“Cheers!”
“Here’s to you,” Jack replies, clinking his champagne glass with mine. “I want to hear more about the meeting. I want to know everything. Every single word he said.”
I laugh. “No, I don’t want to jinx it. I think the lunch went well, and now we’ll just have to wait and see whether I get the part.”
We’re sitting at the bar of an exclusive West London restaurant, waiting for a table, and enjoying the taste of premature celebration until then. I let myself relax a little, appreciating the way the alcohol numbs my senses and diminishes the fear that has been growing inside me since this nightmare began.
I’ve already said more than I should about the meeting with my agent and Fincher. I couldn’t help it, it’s all too exciting. I embroidered the truth a little, just a few stitches here and there, to present the story how I have chosen to remember it. I might have let the waist of the story out just a tiny bit around the middle, to let it breathe, but that’s okay. I think we all do that. The stories we tell each other about our lives are like snow globes. We shake the facts of what happened in our minds, then watch and wait while the pieces settle into fiction. If we don’t like the way the pieces fall, we just shake the story again, until it looks how we want it to.
I used to think that everything happened for a reason, but I stopped believing in whims like that some time ago. That said, if there was a point to the hellish last few days, then maybe this was it. Maybe this is the part that will change my life for the better. I try to stay calm and steady and deny the excitement that I feel. I don’t want to let the fantasy of fiction seduce me into a false sense of security; I’ve made that mistake before.
“There was one thing Fincher said that I can’t get out of my head,” I say eventually, aware of the weight of Jack’s stare as I take another sip of champagne.
“Well?”
“He said that the character he wanted me to play was morally repugnant but fascinating, and I got to thinking that maybe I am too.”
Jack stares at me for a few seconds, then the creases around his eyes fold, his mouth opens up into a wide white smile, and he laughs at me. Really laughs. Completely unaware that I wasn’t joking.
“I’m so proud of you, do you know that?” He takes my hand in his.
“I don’t have the part yet—”
“I don’t just mean about today, I mean all of it. Most people would have crumbled or just crawled under a rock to hide, but you’re so strong.”
I’m only strong on the outside.
I’m not sure what we’re doing anymore. Whatever it is, I’m quite certain that I shouldn’t be encouraging it, my life is complicated enough right now. We’re sitting facing each other on expensive-looking barstools, far closer than we should or need to be. My legs are tucked inside his, and I like feeling the warmth of his body against my own. Being this close to him makes me feel safe, and a little more willing to succumb to his charm-plated seduction.
Despite the alcohol, I’m fully aware that the comfort I feel from Jack holding my hand is nothing more than a placebo. It’s not real, but I swallow it down anyway, wanting to hold on to the feeling for as long as I can. He downs his own glass of champagne before taking my empty flute and putting it next to his on the bar.
He looks serious all of a sudden. “I want you to know that you’re safe with me.”
I do feel safe in this moment, as though maybe everything that happened was nothing more than a bad dream.
“You can trust me.”
I so badly want to that I don’t pull away when he leans in to kiss me. Not the sort of kissing we’ve been doing on set, but something real, almost animal-like. It’s as though I’ve wanted this for just as long as I suspect he has, but have been denying the truth until now. I know this is madness, to behave like this in a public place, but I can’t help it. His hands cradle my face and I wish that I’d met him first, before I married the wrong man.
I hear someone tapping on the glass window directly behind us, and when I open my eyes, I see Jack frowning over my shoulder. “Who the fuck is that?”
I turn to see her standing right there, outside the restaurant. The woman who has been stalking me for the last two years.
I knew Ben wasn’t working alone.
She’s wearing what looks suspiciously like the coat I can’t find, and her long black curly hair is blowing about her shoulders in the wind. Despite her dark glasses, it’s pretty obvious she is staring right at us, and I wonder how long she has been there. She waves a white-gloved hand without smiling, and my scales tilt in an unexpected way; my anger far outweighing my fear. I run to the restaurant door, ready to confront this woman, whoever she is. Jack follows close behind as I burst out onto the street, but we’re too late. The woman in the window has gone.