Page 61 of Best Supporting Actor

He’d just turned the corner into the development when his phone buzzed with a text. It was from Graham.

Any chance you could pick up a shift at The Bear tonight?

Tag’s steps slowed to a halt as he stared down at his screen. He’d wanted to stay in and watchBow Street, but he could do with a few extra hours, and it wouldn’t be a late one. These casual shifts would be coming to a complete end soon—once the play opened, his evenings would be spoken for. That thought might not fill him with quite as much panic as it would have just a week ago, thanks to Jay’s generosity in taking him in, but the realisation that he’d be missing out on this extra cash still made his stomach hurt. Besides, did he really have to seeBow Streetthe second it came out? He could watch it on catch up any time he liked—it wasn’t as if he was going to be with his family for this airing anyway. Hell, he hadn’t even asked Jay if he wanted to watch it tonight. Maybe Jay would rather do something else? It was his apartment after all, his TV. Not that he thought Jay would be a dick about it. Tag knew if he asked to watchBow Street, Jay would agree. He was a nice guy, and he’d seemed excited for Tag when Tag had mentioned it. Plus, he’d understand, better than any member of Tag’s family ever could, just how much blood, sweat and tears had gone into his relatively brief time on screen.

But would Jay reallywantto watch it?

Suddenly, Tag felt depressed. Shoving his phone back in his pocket, he trudged towards the main door of the apartment building and pressed the bell.

“It’s me,” he said when the intercom came alive with a burst of static.

“Hey,” Jay said, sounding a bit breathless. A second later, the door buzzed.

In the course of the short walk from the atrium to Jay’s apartment, Tag made his decision. There was no reason not to take the shift. He pulled his phone back out of his pocket, ready to start typing a quick reply to Graham, but when he stepped inside the apartment, he came to an astonished halt.

The little table was set for two, and squeezed onto its small surface—alongside placemats, glasses, cutlery, a breadbasket, and an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne in it—was one of those ridiculous balloon arrangements, with a weighted base and a riot of helium-filled balloons bopping around on their shiny silver ribbons.

The balloons—and hell, there had to be at least ten of them—were a variety of colours, shapes and sizes, but they all had the same words emblazoned on them: ‘Congratulations Tag!’

Tag’s eyes stung, a lump swelling in his throat.

He turned towards the kitchen area, where Jay stood, smiling at him, a wooden spoon in hand. A delicious savoury smell filled the air.

“Surprise,” Jay said softly, setting down the spoon.

“It definitely is,” Tag said hoarsely, embarrassed to hear the emotional note in his voice. “What’s all this for?”

Jay shrugged. “It’s not every day your debut show airs on TV. I thought a small celebration was in order.”

“Yeah?” God, was Tag going to cry like a baby over this? He felt like he might.

“Yup,” Jay said cheerfully. “I’m making dinner—nothing too fancy, just lasagne, but it’s my mum’s recipe, and it’s delicious. Plus I’ve got some fizz for us to toast your success and some fancy gourmet popcorn for when we’re watching the show.”

“That’s—” Tag broke off to clear his throat. “That’s really kind. Thank you.”

Jay looked gently amused. “Why don’t you grab a shower while I assemble the lasagne and bung it in the oven?”

“Okay.” Tag said hoarsely. As Jay turned back to the hob to resume his efforts, Tag crossed the room to his suitcase to yank out clean clothes, then typed out a quick message to Graham—Sorry mate, can’t do tonight—before putting his phone on to charge and heading to the bathroom for a long, hot shower.

Twenty minutes later, clean and warm and loose-limbed in his favourite ancient joggers and a Planet of the Apes t-shirt, Tag watched as Jay untwisted the metal cage on the champagne bottle and popped the cork with practised ease.

“Nicely done,” he said admiringly.

Jay grinned and poured the champagne, handing one glass to Tag before sitting on the sofa beside him. “To you,” he said, “and toBow Street. I hope it brings you all the success in the world, Tag, I really do.” He touched the rim of his glass to Tag’s.

“Thanks,” Tag said, and he felt choked up all over again, which was bloody ridiculous. Jesus, was he going to blub? Why Jay’s thoughtfulness was making him feel so emotional, he wasn’t sure, but it was. Maybe because he’d been feeling low about not being with his family, and because of all the stress of the last few weeks.

“You and your leaky head,” his mum would say, with her twinkly grin, and the thought made him smile. Tipping back his glass, he took a long swallow of the cold, dry wine, enjoying the bubbles fizzing on his tongue.

“I could get used to this,” he said when he lowered the glass. He quirked a smile at Jay and said cheekily, “I suppose you already are.”

Jay chuckled. “I won’t deny I like a nice glass of champagne.” His thigh was grazing Tag’s now, partly because the sofa was small and partly because, being a sofa-bed, it sagged a little in the middle, causing both occupants to roll towards the centre. “But my life’s not all champagne and oysters, you know.”

Tag shifted subtly away. “I know. You also like a McMuffin.” Did his voice sound strangled? “And After Eights,” he added.

Jay laughed. “True. I fucking love After Eights. Seriously, I can eat a whole box on my own—and I mean the big one.”

Tag made a face. “Ugh. All that super-sweet mint fondant. How can you?”