Emma Ch. 04

"Oh yeah," she chuckled giddily.

"I'd leave you just like that. Then I'd cancel my plans tomorrow and spend all day doing it again. And again and again and again. We wouldn't leave the house for days. Everything else in life would just be a distraction."

There was silence followed by a low chuckle. "You have a way with words, I'll say that much."

For what seemed like the millionth time during this phone call, we both went quiet for what must have been a full 20 seconds. I can't speak for Emma but I was just replaying that fantasy in my head. It seemed perfect. Eventually Emma broke my train of thought and said,

"So, maybe that very vivid hypothetical has already answered this question but I have to ask anyway. Are you gonna call her?"

"Who?" I asked, genuinely baffled.

"Your high school crush. Amber wasn't it?"

"Oh yeah," I said, suddenly realising how little I cared about her. "Probably not," I said without hesitation.

"Really? You've been after that date with this girl since high school. Even when we were dating and you talked about her, I got the feeling you'd walk out on me without hesitation if she came knocking."

"Things change. And that is not true at all. I'd never walk out on you. Well, never again anyway."

"Well that settles it then," she said cryptically.

"Settles what?" I asked, baffled.

"Listen, I have to go," she said abruptly.

"Oh, okay. No problem," I stammered, trying to hide my disappointment. "It was... it was nice talking to you again."

"Just nice?"

"It was great. Really great."

"Yeah. It was, wasn't it?" she said before pausing for a moment. "Bye."

"Wait," I blurted out, not sure what was left to be said.

"Yes?"

"Can I call you? You know; from time to time?"

"You can always call me Nate. It's always nice to reminisce about things," she said before adding, "Hotel rooms for example."

I laughed. "Goodbye Emma."

"Bye," she said fondly.

She hung up and I was left clutching my phone in my sweaty hand. The phone felt hot against my palm and without her voice in my ear, the silence in my house suddenly seemed deafening. The phone call had been like a dream, but now I was back here on my couch staring blankly at the muted TV where "Love Actually" was still playing. I sat there for several long moments, already replaying the conversation in my head and before long I was replaying our whole relationship.

A desperate sense of longing came over me. It was a feeling that became less and less frequent as the months went by but on this particular occasion, it hit hard. I was missing her already. But she wasn't here. Instead, the only thing I had to keep me company was a romantic comedy on TV and a stack of legal documents and numerous internal reports detailing the opening for the law firm's new New York office on my coffee table. It seemed almost preposterous to me now that a large part of the reason we broke up was because I didn't want to be some unemployed layabout living in a foreign country as his famous girlfriend went out and earned millions. Why couldn't the law firm have opened an international office in London 7 months ago? If they had, none of this shit would have happened.

I slowly got up and walked towards my bedroom. All that talk of sex with Emma, both past and hypothetical had gotten me worked up and for a moment, and without her or anyone else willing and able, the urge to take care of myself was suddenly quite strong. Instead, I ignored my bed and the box of tissues and walked over to my wardrobe where I sat down on the floor. I opened the wardrobe and reached deep inside to grab a shoebox that was conspicuously hidden at the back. I had many mementoes from my time with Emma littered all over the house. In fact, the burgundy Prada shirt that brushed against my face as I retrieved the box was one of many things she had bought me. But what I pulled from this box was her first gift, from way before we ever had a meaningful relationship. Back when we were just two lonely people staying in adjacent hotel rooms who sought each others company.

I opened the box and saw lying on top of everything else, a small pair of white panties; Emma's panties to be exact. It was a memento from our sordid time together almost two years ago. I never thought of myself as the type of guy who would keep such a thing in a shoebox at the back of his wardrobe like some sort of trophy but then it was Emma Watson. The other item in the box was from that same day; a hardcover book with a handwritten message from Emma on the title page saying, among other things, "I might be in Australia again by the end of the year. Don't change your number. I may need some company". I never expected anything to come of it but seven months later and there we were doing it all over again. And as they say, the rest is history. Now it's almost two years later and once again I find myself doubtful about whether I'd ever see her again.

Then the doorbell rings.

I pack these things away and make my way to the front door.

Could it be?

Was there something more to the call than just checking up?

Was she at the door?

I check my hair in a nearby mirror and straighten my shirt. I walk to the door, place my hand on the door knob, take a deep breath and turn; and there she was...

A complete stranger.

"Hi, does Bonnie live here?" she asked.

"Next door," I replied.

The woman apologised and made her way next door. I close the door and smile.

I don't know what I expected.

***

- H E R -

"Oh God I'm one of those people," Emma thought.

The excitement of the conversation was over, the nostalgia had worn off, and all that was left was the realisation that she's just another one of those girls who dials an ex after a few too many gin and tonics.

It's been a long day, it was late and she'd had too much to drink. Emma tossed away her phone and went to bed.

***

"Oh God, did we really talk about all the times we had sex?" she thought immediately upon waking up the next morning. "No, it was worse. We talked our personal favourite times that we had sex."

Emma stayed in bed replaying the conversation in her head. Some of it made her smile, a lot of it made her cringe. She'd be lying if she said she didn't think of him much; she did. But up until a couple of months ago, she'd been quite content with where they'd left it. Emma rubbed the sleep from her eyes and mumbled out loud,

"Every guy in the world wants to fuck you, and you're pining for some guy on the other side of the world you dated for not even 6 months."

It's a strange predicament knowing how easily you could find a handsome guy to have sex with you, but at the same time, being so guarded because of your celebrity status that you force yourself to go celibate for long periods of time. That's what makes relationships so appealing.

These thoughts continued to plague her over breakfast. She didn't feel hungover but at the same time, she wasn't particularly eager to check whether that bottle of red she'd bought was still unopened. She looked at her phone so see how long the conversation was; over 20 minutes. That's longer than she expected. She groaned and slammed the phone onto the table face book.

She reached for her MacBook and opened it up hoping to distract herself with the morning news. She was immediately confronted with an intimate photo of herself and Nate, laying in bed in what she assumed was Japan. She closed the window only to be confronted by her internet browser, opened up to Nate's Facebook page. She was more than 12 months deep on his Facebook wall, a photo of him and some pretty girl, arms slung around each other's shoulder, having the time of their lives. She wondered who the hell this girl Madelaine was; she couldn't remember him ever mentioning the name to her. Not being able to take it for another second, she slammed shut the MacBook and pushed away her bowl of cereal.

Suddenly her phone started ringing. She found herself instantly hoping it was Nate. It was her publicist.

"Hi Wendy, what's up?"

"Morning Em. Just letting you know that the car is running late. They'll be by to pick you up in 20."

"Car? What car? Where am I going?"

"The Hollywood Reporter, they want to do that profile on you. How could you forget? We literally spoke about this yesterday."

Emma scrunched her eyes closed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and forced herself not to groan out loud in annoyance. She was not in the mood for a press junket.

"I remember now," she replied, attempting to put on a happy voice. "Sorry, it's been one of those mornings."

***

"I'm so excited for people to see this movie, I really think fans of the book will love it. It's been done with so much care and passion," she said, having repeated variations of that sentence at least 30 times in the past week.

The interviewer nodded enthusiastically, as if it was the best answer he'd ever had to one of his questions.

"And of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that Hermione Granger fans might be in for a shock, because this is a much more adult role than they might be use to from you."

Emma grinded her teeth for a moment; she hated these types of questions.

"It is, I'm just glad I had someone like Jason as director; he's very respectful to actors and never shoots anything that doesn't serve a purpose within the film. Perhaps that has something to do with the fact he was once an actor himself."

"I mean, some of the scenes in here are quite graphic. Much more graphic than anything you've done previously."

"Well that wasn't going to stop me, I wanted to work with the director and I couldn't put down the script when I first read it. I was happy to oblige. ."

"But were there any hesitations you had about performing such mature material given that..."

"Fuck off" Emma wanted to say. No matter what the publication, everyone loves it when a young actress says the word "sex", particularly if it's in regard to a sex scene they did or their own sexuality. Realising he wasn't going to drop it, Emma waited for him to finish his long-winded question and gave him the answer he wanted.

"Well let's face it, I've been sexualised in the media since before it was appropriate to do so. I've always been uncomfortable with the sex-symbol tag people have given me but I'm not so naïve that I won't acknowledge it. I've spent enough time on the internet and seen enough fan-art and even read enough fan-fiction to know what some people want from me, and how eagerly they're awaiting this film just the chance of sex or nudity. And good for them I guess, I hope it brings them joy. But as an actress, I just set out to make a good movie."

Emma could tell that wasn't the answer he was expecting. And from what she could see in her periphery, she could tell that DEFINITELY wasn't the answer Wendy was expecting.

"Sorry, I'm not sure if you understood my question," the interviewer said.

"What was your question?" Emma asked nervously.

"Any hesitations with taking on such graphic material given that the original book glossed over most of that in favour of ambiguity?"

Emma stared silently for a moment, not quite sure how to answer. She looked at Wendy for help but she merely gave a look that said "what the hell is wrong with you". Emma stared at the interviewer, then Wendy, back to the interviewer, and finally to the cameras which she had forgotten were there.

"Sorry, when you say graphic material, you mean..." Emma asked.

"The violence of course," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "The film certainly doesn't pull any punches and is very gory in parts; lots of blood, which is most unlike the book."

All Emma could find herself saying was a slow and embarrassed:

"Oh..."

***

"There's no nudity in this film Em! There's not even a sex scene. In fact, you're wearing a trench coat for most of it!" Wendy said in a hoarse whisper, mindful that the interviewer and his crew were still in the next room.

"Sorry, I thought he was talking about that other film. The one about private detectives."

"Private detectives?! You mean that script you read last week and literally just signed on for 3 days ago and that's not due to start shooting for another 6 months! Where is your head right now?!"

"I'm sorry, I'm just distracted," Emma muttered, not wanting to admit that sex had been on her mind non-stop for days.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah, it's fine, it's nothing."

"Define nothing," Wendy asked firmly. "Because that's a pretty baffling mistake to make."

"Boy problems, don't worry about it."

"Please tell me it's not anymore-"

"It's not anymore topless photos!" Emma stated firmly. "Just relax, everything is fine."

Wendy shook her head in disapproval.

"I'll talk to them and tell them not to publish that quote. I know their editor personally, it'll be fine."

"Thank you Wendy."

Wendy went to leave but turned around when she was at the door.

"These boy problems. It's not about the one you ran off to Europe with is it?"

Emma smiled but didn't answer.

***

Emma didn't even bother turning on the lights when she walked back into her apartment. She simply kicked off her heels and made a beeline for the bottle of wine she'd bought the other day. She picked out her largest wine glass and eagerly opened the cupboard only to find the wine bottle wasn't there. She checked the other cupboard doors and kitchen drawers, hoping she'd mistakenly put it somewhere else. It was only when she glanced in the bin that she found her bottle.

"Oh, that's right," she mumbled. "Well, that answers that question."

It had been a long day. If she were sensible, she'd just have a bath and go straight to bed. Nate hated baths she recalled, even with her. "Not as hygienic as showers and harder to have sex in" he'd say. Agree to disagree on the first point, but she had to admit, he was right about the second. God knows they'd tried. She recalled this one time in Holland when she was taking a bath and was feeling particularly amorous, she took the bottle of body wash and lathered up her whole-

"Jesus!" Emma said out loud. "I'm stone cold sober and still fantasizing about my ex!"

She stood still in the kitchen for about a full minute, not knowing what to do next. Her phone was clutched in her hand and she was already starting to think about what time it was in Australia.

"No," she said out loud before deciding to march off to bed.

But sleep didn't come easily. She lay there was what seemed like ages, replaying the phone call in her head again. Every time she did, she glanced at the empty half of her bed.

Sometime later, she was couldn't be sure if it was five minutes later or five hours later, but she picked up her phone and dialled without any regard for the time.

"Hi Hannah, I'm sorry I know it's late and you know I usually never call after hours."

"It's alright. What are PA's for?" replied a cheery but undeniably groggy voice.

"I need you to do me a favour."

***

- M E -

"I'm sorry, but I still haven't received the documents yet. It might be easier if you just email me another copy. With the deadline fast approaching, I don't want to leave anything to chance."

Suffice to say, this conversation was significantly duller than the one I had with Emma.

"No that's fine," I continued. "It's the clauses at the top of page 7 that give me more trouble. I'll run it by one of my supervisors but it may be that we need to..."

I was on autopilot. Boring legal jargon spouted forth without much thought. I'm not entirely sure whether the client understood what I was saying, but it sounded impressive enough that he probably thought he was getting his money's worth. Unfortunately for him, my attention was elsewhere; my computer screen to be precise. I was scrolling through a bunch of recent photos of Emma. She looked good, thank god for paparazzi (a sentiment she definitely does NOT share).

She'd been on my mind ever since that phone call a few days back. I keep checking my phone to see if she had called again. When I got nothing, I started checking her Twitter feed and Google to see if there was any hint on what she might be up to; also nothing.

I eventually closed the webpages, ended the phone call with the client and went back to work. I turned my attention back to the stack of papers on my desk but within 30 seconds, I was again thinking about how I'd got here.

That question plagued me once more, namely:

Did I really choice this over a life with Emma?

I'm still in my mid-20s; why did I think it was so important to prioritise my career right now? What was wrong with taking some time off? Was this really better than what I gave away? Like I said, it's a question I go back and forth on often. On a day like this, the answer seemed quite obvious.

Fucking Emma...

All it took was a phone call and suddenly I'm rethinking everything.

The day after she called, I felt pretty good about where we were. Reminiscing about old times and all that good stuff was a welcome surprise. The next day, that feeling turned to nostalgia and longing, but I still felt okay. But then at some point between then and now, I've become angry at her for calling. Maybe she did just call to chat, but it had the effect of stirring up old feelings and possibly regrets. At this very moment, I was angry at her. In fact, if she were to call me right now, I don't know if I would even answer.

At that exact moment, the phone rings.

I answer and my PA's voice comes through the line: "Emma is on the line for you."

"You're fucking kidding me?!" I said with a mixture of surprise, excitement and some exasperation.

"You had me call her this morning and leave a message," she replied, clearly taken aback.

It took me a moment before I knew who she was talking about.

"Oh, you mean Emma Nicholls from accounting. Sorry," I replied.

"No, I mean Emma Fisher; she's opposing counsel on the Wilson file."

"Right! Of course. Sorry. Again," I said, allowing myself a brief smile.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, it's just..." I paused, before adding, "Too many Emma's in my life."

I heard laughter on the other end of the phone before she said, "You want me to get you some coffee"

"Please."

Back to work I guess.

***

Another day, another pay cheque.

Worked from 7am to 7pm.

Bought a 6-pack of beer picked up on the way home.

Ordered a pizza for dinner.

This was a pretty regular occurrence nowadays. Call it the monotony of day-to-day life. Most days, I was perfectly happy. But these last past few days felt different.

By the time the pizza guy showed up at my door, I was already 2 beers down and reaching for my third. I really should started eating healthier.

"That'll be $25," the pizza guy said.

I fumbled through my wallet but found only a $20.

"Crap, I'm short. Do you take credit cards?"

"No, sorry."

"Shit..." I muttered, not quite sure what to say next.

"Don't worry, I've got you covered," said a familiar voice.

I knew who it was before I even saw her. There aren't that many posh British twentysomething girls in the neighbourhood. She stared at me even as she leafed through her handbag for some cash to give the pizza guy. He received his money and promptly left leaving she and I standing at my front door with nothing but a pizza between us.

What the hell just happened?!

"You know, I don't think he recognised me," Emma said, looking back towards the pizza guy. "That's surprising."

"Not nearly as surprising as the fact you're here."

"I was in the neighbourhood," she said with an endearing smile on her face. Christ, I'd missed that smile.

"Were you really?"

"No. I was literally in New York yesterday. Well technically, today, what with the time zones and international date line and-"