“What did they do to him?” I grab his arm in horror.
“What the hell do you care?” He brushes me off easily.
“Max!” cries Rachel.
This shuts him up. She’s never so much as raised her voice before.
We watch together in silence as he stalks off in the direction of his Winnebago.
“Don’t take any notice of him, Charlie,” she says, slipping her arm through mine again. “He’s just being overprotective.”
“Doesn’t matter.” I extract myself gently. I don’t deserve her comfort. I sure as hell don’t deserve her making excuses for why Max said what he did.
“Brad’s a manipulator and a liar. You’re not the first woman to fall for his crap.”
But it’s not just him. It’s everything. Max called it like it is, and now I’m riding out an internal landslide of emotion debris.
I stagger away from her, walking blindly in the direction of Waterloo Station, my tears streaming unchecked.
“Charlie, wait!”
She hollers after me twice more, but I’m too cocooned in my own agony to stop. I made a bad judgment call in accepting Brad’s job. In doing so, I hurt Jake. I hurt him with my actions and my silence.
The sidewalks lining the station are packed with lunching corporates. I jostle my way through their plumes of chitchat and cigarette smoke, aware of the glances that my red eyes and smudged mascara are attracting. I know what the women are thinking. I can feel their silent vibes of solidarity. No doubt I’ll be lining up next to them tomorrow and clutching my glass of chardonnay—the single girl’s answer to a lovey-dovey handhold.
Somehow, I board my train and make it all the way back to Balham, but I can’t say how I did it. Every movement feels like it belongs to someone else.
The apartment is still and silent. Lucy’s at work. I collapse into bed and wrap the silver quilt around me. I’m too numb to cry anymore.
Evening falls and darkness steals into my room. I think about a time long ago when I didn’t dare move for fear of what might happen if I did. Now the horrors that await me are of my own making. Jake and I are not so different underneath it all. We’re both products of catastrophic childhoods, of innocence that has been twisted and broken by the people that were meant to have loved us.
Sometime later I hear a key turning in the lock, and Lucy comes hustling into the flat, accompanied by the sound of grocery bags catching against the doorframe.
“Charlie? Are you here?”
When I don’t answer, she comes to find me. I must have left my keys in the dish by the door. I haven’t seen her for ages—not since I bolted from the house to meet Brad for dinner—and she’ll be on the prowl for details.
My door opens. I feel her indentation on my bed. Without a word, she curls up next to me, and tucks her arm around my waist. We lie like this for ages, with me drawing comfort from her warmth and her ability to keep quiet without judging me when I really, really need her not to. Through the wall we listen to the hums and roars of a football match coming from our neighbor’s television set.
“I take it the date didn’t go so well?” she says eventually.
I smile vacantly at the darkness. “It was more the after-dinner digestive that sucked, followed by some really bad indigestion.”
Her arm tightens around my waist. “He didn’t try anything, did he?”
I shake my head against the pillow. “Nothing physical.”
“Oh, Charlie.” She breathes into my hair. “What happened?”
“I saw Jake again.”
“You did?” Lucy rears up in excitement, catching me in the ribs with her elbow. “Did he fly in to see you?”
“Actually, he flew in to demote his producer and fire his director. I just happened to be in the same room.” I sit up and rest my shoulders against the headboard. My whole body is aching.
“Pah, semantics. How did he look?”
“He looked…good.” I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them for comfort. “Lucy, what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I open up about my past? If I had, Jake might have understood why I kept pulling away, why I found it so hard to trust him. Now he’s turned himself into this ultra-aloof businessman. He’s all about the studio. He thinks he owes his father this huge invisible debt, and I can’t seem to reach him anymore.”
Lucy regards me thoughtfully. “Did Jake have to fly over to do all that stuff you just said?”
“I suppose he could have fired Ramirez by phone.”
“Did he know you’d be there?”
“He knew I’d started working for Brad, but—”
“You what? Since when?”
“Since yesterday morning, and don’t ask.” I groan and rest my chin on my knees. “Turns out, the devil’s spawn has a cute smile and abs to die for, but really ugly ethics.”
“Complete dickhead, is he? Well, I could have told you that,” she says sternly. “No self-respecting brother would have moved on you that fast. Mind you, he’s technically a Dalton, and between them they’ve screwed most of Hollyw—” She cuts off when she sees my face. “Sorry. Wasn’t thinking.”
“Doesn’t matter anymore.” Yes, it does. “Jake can screw who he likes.” No, he can’t. The thought of his mouth on someone else’s body makes me feel sick.
“You need to go to him,” she says, taking my hand and squeezing gently. “One last time. All in. You need to tell him everything. You have to make him understand.”
I’m arriving at the same conclusion myself. One problem. My thoughts and actions have very different pain receptors. “What would I even say to him? How do I start? ‘Thanks for the amazing sex, but sorry for punching you in the face and then siding with your arch nemesis. Oh, and let me tell you all about my fucked up past while we’re at it. Better still, I’ll write it down so you’ll never forget—’ ” I stop mid-rant. My mind is working overtime. “Lucy, where’s my laptop bag?” I ask suddenly.
She frowns at my abrupt turnaround. “Try the lounge—no, the kitchen. I think I saw it under the table.”
She joins me as I’m emptying the contents of my laptop bag all over the kitchen floor tiles. She sits down on a nearby chair and opens up a can of diet coke. “What are you looking for?”
“A letter.”
“What sort of letter?”
“This letter!” I say triumphantly as my fingers close around the white envelope that Jake stuffed there during our naked disagreement in Marrakech. I have to jostle it free—it’s become entangled with an old shooting script and my laptop charger. When I do, I’m hit by a wave of memories.
I’m back in that suite in Morocco. I can smell the candle wax and hear the cicadas underneath our bedroom window. I can feel the raw heat of his body lying next to me, moving inside me…
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Lucy stands up and peers over my shoulder to get a better look, cocking her head to read the writing.
Am I?
With trembling fingers, I rip the small envelope apart, collapsing into her empty chair as I do.
Letters are like apologies for me, Books. They’re only produced in rare circumstances or under extreme duress, yet here I find myself backed into a corner on both accounts. I fucked up last night when I said I didn’t trust you, and when I fuck up, I make things right. I find myself compelled to always make things right with you because somehow you make everything all right with me.
No declarations or proclamations. I know words are your thing, but I’m going to keep this simple: forgive me. Come and find me.
I’ll make it worth your while.
“This is from Jake, isn’t it?” whispers Lucy.
I nod and let the paper part from my fingertips. A splinter of hope is lodging deep within my thoughts. Are his words still relevant even after everything that’s happened?
“
Charlie?” She’s studying me closely, trying to gauge my reaction, her avid gaze raking across my skin like sharp talons. “What are you going to do?”
There’s only one thing I can do.
“I’m going back to L.A.” I tell her.
It’s my turn to make everything right this time.
Chapter Forty-Eight
I’m sitting in a hotel chair next to a window some thirty-four floors up, hugging my knees again and gazing out at the lights of Hollywood. In the bed next to me, Lucy is out for the count and snoring softly.
She insisted on coming. There was no way she was missing out on all the excitement. She’s even managed to wrangle an interview with Matt Damon to justify the entire trip on expenses.
At the airport I sent a message to Rachel saying I needed a few days away. I feel bad for ditching her without a proper explanation, and I can just imagine Max wringing his hands in glee at my apparent career suicide.
It’s all for nothing, though.
Why?
Because Jake won’t take my calls.
I’ve been wallowing in misery for five hours. Five hours. I’m exhausted from jet lag, but too depressed to sleep. I’ve been trying him all day, ever since we landed, but some hag of a receptionist refuses to put me through. Apparently he’s been in a meeting for eight hours straight. Lying cow. I’m just going to have to get creative, even if that means camping outside his mansion like some crazy autograph hunter until he deigns to speak to me.
I’m growing bored of my own company, and these walls are closing in on me. I dress quickly in gray skinny jeans and a lilac silk cami and make my way down to the lobby. I exit the hotel and immerse myself in the busy sidewalks of Hollywood Boulevard.
I wander along aimlessly for a while, gulping in the heat and the smell of hot dogs and dodging all the Batmans. Jake was right. This place comes alive at night. He was right about so many things, but I wouldn’t allow myself to see it.
I have to find him.
I have to make this okay.
Pausing at the intersection of Las Palmas, I spy a faded pink neon sign in the distance. Bingo. I make a beeline straight for it. No hesitation. A strong drink is exactly what I need.
Parking myself at the bar, I smile at the guy polishing glasses behind the counter.
“What can I get you, lady?”
“Your most calorific cocktail, please. Diet’s been suspended.”
He laughs and sets to work, as if lovesick twenty-something women wandering into his bar on a Wednesday night in need of a sugar fix is a regular event.
I watch him unearth a glass from the shelf beneath the bar and start packing it with crushed ice. Next, he pulls out a cocktail shaker and drowns it in vodka and some violent, green liquid. Giving it a good shake, he tips out the grim concoction and serves it with five cocktail umbrellas, half a pineapple, and an enormous sparkler that he lights in front of me with a twinkle in his eye.
“Enjoy your cocktail. ’Round here we like to call it the Ghostbuster.”
“You mean if the spirits don’t keep me up all night, the sugar high will?” I take a sip and start coughing and spluttering. It tastes worse than it looks. I hand over a twenty and see him glance up as another customer enters the bar.
“What can I get you, buddy?”
The customer must have indicated to my glass because the barman sets to work with the same routine.
“Does it come with a joke?” says a weary voice.
I whip around so fast that I knock luminous green liquid all over the counter. Jake slides onto the bar stool next to me looking tired and guarded, but oh, so handsome. He’s wearing a black three-piece again, but he’s ditched the jacket and tie, and the sleeves of his white dress shirt have been pushed up to his elbows. His hair is shorter than before—much more businesslike. My heart starts to pound as the rich, heady smell of him wraps around my senses.
I’m not surprised I lost you, Jake. You were out of my league from the first.
“What are you doing here?” I mumble, chasing shards of ice around my drink with the straw.
He ignores the question and clasps his hands together. He’s gritting his teeth beneath his five o’clock shadow.
I try again. “How did you find me?”
“Does it matter? Why did you come here? We said all we needed to say in London.” He sounds angry and confused. He’s clearly not flattered in the slightest that I chased him halfway across the world.
“You didn’t let me finish, and you know how much I like to have the last word.”
He shakes his head and mutters something like “infuriating woman” under his breath as the barman places his drink down in front of him. He waves away the sparkler. There are more than enough fireworks flying between us at the moment.
I watch him take a sip and make a face. He pushes it to one side and snaps his fingers. The barman brings him a beer straightaway. “So, it’s just sheer obstinacy that brought you to this enchanting establishment, is it?” He lifts the beer bottle to his mouth and I’m transfixed. I need to feel those lips on my body again. I can’t live the rest of my life without him.
“That, and the canapés.” I unfurl the pineapple from my glass with a shaking hand and take a bite. He stills, and I know what he’s thinking. I’ve reminded him of that night in Marrakech. I blush and drop the pineapple. “Why didn’t you take my calls?”
“I’ve been tied up in meetings. It’s been a tough day.”
“Embracing your legacy?”
He takes another draft of his beer. “I figured there would be less chance of bumping into you if I was trapped behind a desk.”
But you’re here now.
“Tell me how you found me, Jake.”
He pauses for a beat. “I had someone tailing you as soon as you landed.”
“You what?” He sounds so unapologetic about it. “Let me get this straight, you don’t bother to return my sodding phone calls, but you have me followed around all day by some old man in a beige mac, Colombo style?” My voice rises indignantly.
“I warned you about my enemies, Charlie,” he says, his face turning serious again. “You don’t know what they’re capable of. I was having you followed in London, as well.”
“Did Wilson hurt your ex, Sienna? Does he want to hurt me?”
Jake raises the beer to his lips again and doesn’t answer.
“I opened your letter,” I blurt out, hating the strained silence between us. “The one you gave me in Morocco.”
“Damn.” The bottle comes crashing down. The word is barely audible, but his regretful tone speaks volumes. “I forgot about that stupid thing. Listen—”
I never get to hear what he says next. My chest is crushing, squeezing, and turning everything to white noise.
I can’t faint in here. I can’t make an even bigger fool of myself than I have already.
Grabbing my cell phone, I bolt for the door. I don’t hear Jake calling out my name, either. I don’t see him jumping down from the bar stool to follow me out. I’m so confused I step out into the road, but I’m honked into retreat by a passing taxicab. Changing directions, I head back up Hollywood Boulevard, swerving around tourists like a vehicle in a high-speed car chase.
Meanwhile, Jake has exited the bar and is sprinting up the sidewalk after me. “Charlie, stop!”
I make it all the way to the corner of Highland Avenue before he catches up with me. “I said stop!” he yells, grabbing my arm and spinning me around to face him. “Stop running away from me, woman!”
“You once said that you’re no good for me, but the truth is, I’m no good for you,” I gasp out, choking on my tears as my past comes crashing down around me. “I’m so damaged, Jake. I knew there’d be no going back for us after I signed up with Brad, but I did it anyway.”
“Charlie—” Jake’s expression softens,
but I can’t bear to look at him anymore.
“This was a mistake. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.” I wrench myself away from him and start walking again. I’m right next to the gaping golden aperture of the Dolby Theatre entrance, with the giant sign looming over me like a censorious overlord.
“What happened to you? What made you this way?”
Jake’s words stop me dead in my tracks. I don’t move another muscle until he’s alongside me, his dark eyes flickering over my face, searching for answers. It’s there on the tip of my tongue, but I can taste its bitter recrimination, too. He’ll never look at me the same way again.
But I’m all out of excuses.
I’m too tired to run anymore.
“Tell me, Charlie. I need to know.”
I drop my head and steady my breath. “When I was six years old, my father kidnapped me, tortured me, and then killed himself in front of me,” I say quietly.
Chapter Forty-Nine
“Take it slow, Books. Start from the beginning.”
We’re back in Jake’s mansion. I’m sitting on one of his somber gray couches with his black suit jacket wrapped around my shoulders. He’s sitting on the edge of an elegant glass coffee table directly opposite me, and with his troubled eyes and mussed-up hair he doesn’t look quite so businesslike anymore.
The last hour is a blank space. I can’t recall how we got here or how I came to be wearing his jacket. I’m pretty sure he didn’t have it with him in the bar. But now we’re here, with nothing but the ticking of a distant clock eking into our silence. I’m a wreck, sustained by one thing only. Jake’s not kicking me out…yet.
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