Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the apartment, just the DVDs. There's no profit except writing practice being made here.
"Please don't leave me."
"Hey," Harriet let go of his hand and lay her left hand on Matt's jiggling knee. "What are you freaking out about? The reviews have been great."
Matt shook his head, sitting on the cold plastic seat beside her, staring off at the departures board. "Good reviews are a curse."
Harriet barked out a laugh and smoothed the denim over his thigh. "How come when I get a good review, you cheer? But when you get one it's the end of the world?"
Matt chuckled humourlessly and turned his attention to her. "A good review means more of an audience. For you, that means more exposure. More audience, better ratings, the show stays on the air."
"And for you?" Harriet prompted. Then she slapped his thigh. "It means the same thing. Better reviews mean more eyeballs and better box office takings."
Matt shook his head again. "And more pressure on the next project."
"Matthew." She said his name softly, hoping to win his attention again, wanting to tell him that expectations were going to be high anyway, he was Matt Albie, and that it wouldn't matter because everything he composed was excelled.
"Harry." Matt's head tilted to hers, his temple pressing against hers. His voice mimicked the same low cadence as hers, teasing as he seemed to forget his anxiety for the upcoming circuit of interviews to promote his newest project.
Harriet shook her head slightly to remove the pressure of his forehead against hers. Meeting his gaze, nose to nose, she attempted to put things into perspective for Matt. Critics already had high expectations for him; his and Danny's debut film blew the box office out of its socks, and that had everything to do with how huge his name had gotten as a staff writer for Studio 60, plus all the intrigue that surrounded his departure from the studio.
She gripped his hand tightly. Harriet was so proud of him and all he was accomplishing. This promotional tour he and Danny were about to embark on was huge, and mostly unnecessary according to Danny, given the focus group projections. And the critics! She squeezed his hand and tapped their entwined hands on Matt's leg, "The movie's not even out yet and the critics are raving about you."
Matt forced his eyes to drift away from hers, sullenly refusing to meet her gaze. "That's worse."
"Please, don't be cynical," she pinched his knee, hoping to squeeze some sense into him. "Those reviews are amazing."
Harriet held a magazine rolled in her right hand and she pulled her left hand away from Matt so she could unravel it, the pages flipping open to the one she had dog-eared. "Listen to this one. Matt Albie, once a staff writer for NBS's Studio 60, comes fresh off his latest win in a new production with partner, Danny Tripp. Their latest endeavour establishes Albie as not only a comedic genius, but with a flair for the dramatic and a real grasp of the human condition. He provides insight where other filmmakers are afraid to tread and ...Matt. That's wonderful."
"It is, Harry." But there was no amusement in his voice.
"Come on, Matt," she rolled up the magazine and smacked his thigh with it. "You're allowed to be a little excited."
"The movie's not even out yet, they're creating a hype, and everyone knows critics reviews of the pre-release never correlate with the actual film." He was so glum, Harriet would have found it upsetting if it wasn't so amusing. Matt was so averse to accepting compliments he didn't feel he deserved, not from low self-esteem or issues with self-efficacy. Matt had this old-fashioned sense of timing and morality that astounded her for a self-professed atheist. Despite all his faults and denials, Matt had this need for things to be right, an almost Christian understanding of ethics mingling with his Jewish guilt. "What's worse is that I'm going to come off as a complete buffoon in these interviews."
"Ah."
"Conan, Ellen, Kimmel, Oprah. They're all going to talk about these reviews," Matt complained, his blue eyes imploring as they met hers. "And they all expect some eloquent scholar. It'd be different if I got to hype the movie myself, but I have to defend the good reviews. How am I meant to do that when I wrote it in my boxers and a baseball cap?"
Harriet wrapped her arm around his bicep and shuffled closer to him, the armrest of the airport seats cutting into her thigh. She didn't care. Harriet wasn't going to get to hold his hand while he worried about his performance on the talk shows while he was over in London, and she wanted to instil some of her confidence into him. "You put a lot of work into this movie. It took you a year to get that script right. You did that alone. All the researching and the editing. Just leave out the part that you did it while sitting on the balcony in nothing but your socks."
"If I remember correctly," Matt grinned at her, the worry vanishing from his dark blue eyes. "You were the one in your socks on the balcony and absolutely no work got done that day."
Harry laughed, happy that his fears seemed to have quelled for the moment. "Just don't tell them that story, and you'll be golden."
Matt sighed and his shoulders slumped, "What am I meant to talk about? I was all prepared with stories about the plot that are vague enough to have no consequence, and stories about the cast being great that don't reveal anything more than the trailer does. Nothing about my inspiration or Oscar expectations."
"Maybe just let Danny do the talking," she tried.
"Especially on Graham Norton's show," Matt whined. "It's a comedy show called The Bigger Picture, and we put him on the circuit because I'm known as a comedy writer. He's first! So, I'm going to say stupid, vague jokes while I'm in London and a week later I'm going to be sitting across from Oprah talking about how this movie might be nominated for an Oscar based on the trailer and previews alone. And then Conan and Kimmel are going to cut the clips together and make jokes about the disparity of those two interviews. While I'm with Norton I'll be hammy and while I'm with Oprah, it'll be about the turnaround from comedy to drama. And with Ellen, it'll be about you, and how you feel about my friendship with Danny. And Kimmel's a comedian but he's not funny and by then the good reviews will have tripled and I'll have to be polite as I try to explain that the critics know nothing and it's all a scam to get people into cinemas. And how am I meant to explain that good reviews before the movie comes out is normally a ploy by the producers to get people to see a terrible film the first weekend, before word of mouth about how bad it really is kills sales, but that's not true this time."
Harriet smiled as he rambled. They were almost the same height as they sat beside each other in their chairs, so she got a full view of his worried lips and scrunching nose. She'd always loved how expressive Matt was, especially when he was emphatic like this, trying to maintain his principles and stand by his word. He was in rare form too - using his hands and twirling them in circles despite her having trapped his right arm in hers. She pressed her smile into his bicep. "Breathe, Matthew."
"Am I being crazy?" he asked, searching her face for her opinion.
"If you weren't nervous, I'd be worried," Harriet told him, releasing his arm as his flight was called and she stood up.
"Ah, yes," Matt nodded, letting her take his hand and pull him up from his seat. "Corinthians says: When I came to you, I was weak. I was afraid and very nervous, as if it were some kind of brilliant message or wisdom. But I decided to deal with only the simple subject. Which to me sounds like a Gloria Gaynor song."
Harriet beamed up at Matt. In trying to highlight the issues with her faith, he memorised Bible passages, using them for comedic purposes. Oddly, his ability to quote the Bible as easily as he caught a ball, even for nefarious purposes, made Harriet's chest tingle and her toes curl.
"I think you mean Psalms: Cast your burden on the Lord, and he will sustain you."
He grinned right back at her, slightly taunting, slightly fond, wholly kissable. His top lip stretched over his teeth and his eyes crinkled, and she watched as he ran his empty hand through his already mussed hair.
"...to London Heathrow Airport, boarding call..."
Harriet pressed up on her toes, still holding one of Matt's hands, and kissed him briefly. "You'll be wonderful."
His warm hand held her lower back, pushing her body towards his, the other letting his thumb stroke over her knuckles absentmindedly. Matt's hand travelled up her arm and Harriet let her hands trace over his chest. His lips toyed with hers slowly, sipping at her with no intention of opening his mouth to kiss her deeper, or of taking a step away and letting her go. Matt towered over her, her spine stretching upwards, arching backwards over his steady palm, her head tipped up to meet him. If she wasn't careful, the pair of them could stay like that for hours, pressed together only at the lips and never growing bored or cottoning on to the fact a world existed outside the two of them. It had been known to happen.
Missing the Cold Open, missing a staff meeting, missing dinner with Danny, she'd allow them all that. But this flight to London might be the most important of Matt Albie's career, despite what he thought about the reviews already establishing the movie for him, these interviews putting him on the world stage as not only a comedy writer but one worthy of the whispers of award nominations that were floating about. Of course, he knew that, which only added to his nervousness about the whole endeavour and why Harriet had to be the one to drop onto her flat feet and out of his reach.
"Deuteronomy," she smoothed her hands over his solid chest a few soft times. "Be strong and courageous."
"Stop it, Harry." But Matt was smiling.
"You started it," she teased. Harriet reached to his lapels and straightened his jacket - a zip-up and nothing fancy, but she fixed it as though it was. "Now, what colour will you be wearing to secretly let me know that you miss me?"
"Blue," he answered easily, his hands caressing down her arms to hold her hands. It was something from way back before the press knew about them being together - he would wear a navy tie or she'd wear a dress embroidered with bluebells, a secret message passing between the two of them without anybody else knowing. It helped that blue was a very easy colour for them to wear, and one they both looked damn good in.
"I'll be watching," Harriet smiled up at him proudly. "Well, I'll be taping it and watching it the day after."
"Please don't," Matt chuckled.
"I'll be running lines with Tommy," she explained. When Matt furrowed his brow, Harriet remembered he hadn't spent as much time as he usually did at the Studio afterparties, so he didn't know how stressed their friend had been. "Wednesday's his first day shooting that movie of his and he's gonna need us holding his hand, just until he exhausts himself with his worry and Sim and I can go home. But it means I'm going to miss your interview, so I'm taping it."
"Seriously, Harry," he shook his head, smiling. "Don't do that."
Harriet rolled her eyes, Matt couldn't stop her. Then she realised what her partner was really afraid of; coming off as stupid and ruining all of his and Danny's, but mostly Danny's, hard work of changing their reputation from slapstick and silly, to serious and sober. Or worse, appearing undeserving, like another Hollywood royal, receiving props for wealth, not talent.
"You'll be fine," she promised, their hands swinging between their bodies.
"Only if between this half of the tour, and the next leg back here, this thing loses momentum."
"I'll pray for bad reviews then."
"If you think that'll help." Matt grinned and pulled her in for another kiss before releasing her hand and taking a step backward, preparing to board his flight. "I love you."
"I love you."
"So," Matt opened the conversation the minute Harry opened the door to the bathroom, holding it slightly ajar as an invitation. He had on the blue t-shirt he wore to bed and a pair of red boxers slung low on his hips. He was almost ready for bed, he just needed to brush his teeth. Pushing the door open completely, Matt entered the little en suite. "Have they sorted out the promo tour yet?"
His girlfriend wore her usual white, floor-length nighty, and was sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, slathering her arms with sweet-smelling creams. "Yeah. It's just going to be the usual lot."
"Harry," he leant his hip against the basin, toothbrush in hand ready to draw a line of spearmint toothpaste on it. "This album is huge. It's going to be huge. You're allowed to gloat. What are some of the highlight gigs for the promo?"
She sighed, her shoulders slumping. Matt squinted at her. Harriet Hayes was actually slouching. She never sat any other way but ramrod straight - comfortable but proper. He hardly ever saw her shoulders catching forward like that, almost dejected, her body screaming the complete opposite of the excitement she should be feeling.
Matt knew there were at least four spots across the state Harry was meant to interview at before heading to Europe, she happily revealed three of them and stopped, as though that was all she was attending. Matt watched her run her hand palm along her forearm, her slender fingers circling her skin. He found himself swirling his toothbrush against his teeth in similar motions. Harriet lifted her leg, placing her foot on the edge of the bath, and gave her legs the same treatment of moisturiser. She was lovely and distracting and not meeting his eyes for a reason, Matt just wasn't totally certain as to why.
"They want me on the 700 Club," she released the information as though she was cornered, squeezing the words out through her teeth.
He stopped brushing his teeth, the brush clenched between his lips for a moment before he pulled it out of his mouth, careful not to spit as he spoke. "Pat Robertson?"
Her nod was slight. Her lips pulled tight.
"You're not doing the show, are you?"
"I don't think so," she shrugged. "It will be on the twenty-first, the same night as Tom's big 'I Finished Filming My First Big Movie' party, so probably not."
"Good," Matt flourished his toothbrush in the air, spitting into the sink and rinsing the brush. That show had a bit of a reputation and it was better that she didn't go on it, even if it did have a big following.
She stood and Matt turned around, assuming she was following him to bed as he made idle chatter. "Tommy's throwing a party? Or is Sim throwing it for him? I thought they wrapped on the nineteenth. Why did I think they wrapped on the nineteenth?"
Only she wasn't.
Like it did when she sung, it always surprised him that such a strong voice could come out of such a small woman. Only this time it was an angry shout, not the belted ballads in the shower or her practice scales.
"Good?"
Matt spun around to face her. "Well, yeah," he tried to explain. "You know."
"No," her arms folded in front of her chest as she stepped into their bedroom, standing her ground at the entrance to the bathroom. Matt, moving to flip the bedclothes down on his side, turned to face her. He almost commented on how angelic she looked with the bathroom light shining behind her. "What do I know?"
"They say there's no such thing as bad press, but there is," he said easily. They'd talked about this enough over the years, particularly whenever religion came up in the papers, because it inevitably did. So, he assumed she understood what he meant, the message he was aiming for.
Harriet tapped her fingernails against her bicep, letting him know she wasn't going to accept him saying something disparaging with a blasé air about him. If he wanted her to understand he'd have to spell it out and risk a fight.
"And it's the 700 Club."
His girlfriend took a step forward. "Now, I know you have an issue with him-"
"He blamed…!"
"Five years ago, Matt!"
"Harry," he wished their voices didn't jump straight to shouting at each other. "He had the audacity to take whole communities– and the wrong ones, might I add – and not only blamed them, but actually renounced them and their efficacy and validity."
"Don't, Matt," she held up a hand. "It's late."
"Harriet," he tried to soften his voice, and to not gesture so wildly. "You don't want to be associated with that show." Matt corrected himself. "With that man."
"The 700 Club has a huge audience."
His girlfriend wasn't incorrect, which blew his mind. Despite everything, all the backlash from the statements made by the host of the show, the defamation and the disrespect towards foreign groups, hundreds of thousands of American's continued to tune in every week Matt understood why the producers of the album would want their artists on the show, it was a great way to get your name out into the not-so niche market that was spiritual music, given the number of viewers the show pulled. What it didn't guarantee was making a good name, artists forever being associated with whatever controversial thing the host said that week.
Harriet Hayes was already a household name from her days at the studio and the bit parts she'd had in some tv movies. Plus, she was in the press constantly, praising her devout Christianity, questioning her seriousness about her faith, comparing her to other voices of religion. And then there was the fact that she was gorgeous and attended glitzy red carpets and had a tumultuous relationship with him. Her name was already out there, still coming up in fashion magazines and gossip rags and the showbiz section. He told her as much.
"Matt," she sounded exasperated, exhausted. "None of them caters to the exact demographic I'm trying to sell to."
He threw his hands up in the air. "Nutjobs, you mean."
"People of faith," she sighed. "An audience of religious people who want to consume media made by other people of faith and about their faith."
"An audience with a mob mentality and their leader has an inability to apologise for the things he says when his comments incite violence. Actual physical harm, Harry."
"Please don't start, Matt." He watched as she hiked her dress up and climbed into the bed, slipping under the covers and reaching across the nightstand to flick off her lamp. "It's only been pencilled in, and it's the same night as Tom's party which is far more important."
She folded her arms huffily as she gathered the blankets over her in an angry rush, like she physically couldn't wait for the conversation to be over.
"I'm just saying." Matt wasn't sure why he felt the need to defend himself. He and Harriet jumped into arguments, particularly religious and political ones quicker than they jumped each other's bones, and they had a knack for turning simple, albeit opinionated, conversations into what almost resembled screaming matches over their faiths, or her faith and his lack thereof. "I understand his audience is a huge market, but there is a cost, Harry."
He folded himself under the blankets he'd left untucked that morning. Matt didn't consciously avoid touching her, but he could feel that Harriet was as tense as Danny at an awards show, stock still on her side of the bed.
He reached for her hand over the bedclothes, and Harriet relaxed, allowing him to entwine their fingers. Her voice still stern but softening when she instructed him to, "Go to sleep, Matthew."
Except he couldn't. He spent most of the night staring at the ceiling listening to her pretend to be asleep and then slowing drifting into genuine slumber. He wasn't much better, his mind was racing. Tom's party was the nineteenth, Matt remembered because it was the same day as his last day scouting locations with Danny. Only he didn't want to bring it up. He trusted her, it wasn't that he thought she was lying, Harry probably got her dates mixed up, she had a lot going on with recording the album and planning the tour and him being away during most of it. It was that he didn't want to start another argument. Not over nothing. Not when they'd been going so well this time around.
"Please don't tell me you two broke up again."
That was the third time an almost stranger had asked her that today and Harry was just about ready to fall to her knees and either pray for patience or forgiveness in advance. She hadn't decided yet, but she was at wit's end with the girls in make up and dress that she only vaguely knew from other events.
"No," she shook her head. She was used to denying they were a couple and Harriet was fairly familiar with smiling when she said they were still together. But Harry was also pretty used to answering 'no,' acting quite happily, and secretly meaning 'not yet.' "Matt's over in Eastern Europe on a location hunt for his next movie."
"Oh," the brunette she was trying to be civil towards responded. "Already working on the next one, is he? Didn't his movie only just come out a few weeks back?"
"That's Matthew for you," she attempted to sound chipper and proud of him. In all honesty, she was immensely proud of the hard work he put into his job, the long hours, the endless research. He was ceaseless and indefatigable when he was passionate about something. Except she knew for a fact he didn't particularly care all that much about the shooting schedule of the upcoming movie, he still hadn't perfected the words yet. And with every day since she'd gone on the 700 Club and they hadn't fought, Harriet's fear that the thing he was losing interest in was her grew. "No rest for the wicked."
They'd yelled at each other in their typical fashion, the both of them debating valid arguments for and against her appearance on the controversial talk show. Stubbornly, and for self-promotion, Harriet Hayes had decided doing the performance her team had signed her up for on Pat Robertson's show was the best move for her career. Matt had sulked silently when she told him she'd filmed a segment and when it aired, she got the distinct impression that while it seemed to be a smart move for her album sales, it hadn't been a good one for her relationship.
Her boyfriend was meant to fly in a day earlier so he could support her and then they could watch the game together. Matt had called her to let her know he wasn't going to be able to make it. Which would have been nice if she hadn't been anticipating it. Harriet hadn't expected him to show today, not after what she'd done a week earlier. Whether his plane had been delayed like he claimed or not, was a whole other matter.
Harriet returned to her phone, dialling her own landline, and punching in the code so she could listen to the messages he'd left her again.
"Hey, Harry. It's me. The weather's nuts here, and they don't think we'll be able to take off for another few hours. There's talk of planes being grounded all night, so I'm leaving this message to wish you luck if I don't make it. If I do, I'll delete this before you hear it tomorrow night. Danny wants me to ask you to pray for good weather, but I don't think it's that bad, the no flying is just a precaution and we'll be on our way in no time. Love you."
He was rambling and rushed, and sounded distracted, like Danny was standing right behind him and Matt was flapping his hands to get him to stop talking to him while he was on the phone. But she couldn't hear any typical airport noises in the background, no announcements, or disgruntled chatter. Harriet keyed in the code so she could listen to the next message he'd left.
"Hi Harry, I'm so sorry I won't be able to make rehearsal, but I'll try to be at the game tonight. Our flight is on track to make it. We'll be cutting it fine but I should just make it. Be as silly as you like while the cameras aren't rolling, get all those nerves out because you're going to be singing the national anthem on live television at the biggest baseball game of the season. But, whatever you do, don't jokingly rehearse singing something else. Don't accidentally convince yourself you should be singing anything but the anthem. Ha. Do you remember when Ricky got so cocky he thought he had his acceptance speech down that he practised the terrible sketch he'd been working on that week instead and he when he got up on stage he bungled it and ruined both the speech and the sketch because he'd been joking around? Don't do that. Good luck, Harry."
She typed in the next button to hear his last voicemail.
"Me again. Harriet, I know I promised I'd be there for you tonight but we've been delayed again. Tropical storms or something I know you're going to be amazing. Please don't be mad, I'll watch you in the reruns on Sunday unless you get this before you leave the house, in which case, tape it for me. I'm so proud of you for getting this gig, this is huge. And I really wish I could be there in person. You're going to be great. Gotta go, looks like we're boarding now. Tell me all about it when I get home."
He sounded genuinely saddened that he wasn't going to be there for her, to cheer her on inappropriately loudly, whooping at the end of the Star-Spangled Banner despite being alone in the box. And then both of them would attempt to pay attention to a sport they both enjoyed but were distracted by each other as they sat in Harriet's comped VIP box seats.
But Harriet had been asked twice if him not being present for the rehearsal was them trying to be quiet about a breakup, once if him not being there signalled some sort of disdain for her success on Matt's part. And twice, now that she'd performed the anthem and the game had started and she was waiting around for at least half time before she left, Harriet had heard whispered comments about the pair of them, "her date didn't show," "do you think they've broken up?"
Her heart sunk. The thing was, they hadn't. The pair of them were happier than ever, for the most part. But the more people asked her if they were over, the more Harriet had to relent to the idea that they might not be done, but they were probably heading that way if the week of silent treatment prior to today was any indication. Worse, Matt wasn't around to dissuade her of her doubts.
"Harriet Hayes," the woman who had directed her at her cues came up to her, still holding her clipboard with a pen stuck over her ear and gestured from her to a man in a suit holding a baseball bat. "This is Darren Wells."
Matt left his suitcase in the hallway, locking the door behind him as he walked inside. He tossed his keys on the entrance table, the metal making a dull thud on one of the embroidered doilies that belonged to Harriet's mother and, leaving the lights off, he shuffled towards the bedroom.
He wasn't tired in the way he was used to; his mind fuzzy and his concentration lapsing into distraction until he couldn't remember what he was meant to be focusing on. His eyes would hardly crack open, continuously fluttering closed as his muscles slowly relaxed into unconsciousness. Matt was used to that, his mind falling fatigued before his body did.
But tonight it was the opposite.
Whether it was the adrenaline of returning home or something to do with the timezones he'd been in and it really being eleven in the morning as far as his body was concerned. Because his muscles were sluggish, like he was walking in a blizzard or molasses or his shoes were stuck to the floor with gum, but his mind was on high alert.
Harriet was sitting on the lounge in the living room, and he would have missed her if not for the bright blue light from the television igniting the room.
"What are you still doing up?" he asked as he walked past, dropping a kiss to her freshly washed hair, her shampoo lingering on his lips.
"Just watching the news," Harriet replied, tipping her head back to look at him but without effort, her eyes barely meeting his. "How was your flight?"
"Please don't remind me," he chuckled under his breath. The flight hadn't been all that bad. In fact, it was a welcome relief and a signal of homecoming after the day and a half of bad weather and technical delays and hours on end with only Danny for company.
He had a couple of stories that he'd love to regale her with in the morning, but it was late and he'd only napped sporadically over the last forty-eight hours, trying to barter information from concierge desks and bargain roundabout flights to get to her in time.
Harriet didn't react.
Matt sighed. Arguably, she might have been as tired as he was and not particularly interested in his tale of adventure and woe and hearing that if he ever wanted to write a rom-com he had the airport dialogue all recorded in the notebook she'd gifted him last Christmas.
Only, he knew a little drowsiness wasn't the problem.
Matt had thought that perhaps his time away would change things, give them some time to regroup and come back together stronger than ever. But Harriet was still clinging to her humble pride and he was maintaining his passionate atheism and nothing had changed. Complaining about the cramped flight and laughing at Danny's enduring nervousness despite his experience with air travel didn't seem like it was going to cut it. He tried for genuine and contrite instead.
"You sounded great."
Matt didn't know what to do with his hands, that was the worst part about this part of their relationship. He felt like Harriet wanted space, specifically from him, but all he wanted to do was lay his hands on her shoulders and get her to look at him, to see him the way she always did.
His words weren't always enough to convince her of anything. He wished that wasn't the case, but he always got sidetracked by the emotion in Harriet's eyes and she could be quite aggressive with her rebuttals, never even letting him have his side of the argument if she was on a roll. But he could typically emphasise his meaning with a comforting hand on hers. Except he felt like he was breaking her trust and invading her space if he touched her when she was upset with him like this. He placed them on the back of the lounge beside where her head was but was careful to not invade her space.
"One of the plane's radio stations played the game, so I listened," Matt shrugged. He'd missed her performance and he hated that he'd broken his promise that he'd be there, but he had tried.
"I got a standing ovation," she told him.
His girlfriend didn't do the thing she always did when she was proud of herself, standing in front of him and lifting up onto her toes excitedly. Matt had known Harriet a long time, she'd never not got on tiptoe to whisper her pride to him, smiling with only her overbite. He missed that cute little overbite, her front teeth biting into her plump lip as her Christian guilt dampened her overt excitement.
Matt needed to rectify the situation.
"I'm sure you did," he started genuinely. "But it was the national anthem. They were standing already."
Harriet didn't laugh. She hadn't been laughing at his jokes a lot lately. Of course, it was a little more difficult to see if she was smiling, biting down a chuckle, beaming widely at some off-colour comment he made over the phone. But the insistent light of the television revealed her expressionless features.
Quickly, Matt softened his voice, but there was nothing to say. Mental exhaustion washed over him, crashing like a wave on the shore, knocking him over, his knees buckling and his hand gripping the lounge tightly like he couldn't stand up all of a sudden.
"Is that all you're going to say, Matt?"
Her arms were folded in front of her chest and Harriet must have been functioning on sheer annoyance because the light of the television was so bright he could see it with his eyes closed but she was yet to look away from it.
He sighed again, an angry puff of air coming out his nose, bull-like. Yes. It was late and he didn't want to fight with her. He felt guilty enough as it was even though he had no control over the weather and hadn't had much choice but to break his promise to her. "I'm sorry."
"Okay."
It didn't sound okay, not the way she said it.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there, but you sounded great. Will you tell me all about it in the morning?" He wasn't expecting an answer. Matt figured he'd wake up as early as he could, and either make, or buy, breakfast for her so he could properly apologise, and he'd get her to start talking over a cup of coffee, prompting his girlfriend to recall everything from her time in front of fifty-thousand baseball fans. However, to do that, he needed sleep first. "Are you coming to bed?"
"I'm just going to finish the movie," she told him.
"Right." He tapped his hand on the back of the couch and twisted his lips at the television but waited another second before he moved. With a nod, Matt turned silently and made his way down the hallway away from Harriet. He probably should have bid her goodnight, or enjoyment of the film or something. Instead, he changed his clothes thinking about all the things he should have said in the last forty-eight hours, particularly to his girlfriend.
Matt went to bed, alone, and stared at the ceiling in the darkness, the sound of the television playing in the next room, until he couldn't tell if the blackness he was seeing was the dark room or his closed eyelids.
To: Matt Albie (Saved Contact)
Subject: Not doing this anymore
It's over, Matthew. Please don't call me.
Harriet blinked in surprise. She'd forgotten all about Matt's surgery, a routine procedure but one he'd been quite apprehensive of. She'd had it penned on her diary with a list of things she was going to buy him to make a wellness basket like her mother used to. It was going to have muffins and movies and she was going to sit with him while he recovered. In the flurry of anger and infighting, so relieved and guilty that she'd left him, Harriet had forgotten all about it.
Other things from what just happened should have stood out to her. Matt coming back to the studio mysteriously despite having vowed he never would, Wes taking a stand and picking Matt over the show he'd built for most of his life, the fact that she'd slapped him. That should have at least made her pause a little more, wondering when she had become her father.
She'd tried to apologise once her anger cooled from the molten rage in her veins to a solid block of remorse in her throat, knowing she couldn't take back what she'd done but letting Matt know she wished she had.
Harriet hoped it was his medication talking when he blew right past that part of the conversation, not even acknowledging her attempt. At least he had semi-understood what she was trying to tell him about standing by his sketch, although she wasn't sure if he realised the extent of how much she had fought for him.
She'd been so surprised by his return, shocked by the easy way he said, sure let's end it for good, instead of insisting they were made for each other, and startled by the familiar musk of his aftershave and the warmth in the pit of her stomach, that Harriet forgot to congratulate him on his award.
She should have been focusing on that. Not that he'd gone to a black-tie event without a tie and wondering if maybe he left the accessory off because it was something he typically let her pick for him. Or maybe because it would have been his something blue to signal to her.
"I'm looking forward to working with you."
That was what he had said, his hair spiked and his shoulders broad in all black. He was looking forward to working with her? Was that it?
Matt was always very precise with his words, picking ones with the exact meaning he wanted to convey, even if it alienated his audience who didn't know the term. He picked double entendres and puns because he knew language better than he knew Danny and he could play with implication and metaphor better than anyone working on a late-night comedy show should. His talents were wasted here. Harriet knew that. The kind of talent and meticulousness you didn't just drop like a hot potato.
He was tired and full of adrenaline and on no small amount of painkillers if she remembered their discussion about recovering from the surgery correctly. Had he intended to sound so cold or was that his way of giving her the space she asked for without getting his heart broken again? Was there some hidden message about a positive outlook on the future and that's why he'd chosen to say 'looking forward?'
What she couldn't fathom, was the possibility that Matt wasn't being cryptic or guarded, that maybe he wasn't just being professional, but this gulley between them couldn't be bridged this time.
Harriet wanted him to walk into the green room just to lean up against the doorframe and look at her like he used to, distracting himself for a minute in the silence and then getting her opinion on his latest punchline. She wanted to feel his eyes on her when she wasn't saying anything at a table read. She wanted him to do his job but enjoy it too, with laughter and teasing banter between the two of them like there used to be. She wanted him to stay late in his office and for her to bring him a pizza and a soda and they'd have a picnic on the floor and she'd help him de-stress. Harriet wanted to see him in charge of a writers room again, authoritative and kind, strict and understanding. She wanted to protect him from what would be Ricky and Ron's, but mostly Ricky's, oncoming wrath.
Only she wasn't sure if Matt wanted any of that or if he wanted more space from her.
"Please don't avoid coming into my dressing room just to talk," she whispered to the staircase he'd just run up. "I like it when you do that."