Chapter Twenty-Six

I spend the rest of the afternoon staring into space, imagining a world where Cassie loses her looks in a freak Botox incident, stars in a succession of flops, and disappears into obscurity forever. But there’s no chance of that with Jake championing her every career move. Everything he touches turns to gold. Well, everything except me. I’ve been left to rust in the elements.

I wish I had the guts to fly home, but the invisible strings of all the what-ifs are binding me here. What if by some miracle Max is telling the truth and Jake and Cassie really are over? What if I’m jumping to all the wrong conclusions? What if this whole movie set world is some weird form of Stockholm syndrome that has me thinking I care more about Jake than I actually do?

With Jake not around to call the shots, we wrap early. Rachel and I decide to stay on in the office to catch up on paperwork. I achieve very little other than devouring great chunks of The End Of the Affair like the glutton for angsty punishment that I am, and musing on whether I’d be able to forgive Jake if my love rival was God, like in the book, and not some horrible actress with a God complex.

It’s nearly nine p.m. when Max strolls into the office. He’s had a haircut and he’s looking a little too similar to his brother for my liking. “How’s George?” he calls out to me.

“Clooney or Bush?”

“I’d love to answer that without the threat of a sexual harassment suit.” He stops and glances around the room. “Rachel about?”

“Nope.”

“Gone on a date, has she?”

“Yes, with some bronzed hunk called Sam Tropez.” Is it just my imagination or does he look put out by that idea? “She’s in the makeup department getting a spray tan.”

Rachel begged me to come with her, but I wasn’t in the mood to be turned luminous orange. She must have guessed that my current state is somehow Jake-related, but she’s cool enough to keep her mouth shut.

Max considers me for a moment. “You’re in a particularly vile mood tonight, Charlie.”

Ignoring him, I turn around to reload the photocopier’s paper tray. I’ve been coasting on a wave of inertia for the last twelve hours. I may as well pretend to do some work, at least while my boss is standing right in front of me.

“You do know that we wrapped hours ago, don’t you?” He’s smirking at me; I can hear it in his voice. I know he’s checking out my ass, as well.

“We’re working late,” I say, frowning at him over my shoulder. “You should try it sometime. Your movie might not be so much in the shit if you did.”

Max starts laughing, as I knew he would. He’s immune to all forms of criticism. “I never knew assistants could be so cruel. You and Jake must be rubbing off on one another, or, rather not…as the case may be. I’m guessing this has something to do with him sweeping that fashionably challenged moron off to Marrakech without you?”

“I couldn’t give a damn what your brother does. And you’re only saying Cassie’s a moron because she probably kicked you out of bed once.”

“Wrong. I wouldn’t touch her with my sound recordist’s boom pole.” A steely note has crept into his voice and, once again, I’m left wondering what Cassie did that was so bad.

“Can I help you with something, Max?” I’m done with this conversation. All I want to do is get lost in my book again. “I’ve fixed your daytimer and arranged your girlfriends’ bra sizes into alphabetical order. Don’t you have some love-struck runner to seduce?”

“Not tonight. Not right now, anyway. I’m on a mission.”

“What sort of mission?”

“To put a smile back on your face. Here.” He produces a crumpled white envelope from the back pocket of his shorts and hands it out to me.

“What’s that?”

“An invitation to our wedding. I hope you like the color scheme.”

“Be serious!”

“On second thought…” He moves it just out of reach with an infuriatingly smug look on his face. “If you’re not hung up on Jake, you wouldn’t be interested in this.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I can’t deal with his games tonight. My nerves are fifty shades of shredded already.

“It’s a letter Jake asked me to give to you before he left.”

He what?

Without batting an eyelid, he circles my desk, lifts up the hem of my red T-shirt and tucks the envelope into the waistband of my shorts. “You’re good for him,” he says, his handsome face creasing into a frown. “You don’t take any of his shit.”

I’ve never seen this side of Max before. It’s really quite disarming.

“You should ask Rachel out sometime,” I mumble. “You might find she has the same effect.”

“Oh, I doubt it. She’s far too good for me.” He gives me a quick grin and turns to leave.

“What about Cassie? Does this mean he isn’t holed up in some Marrakech shag palace with her?”

“Read the letter and all will be revealed, or so I’m told. I’ll see you tomorrow. Much later tomorrow, if my brother plays his cards right. Your ass looks even more amazing in those shorts by the way.”

“Good-bye, Max.”

I turn the envelope over in my hands but I don’t make any move to open it.

“What’s that?” asks Rachel materializing next to me in a T-shirt five sizes too big for her and a waft of sweet-smelling chemicals.

“Sellotape for the brokenhearted,” I say cryptically, stuffing it into the front pocket of my laptop bag. “How did the spray tan go?”

“I’ll find out tomorrow. If you don’t see me for the rest of the week, you’ll know why.”

“Are you ready to leave?”

“Not yet, but you go on. Tell the driver to come back for me later.”

“Are you sure?”

Rachel blushes. “I just bumped into Max in the hallway. He’s hanging around for a bit, so I might do the same.”

Another car crash is slowly unfolding here, but who am I to judge?

I’m already upside down and burning over mine.