, an assertive Rolex which suggested that time would be kept, really kept, accurately and reliably.
He’s chosen that. That’s the kind of man he is. Jesus, Quentin, get a grip
.
They were on their way to watch dailies, as per the schedule, because this was her job. One of the larger rooms – the hotel didn’t run to a suite, as Hugh explained – had been cleared of its bed to make a viewing room. There was a projector on a chest of drawers and a decent-sized screen at the far end of the room, slightly askew on its tripod. The curtains were drawn. Another man, youngish, with a corpse pallor suggestive of the hours he spent in these shaded rooms, was threading film into the projector as they arrived. Hugh introduced him as Bri. He nodded, paying no attention to Quentin. She totally knew the type. Nothing personal, because a guy like him just didn’t do personal.
‘Do …’
Having tweaked the screen straight, Hugh waved to one of thearmchairs placed in front of it, economically adapting the end of his gesture into an indication for Bri that he should start up the film. They both sat. The dry-leaf skittering of the reel feeding through the sprockets began, calming to an automatic whirr as the countdown flashed up on the screen, the numbers huge in the middle of their target-shaped cipher. 4, 3, 2, 1. There was no sound, of course. Hugh jabbed a cigarette into his mouth and lit up, first proffering Quentin the packet, which she declined. His chair was at a slight angle to hers, so that the definite edge of his profile teased her line of vision to the left. He inhaled as though the smoke was essential to the continuation of breathing.
‘Sorted out some of the earlier stuff for you to see …’
The screen flashed an apocalyptic white, then it began. A clapperboard, mutely snapping. This dipped from view, revealing muddled activity which dissipated into a suddenly empty frame. Now there was just an expanse of parched dun grass, surmounted by a flat grey stripe of sky. The shot held, second upon second, waiting in thick light like the view through a dirty window. A smudge appeared on the line of the horizon.
‘
Lawrence of Arabia
,’ remarked Quentin.
‘I think we’re calling it an
hommage
,’ Hugh told her.
The smudge grew, and resolved itself into the figure of a child. The kid. Lallie. Our heroine. She came erratically closer, running, then walking. Her distress was immediately readable, as was the fact that she was a child unwilling to accommodate her distress.
‘Titles here. Plenty of room.’ Hugh gestured to the space to the right of the approaching figure.
‘What about the fight with the mother?’
Hugh shot her an appreciative grin.
See, Hugh, I’m on the ball, Hugh
.
‘Pre-title. Haven’t got it yet, of course. Means we can just jump straight in.’
The little girl had almost reached the camera. Her hair snakedunkempt around her face, her clothes were slightly too small for her. Not, it was clear, a kid to whom anyone paid much care or attention. She palmed furious tears from her face, then swerved off to the left and disappeared behind the silhouette of Hugh’s profile. A second, then the girl’s face poked back into view, confronting the camera. Now she was grinning, although her cheeks were still streaked with tears. Lallie’s lips clearly formed the shape of
‘Sorry about the hike – but the lift’s due to be condemned,’ he told her as they took a flight of stairs at a light run, weightless in his case. ‘Except of course no one will bother to do it until there’s actually a disaster of some kind.’ He dipped back towards her, making some gesture. ‘So glad.’
Probably gay, she realized with pang. Although it was harder to tell with English guys. Already she was worrying about how she’d feel when they parted. She’d come down, she knew. She wanted to live in Hughland. For ever. She was even in love with his watch, an assertive Rolex which suggested that time would be kept, really kept, accurately and reliably.
He’s chosen that. That’s the kind of man he is. Jesus, Quentin, get a grip
.
They were on their way to watch dailies, as per the schedule, because this was her job. One of the larger rooms – the hotel didn’t run to a suite, as Hugh explained – had been cleared of its bed to make a viewing room. There was a projector on a chest of drawers and a decent-sized screen at the far end of the room, slightly askew on its tripod. The curtains were drawn. Another man, youngish, with a corpse pallor suggestive of the hours he spent in these shaded rooms, was threading film into the projector as they arrived. Hugh introduced him as Bri. He nodded, paying no attention to Quentin. She totally knew the type. Nothing personal, because a guy like him just didn’t do personal.
‘Do …’
Having tweaked the screen straight, Hugh waved to one of thearmchairs placed in front of it, economically adapting the end of his gesture into an indication for Bri that he should start up the film. They both sat. The dry-leaf skittering of the reel feeding through the sprockets began, calming to an automatic whirr as the countdown flashed up on the screen, the numbers huge in the middle of their target-shaped cipher. 4, 3, 2, 1. There was no sound, of course. Hugh jabbed a cigarette into his mouth and lit up, first proffering Quentin the packet, which she declined. His chair was at a slight angle to hers, so that the definite edge of his profile teased her line of vision to the left. He inhaled as though the smoke was essential to the continuation of breathing.
‘Sorted out some of the earlier stuff for you to see …’
The screen flashed an apocalyptic white, then it began. A clapperboard, mutely snapping. This dipped from view, revealing muddled activity which dissipated into a suddenly empty frame. Now there was just an expanse of parched dun grass, surmounted by a flat grey stripe of sky. The shot held, second upon second, waiting in thick light like the view through a dirty window. A smudge appeared on the line of the horizon.
‘
Lawrence of Arabia
,’ remarked Quentin.
‘I think we’re calling it an
hommage
,’ Hugh told her.
The smudge grew, and resolved itself into the figure of a child. The kid. Lallie. Our heroine. She came erratically closer, running, then walking. Her distress was immediately readable, as was the fact that she was a child unwilling to accommodate her distress.
‘Titles here. Plenty of room.’ Hugh gestured to the space to the right of the approaching figure.
‘What about the fight with the mother?’
Hugh shot her an appreciative grin.
See, Hugh, I’m on the ball, Hugh
.
‘Pre-title. Haven’t got it yet, of course. Means we can just jump straight in.’
The little girl had almost reached the camera. Her hair snakedunkempt around her face, her clothes were slightly too small for her. Not, it was clear, a kid to whom anyone paid much care or attention. She palmed furious tears from her face, then swerved off to the left and disappeared behind the silhouette of Hugh’s profile. A second, then the girl’s face poked back into view, confronting the camera. Now she was grinning, although her cheeks were still streaked with tears. Lallie’s lips clearly formed the shape of
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