RPF: it’s been forever a long, lonely winter
note: this is falseeeyelashes’s fault, and even more michelle’s fault that i’m even thinking about writing a sequel or doing this again lol. if you haven’t seen eastern promises, i suggest you go and see it. enjoy guys! i'm attempting to go to bed.
it’s been forever a long, lonely winter
there are our lives, and then our lives inside each reel of film. at some point, the two will connect and someone will learn to blur lines on cue. rpf: naomi watts/viggo mortensen. 2,732 words, pg13.
-
“I’m going to get lost one of these days,” Viggo tells her once.
It is November in London, and they are just beginning, it is raining and her hair hits a length just under her chin. She is cold, weeks into being pregnant. She isn’t ready to tell a soul.
“Lost?”
“These characters,” he continues. “This character. They’re going to eat me alive. And I think I’m okay with that.”
She never answers back.
He is ever the poet even then.
There are suitcases all over the bedroom.
She likes New York because it’s never been LA. There are ways to orient a family here but it still isn’t Sydney. She’s been bred to think in terms of maps but her parents never counted her decision to be an actress.
A Woody Allen film is taking her to London. She is not entirely sure why she’s agreed to this, as it is Woody Allen and there is a Hitchcock film in her near future. Directors and blondes make her nervous. It’s that sort of pathology she tries to joke. She’s just glad Liev has taken their boys to the park for the rest of the afternoon.
She stands at her dresser, and her telephone rings.
“I’m in town,” Viggo greets her. It surprises her.
She blinks in the mirror. Her reflection is too long. Her hair cut into her shoulders. She can’t seem to remember the last time they talked, whether it was a year ago or less. It isn’t important. This could be funny. She straightens herself, watching the reflection in the glass. She was the one who gave him her mobile number.
“Yeah?” she asks. Her shoulders rise.
“Yeah. For a little while - I hate the city, but I have a bunch of meetings. Press for the Road starts in a few months and then I’m heading to Sydney for meetings for another film. I was hoping I’d catch you there.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, darling,” she deadpans.
He ignores her.
“Can you do dinner?”
She looks to the mess in the bedroom. In the mirror, the suitcases watch her. There are two on top of the bed. The larger ones sit at the foot of it, half-filled with some of her boys’ things. There are clothes and toys, and Liev'’s shoes are lined against the closet door. Sometimes she forgets that they’ve started to try traveling as a family. This is motherhood then.
“It’s barely been an afternoon,” she says dryly. “I leave tomorrow morning for London for work. Can we do lunch? Or, actually, I’d rather do something later. I have to feed the boys.”
“Drinks then,” he says.
They agree to a bar around the corner from his hotel. A walk for him, a cab for her, and shared fare somewhere in between; these things never matters as much as you think.
Hotel bars are suspect. And actors are always professionals.
He is late, and there is a band already playing. It is after nine.
She tries to remember the time they agreed. But he arrives, just as she is starting to forget all the same.
“Scotch,” he tells the waitress as he settles across from Naomi. The waitress is blushing, and he adds, “Dry too, please. And glass of water when you get a chance.”
Naomi is amused, even as the waitress disappears. Her wine glass remains untouched. She is thinking about the sandwiches she left on the kitchen counter. She hopes that the boys are sleeping well tonight.
“Hello,” she offers.
Viggo smiles. She shakes her head.
“Phone call,” he says, by ways of apologizing.
He leans over and kisses her cheek, his mouth lingering over her jaw.
“You look beautiful.”
Her breath catches and she shrugs, as if to avoid the compliment. He settles next to her, and close; she could only grab half a booth, one cocked into the corner of the dance floor.
“How are you?” she asks instead.
“Meetings for the week. I have things to do, a few offers that are being hammered my way, and my son wants to introduce me to his girlfriend. So there’s that too, I guess.”
She laughs, grinning.
“Brilliant.”
She’s cut short too, distracted. The lights over the dance floor take to an odd color, casting into her wine glass and unsettling the red of her wine. She can’t remember the last time she was in one of these sorts of places. She’s become that kind of age, further and further away from being defined by how much younger the drink she has is.
“So London, huh.”
The blushing waitress brings his scotch. Viggo smiles, and she disappears, just as he fingers around for cigarettes. His pack drops between them and Naomi picks them up, pushing them over the table. She watches as he leaves them alone.
“Woody Allen, actually,” she murmurs. “I’m supposed to be in the city until late May, or so he says. I’ve been told to expect nothing linear with a Woody Allen project - I don’t really know why I find that thing sort of funny.”
His nose wrinkles. She shrugs. These days, it’s about preferences.
“Have you talked to David lately?” he asks, then.
“No?”
He frowns but says nothing. She stares at him, her finger running along the rim of her glass. There is laughter somewhere next to them. At the bar, the waitress is smiling at their table. Naomi watches as the bartender then shakes his head, seemingly unamused.
This is still the city, she thinks. She’s always liked how no one seems surprised.
The band changes into a louder song. The singer is attempting Sinatra, and her hands drop over her thighs, into her jeans. She feels sort of underwhelmed around here. She is distracted by the change in crowd; when she arrived, there were few customers in jeans and nice jumpers. She was one of those numbers. She sees a few skirts and heels, then eyes Viggo’s leather jacket with some insensible idea of amusement.
“I want to talk to you about Eastern Promises,” he says.
She tries, then, not to seem surprised.
There are three missed calls on her mobile.
She’s only touched it to check, and loses it to her jacket, which is cast aside to a corner of their booth. They are talking about the film, or arguing. She can’t remember why he’s said he’s started this conversation. They are back to lamenting over character ghosts. They are not drunk yet.
“But you’re not hearing me,” she argues. “I think it’s fantastic that you, and subsequently David, are interested in doing a sequel. There’s nothing particularly wrong with a sequel -”
“Not everybody enjoys them,” he cuts her off.
It’s become two conversations, then. A question, and then answers, with the band following along with a song she should know but she is too engrossed in him and their talk to really recognize it. He seems to be avoiding something. The wine is keeping her from pointing this out.
“Since when are you about commerciality?”
He grins. “Fucking never,” he says.
Her eyes roll.
“Then explain to me this - what reason does Anna have for coming back to the city? Or what reason does he have for wanting to see her? Love and attraction are never the same thing.”
He does not answer.
He picks up his glass, bringing the drink to his mouth and finishing off his third or fourth. She watches him. Maybe it’s a fifth instead, or maybe it’s her fourth. She is still in the middle of her drink too, attempting to force herself not to think about stretching into a bottle.
She is comfortably buzzed, somewhat flushed, and enjoying the spark of their conversation. She remembers why she was partial to the film. But the number of drinks seems to lose their importance and they’re too involved in each other anyway. He does not wave their waitress over. It’s still too early of a day tomorrow. She’s forgotten about the time too.
“Of course,” she throws back. “You still haven’t answered the fucking question - why would Anna come back? What would make her come and see him? There’s no particular reason to, and Christine, depending on the time you’ve settled on, is too young to be curious.”
Her hair has seemed to unravel back into her chin. There is heat crawling against her throat. She licks her lips.
“Impossible,” he drawls. “Everybody is curious,” he licks his lips too.
Naomi feels herself flush. She pulls her hand away from her wineglass. Her thigh is pressing into his. They are close, if only to hear each other, but that excuse has seems to lose the charm of any merit.
“Stop it,” she murmurs.
He shrugs. “It’s true,” he tells her. “Human beings are never far from curiosity, at all intensities. We’re actors. We take advantage of that curiosity.”
Her mouth curls, but she says nothing.
There are thoughts in her head about going home, and going home now, but they seem to be without any particular impulse. She takes the time to study him instead, her eyes wandering against the long, sharp arch of his throat. Her fingers curl around her glass then, and she remembers a moment where she almost - almost kissed him there? She should remember that.
There is such a thing as losing yourself to takes, and camera placements. There are characters that she has never really managed forget, and people that have shaped her into something she doesn’t quite understand. This business is never boring, she wants to tell him, but she doesn’t want to hear him understand.
“Ever the romantic,” she mutters, out loud.
“What?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing.”
He leans forward though. He pushes his empty glass to the side. He rests his cheek over his hand and she imagines they’re writing themselves into teenagers, some odd homage of that sort.
“Anyways,” he starts again. “I think, however the size, Anna is still part of the story and if this moves into something, I’d like to think you -”
He stops himself and shrugs. She stares at him, unsure of what to think. There are knots in her stomach. His hand drops over the table, and then her hand, his fingers grazing over her knuckles. They are soft enough to be an afterthought but she cannot ignore them.
She drops her gaze then, staring at their hands. “Call me when you have a script,” she breathes.
She doesn’t remember dropping her hand before. It never seems to matter.
“I’m going to ask you to come to Moscow with me one of these days,” he says then. He ignores her too. “Bring your boys, bring - Liev. Nice guy, I have to fucking say. Can’t remember where I met him.”
“You did?”
He shakes his head. “No, but if I did - I’m sure he’s a fucking nice guy.”
She laughs. Or giggles. She is too entirely sure she giggles - it is not supposed to be anything near important, but the laugh seems to taste lighter. She can’t remember the last time she’s laughed like this.
She reaches for her wine, but stops herself.
“We’re talking about Anna, remember, and why I should do this film with you and David and you -”
She stops. Her eyes widen.
“I hate doing sequels,” she announces.
It’s almost comical when he stares at her, breaking into a loud laugh. It hits the bar, over the crowd, and it takes her a minute to realize that the band is now on break and everybody has clustered into quiet conversations.
He lifts his empty glass. “So do I,” he says.
No one actually says the word kiss, mind you.
It is seemingly about the subtle moments, not about the things that they notice. When he walks her outside, his hand is placed at the small of her back. She is leaning into him. She tries not to think about why. She forgets about Liev and the boys, and in the morning, guilt will be waiting to charm her then or something close to it.
“You should be in town more often,” she teases lightly.
He is quiet, but she hears something like a laugh. She is still flushed. The air is quiet, cool, and spreads over her cheeks. They cut into the alley. The back entrance is a force of habit.
In front of them, there are clumps of people passing into the streets. A couple folds into each other against the side, laughing. A cab rolls in front of the alleyway and Viggo pulls her to the wall for the moment. They stumble, and he presses into her. She laughs softly but he’s serious.
“I had this question, you know.”
“Question?”
“Yeah,” he says. “An interview. I think it was in Canada - I’m not entirely sure, I was just trying to mind my goddamn business for a little while. But work is work, as you know, and hockey season isn’t really exciting in the beginning.”
She shrugs. “Okay.”
His fingers slide over her jaw. He cups her face between his hands, then, and seems to tower over her. She is not entirely sure how they’ve come to this part; the wall is hard against her jacket, and in her pocket, her phone is buzzing against her hip. She ignores them both.
“We should be friends,” he says.
“I’d like that,” she says back. Her fingers brush over the zipper of his jacket. “Friends,” she repeats. “I can do friends.”
Which is such a fucking lie, she doesn’t say. She has said to before, and it almost scares her. It stands hazily in the back of her mind. She should be devastated at the reminder, but that kind of time is so far gone and buried. It is not about names.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay,” and then again.
His mouth slides over hers without warning. It is hot, and somewhat sticky, even as her mouth opens back against his. He tastes familiar. It is the scotch and the wine, and it is the reminder that they have been here before. She forgets why she seems so stuck on it before.
He makes this nose then - a growl, a sigh. “I can’t -” she tries to say against his mouth. It sounds heavier, the taste of her words shifting into his smile. But that fades, and he is kissing her again, his mouth opening back against hers as they press into the wall.
His fingers slide into her hair, pulling lightly against the back of her neck. He shifts back slowly. He leans his forehead against hers and she tries to sigh, unable to make herself move away from him. She doesn’t understand why.
“Let’s get you a cab,” he says softly. She is breathing heavily.
She feels tired. But she finally pulls back, forcing a smile. Her mouth feels tight. She can still taste him and the uncertainty is more than just a strange feeling. This isn’t just guilt.
Her hands curl at her sides.
In the distance, the couple laughs again.
At home, Liev helps her out of the cab.
She called ahead. Their front door is open. Light pours out onto the stop. His hand is too tight around her arm. She tries not to think about it.
“You’re never late,” he says. He laughs tiredly.
It sounds hard.
There are constants, and then there’s old press pretending to be new.
“It’s amazing, you know,” the interviewer gushes from the chair. There are two mugs between Naomi and the other woman, one red and the other blue. The set has morphed into some sort of homage to a furniture showcase.
Naomi is distracted. She is thinking about Sasha and Sammy, Liev and the argument that she had with him this morning. They are weeks into London. The cameraman has moved closer to her chair. She is trying not to look at him.
“It’s amazing,” the interviewer continues, “the kind of chemistry the two of you have. Director David Cronenberg had been quoted several times, raving about the intensity the two of you have - that tension. How was it working with Viggo, then? Are you looking forward to maybe doing it again?”
Naomi meets her gaze. “A delight,” she murmurs.
She ignores the second question. It makes her nervous. She is trying too hard not to show this, and picks a corner to refocus.
The camera gets an absent smile.
It is never about how these things start.
it’s been forever a long, lonely winter
there are our lives, and then our lives inside each reel of film. at some point, the two will connect and someone will learn to blur lines on cue. rpf: naomi watts/viggo mortensen. 2,732 words, pg13.
-
“I’m going to get lost one of these days,” Viggo tells her once.
It is November in London, and they are just beginning, it is raining and her hair hits a length just under her chin. She is cold, weeks into being pregnant. She isn’t ready to tell a soul.
“Lost?”
“These characters,” he continues. “This character. They’re going to eat me alive. And I think I’m okay with that.”
She never answers back.
He is ever the poet even then.
There are suitcases all over the bedroom.
She likes New York because it’s never been LA. There are ways to orient a family here but it still isn’t Sydney. She’s been bred to think in terms of maps but her parents never counted her decision to be an actress.
A Woody Allen film is taking her to London. She is not entirely sure why she’s agreed to this, as it is Woody Allen and there is a Hitchcock film in her near future. Directors and blondes make her nervous. It’s that sort of pathology she tries to joke. She’s just glad Liev has taken their boys to the park for the rest of the afternoon.
She stands at her dresser, and her telephone rings.
“I’m in town,” Viggo greets her. It surprises her.
She blinks in the mirror. Her reflection is too long. Her hair cut into her shoulders. She can’t seem to remember the last time they talked, whether it was a year ago or less. It isn’t important. This could be funny. She straightens herself, watching the reflection in the glass. She was the one who gave him her mobile number.
“Yeah?” she asks. Her shoulders rise.
“Yeah. For a little while - I hate the city, but I have a bunch of meetings. Press for the Road starts in a few months and then I’m heading to Sydney for meetings for another film. I was hoping I’d catch you there.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, darling,” she deadpans.
He ignores her.
“Can you do dinner?”
She looks to the mess in the bedroom. In the mirror, the suitcases watch her. There are two on top of the bed. The larger ones sit at the foot of it, half-filled with some of her boys’ things. There are clothes and toys, and Liev'’s shoes are lined against the closet door. Sometimes she forgets that they’ve started to try traveling as a family. This is motherhood then.
“It’s barely been an afternoon,” she says dryly. “I leave tomorrow morning for London for work. Can we do lunch? Or, actually, I’d rather do something later. I have to feed the boys.”
“Drinks then,” he says.
They agree to a bar around the corner from his hotel. A walk for him, a cab for her, and shared fare somewhere in between; these things never matters as much as you think.
Hotel bars are suspect. And actors are always professionals.
He is late, and there is a band already playing. It is after nine.
She tries to remember the time they agreed. But he arrives, just as she is starting to forget all the same.
“Scotch,” he tells the waitress as he settles across from Naomi. The waitress is blushing, and he adds, “Dry too, please. And glass of water when you get a chance.”
Naomi is amused, even as the waitress disappears. Her wine glass remains untouched. She is thinking about the sandwiches she left on the kitchen counter. She hopes that the boys are sleeping well tonight.
“Hello,” she offers.
Viggo smiles. She shakes her head.
“Phone call,” he says, by ways of apologizing.
He leans over and kisses her cheek, his mouth lingering over her jaw.
“You look beautiful.”
Her breath catches and she shrugs, as if to avoid the compliment. He settles next to her, and close; she could only grab half a booth, one cocked into the corner of the dance floor.
“How are you?” she asks instead.
“Meetings for the week. I have things to do, a few offers that are being hammered my way, and my son wants to introduce me to his girlfriend. So there’s that too, I guess.”
She laughs, grinning.
“Brilliant.”
She’s cut short too, distracted. The lights over the dance floor take to an odd color, casting into her wine glass and unsettling the red of her wine. She can’t remember the last time she was in one of these sorts of places. She’s become that kind of age, further and further away from being defined by how much younger the drink she has is.
“So London, huh.”
The blushing waitress brings his scotch. Viggo smiles, and she disappears, just as he fingers around for cigarettes. His pack drops between them and Naomi picks them up, pushing them over the table. She watches as he leaves them alone.
“Woody Allen, actually,” she murmurs. “I’m supposed to be in the city until late May, or so he says. I’ve been told to expect nothing linear with a Woody Allen project - I don’t really know why I find that thing sort of funny.”
His nose wrinkles. She shrugs. These days, it’s about preferences.
“Have you talked to David lately?” he asks, then.
“No?”
He frowns but says nothing. She stares at him, her finger running along the rim of her glass. There is laughter somewhere next to them. At the bar, the waitress is smiling at their table. Naomi watches as the bartender then shakes his head, seemingly unamused.
This is still the city, she thinks. She’s always liked how no one seems surprised.
The band changes into a louder song. The singer is attempting Sinatra, and her hands drop over her thighs, into her jeans. She feels sort of underwhelmed around here. She is distracted by the change in crowd; when she arrived, there were few customers in jeans and nice jumpers. She was one of those numbers. She sees a few skirts and heels, then eyes Viggo’s leather jacket with some insensible idea of amusement.
“I want to talk to you about Eastern Promises,” he says.
She tries, then, not to seem surprised.
There are three missed calls on her mobile.
She’s only touched it to check, and loses it to her jacket, which is cast aside to a corner of their booth. They are talking about the film, or arguing. She can’t remember why he’s said he’s started this conversation. They are back to lamenting over character ghosts. They are not drunk yet.
“But you’re not hearing me,” she argues. “I think it’s fantastic that you, and subsequently David, are interested in doing a sequel. There’s nothing particularly wrong with a sequel -”
“Not everybody enjoys them,” he cuts her off.
It’s become two conversations, then. A question, and then answers, with the band following along with a song she should know but she is too engrossed in him and their talk to really recognize it. He seems to be avoiding something. The wine is keeping her from pointing this out.
“Since when are you about commerciality?”
He grins. “Fucking never,” he says.
Her eyes roll.
“Then explain to me this - what reason does Anna have for coming back to the city? Or what reason does he have for wanting to see her? Love and attraction are never the same thing.”
He does not answer.
He picks up his glass, bringing the drink to his mouth and finishing off his third or fourth. She watches him. Maybe it’s a fifth instead, or maybe it’s her fourth. She is still in the middle of her drink too, attempting to force herself not to think about stretching into a bottle.
She is comfortably buzzed, somewhat flushed, and enjoying the spark of their conversation. She remembers why she was partial to the film. But the number of drinks seems to lose their importance and they’re too involved in each other anyway. He does not wave their waitress over. It’s still too early of a day tomorrow. She’s forgotten about the time too.
“Of course,” she throws back. “You still haven’t answered the fucking question - why would Anna come back? What would make her come and see him? There’s no particular reason to, and Christine, depending on the time you’ve settled on, is too young to be curious.”
Her hair has seemed to unravel back into her chin. There is heat crawling against her throat. She licks her lips.
“Impossible,” he drawls. “Everybody is curious,” he licks his lips too.
Naomi feels herself flush. She pulls her hand away from her wineglass. Her thigh is pressing into his. They are close, if only to hear each other, but that excuse has seems to lose the charm of any merit.
“Stop it,” she murmurs.
He shrugs. “It’s true,” he tells her. “Human beings are never far from curiosity, at all intensities. We’re actors. We take advantage of that curiosity.”
Her mouth curls, but she says nothing.
There are thoughts in her head about going home, and going home now, but they seem to be without any particular impulse. She takes the time to study him instead, her eyes wandering against the long, sharp arch of his throat. Her fingers curl around her glass then, and she remembers a moment where she almost - almost kissed him there? She should remember that.
There is such a thing as losing yourself to takes, and camera placements. There are characters that she has never really managed forget, and people that have shaped her into something she doesn’t quite understand. This business is never boring, she wants to tell him, but she doesn’t want to hear him understand.
“Ever the romantic,” she mutters, out loud.
“What?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing.”
He leans forward though. He pushes his empty glass to the side. He rests his cheek over his hand and she imagines they’re writing themselves into teenagers, some odd homage of that sort.
“Anyways,” he starts again. “I think, however the size, Anna is still part of the story and if this moves into something, I’d like to think you -”
He stops himself and shrugs. She stares at him, unsure of what to think. There are knots in her stomach. His hand drops over the table, and then her hand, his fingers grazing over her knuckles. They are soft enough to be an afterthought but she cannot ignore them.
She drops her gaze then, staring at their hands. “Call me when you have a script,” she breathes.
She doesn’t remember dropping her hand before. It never seems to matter.
“I’m going to ask you to come to Moscow with me one of these days,” he says then. He ignores her too. “Bring your boys, bring - Liev. Nice guy, I have to fucking say. Can’t remember where I met him.”
“You did?”
He shakes his head. “No, but if I did - I’m sure he’s a fucking nice guy.”
She laughs. Or giggles. She is too entirely sure she giggles - it is not supposed to be anything near important, but the laugh seems to taste lighter. She can’t remember the last time she’s laughed like this.
She reaches for her wine, but stops herself.
“We’re talking about Anna, remember, and why I should do this film with you and David and you -”
She stops. Her eyes widen.
“I hate doing sequels,” she announces.
It’s almost comical when he stares at her, breaking into a loud laugh. It hits the bar, over the crowd, and it takes her a minute to realize that the band is now on break and everybody has clustered into quiet conversations.
He lifts his empty glass. “So do I,” he says.
No one actually says the word kiss, mind you.
It is seemingly about the subtle moments, not about the things that they notice. When he walks her outside, his hand is placed at the small of her back. She is leaning into him. She tries not to think about why. She forgets about Liev and the boys, and in the morning, guilt will be waiting to charm her then or something close to it.
“You should be in town more often,” she teases lightly.
He is quiet, but she hears something like a laugh. She is still flushed. The air is quiet, cool, and spreads over her cheeks. They cut into the alley. The back entrance is a force of habit.
In front of them, there are clumps of people passing into the streets. A couple folds into each other against the side, laughing. A cab rolls in front of the alleyway and Viggo pulls her to the wall for the moment. They stumble, and he presses into her. She laughs softly but he’s serious.
“I had this question, you know.”
“Question?”
“Yeah,” he says. “An interview. I think it was in Canada - I’m not entirely sure, I was just trying to mind my goddamn business for a little while. But work is work, as you know, and hockey season isn’t really exciting in the beginning.”
She shrugs. “Okay.”
His fingers slide over her jaw. He cups her face between his hands, then, and seems to tower over her. She is not entirely sure how they’ve come to this part; the wall is hard against her jacket, and in her pocket, her phone is buzzing against her hip. She ignores them both.
“We should be friends,” he says.
“I’d like that,” she says back. Her fingers brush over the zipper of his jacket. “Friends,” she repeats. “I can do friends.”
Which is such a fucking lie, she doesn’t say. She has said to before, and it almost scares her. It stands hazily in the back of her mind. She should be devastated at the reminder, but that kind of time is so far gone and buried. It is not about names.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay,” and then again.
His mouth slides over hers without warning. It is hot, and somewhat sticky, even as her mouth opens back against his. He tastes familiar. It is the scotch and the wine, and it is the reminder that they have been here before. She forgets why she seems so stuck on it before.
He makes this nose then - a growl, a sigh. “I can’t -” she tries to say against his mouth. It sounds heavier, the taste of her words shifting into his smile. But that fades, and he is kissing her again, his mouth opening back against hers as they press into the wall.
His fingers slide into her hair, pulling lightly against the back of her neck. He shifts back slowly. He leans his forehead against hers and she tries to sigh, unable to make herself move away from him. She doesn’t understand why.
“Let’s get you a cab,” he says softly. She is breathing heavily.
She feels tired. But she finally pulls back, forcing a smile. Her mouth feels tight. She can still taste him and the uncertainty is more than just a strange feeling. This isn’t just guilt.
Her hands curl at her sides.
In the distance, the couple laughs again.
At home, Liev helps her out of the cab.
She called ahead. Their front door is open. Light pours out onto the stop. His hand is too tight around her arm. She tries not to think about it.
“You’re never late,” he says. He laughs tiredly.
It sounds hard.
There are constants, and then there’s old press pretending to be new.
“It’s amazing, you know,” the interviewer gushes from the chair. There are two mugs between Naomi and the other woman, one red and the other blue. The set has morphed into some sort of homage to a furniture showcase.
Naomi is distracted. She is thinking about Sasha and Sammy, Liev and the argument that she had with him this morning. They are weeks into London. The cameraman has moved closer to her chair. She is trying not to look at him.
“It’s amazing,” the interviewer continues, “the kind of chemistry the two of you have. Director David Cronenberg had been quoted several times, raving about the intensity the two of you have - that tension. How was it working with Viggo, then? Are you looking forward to maybe doing it again?”
Naomi meets her gaze. “A delight,” she murmurs.
She ignores the second question. It makes her nervous. She is trying too hard not to show this, and picks a corner to refocus.
The camera gets an absent smile.
It is never about how these things start.