“Excuse me, boys,” he says to Larry and the editor—a Dane called Henrik whom they’ve flown in just for the job. The three of them are squeezed onto a single low leather sofa in a dark, windowless room, which, Nick is increasingly aware, smells of microwaved ham. For the past three hours they’ve been hunched over the footage for the CurvePhone spot, cutting and splicing images of a preposterously good-looking young couple in various states of semi-clothed argument, intimacy and repose. He pulls his phone from his pocket and steps into the hallway. After a large intake of fresh air, he answers. “Talk to me, Gray.” “Hello.” Nick is instantly aware from the depth of the gravel in Gray’s voice—a certain throaty barely-awakeness—that he is in a foul mood. “What can I do for you, my friend?” “You’ve been ignoring me,” Gray says evenly. Nick fights a powerful urge to pretend that the call’s breaking up and switch off his phone for the rest of the day—something he’s done with Maya in the past.
