Unscripted

by Swallow, Lisa

  "I know but thinking of you struggling and..." My words catch, and I stiffen as tears threaten.

  "Myf?"

  I wriggle from under his arm and take a lungful of air. The pain grips my chest, this new barrage of emotion slamming against the walls I’ve surrounded myself with since this morning. Today’s events crash around me as the wall breaks, hidden emotions unleashed by this small conversation. "Excuse me. Need the bathroom."

  "Are you okay?"

  "Fine. I’ll be right back." I force a smile.

  Blindly scanning the room and locating the sign to the bathrooms, I rush to the door, in case I break down publicly. I round a corner in the quiet hallway and slump to the floor, my back scraping against the wall. Wrapping my arms around my head, I unleash the grief I’ve downplayed all day.

  Every cell in my body tears with pain as I stare helplessly at the red carpet, my stomach and chest tightening as the hurt coils around until I can hardly breathe. I love Miles— loved Miles.

  And he did this to me.

  Three years lost to a man who took my heart, and this morning obliterated it.

  On my fucking wedding day.

  The humiliation whispers in my ear: everybody knows; they all want to hear why and how. Did I know?

  Poor Myf.

  On her wedding day.

  I lie on my side and curl up into a ball, tears soaking into my wedding dress. An angry scream catches in my throat, and I switch to bury my face into the carpet. Through my sobs, I inhale the musty mix of stale beer and carpet cleaner.

  I hate him. "Bastard," I shout, muffled by the floor. "Fucking bastard.”

  A nearby door creaks and bangs closed, the sound dulled by my arms wrapped around my head. Hopefully whoever stepped into the hallway is accustomed to drunken messes laying on floors in Vegas and will leave me alone.

  Shit. What if it’s one of the band? Dylan? I tense.

  Footsteps stride past, and I puff out relief.

  Until they halt and return.

  "You okay?" An uncertain male voice arrives with a pair of black shoes in front of my face.

  The man could tell me the hotel is burning down, because all I’m aware of is the waves of anger running over and over my body, crashing against social etiquette.

  "Fucking bastard!" I sit, pull off a shoe, and hurl it across the hallway where it bounces off the wall. "Asshole!"

  I don’t look up at the man, if he thinks he’s encountered a psychotic drunk he’ll keep walking. Surely.

  "What did I do?" he asks.

  That voice. I turn my face and ignore the tears tracking through my make-up. Fan-bloody-tastic. Tate.

  4

  In the hallway’s bright light, I finally get a closer look at Tate. He wears a dark grey suit jacket across a black shirt unbuttoned at the neck. Jeans hug his long, muscular legs, and his imposing figure blocks my view of everything but him.

  Extraordinary. Breathtaking. Stunning. Take your pick, because Tate’s the kind of guy where no adjective will do. The industry knows it. He bloody knows it.

  What’s worse is Tate’s hotter than last time I saw him. The same strong jaw, full mouth I once felt against mine in a kiss I spent years failing to forget, but in the years since RADA, he’s matured further. Could be that he increased his workouts to daily, or possibly because he’s no longer on that cusp between man and boy that guys are in their early twenties? At twenty-seven, Tate’s more than hit the definition of male perfection. His famous blue eyes fixed on me still captivate the way they did years ago, as does his ability to crush the oxygen from my lungs—not helpful when I’m half-gasping after my hysterics.

  “You didn’t do anything. Wasn’t you,” I gasp out and gulp air.

  He doesn’t respond, the hesitancy surrounding men in this situation in his stance. His eyes dart to the door, half-wanting to leave, but face marked with concern, half-obligated to stay.

  Tate crouches down. “Can I do anything to help?”

  I curl my arms around my knees and pull them to my chest, the red petticoats riding up my legs. Turning away from Tate, I rest my cheek on the dress, black and red make-up smudging around the hem. “No.”

  “Okay.”

  “Yes. Actually, you can.” I turn my head back. He’s sideways, the way the world is sideways and may not stay upright for much longer.

  Tate Daniels. I take a moment to cringe at the fact he’s the one who’s discovered me in this situation: the happy, carefree Myf he once knew now a screwed up ball of mess on the floor.

  Tate rubs his cheek. “Which? Yes or no?”

  “I don’t want anybody coming out here and talking to me. I don’t want to think about anything.” I glance up as a door along the hallway opens, music and voices filtering through. “If that’s Dylan or the girl I was with, please stop them finding me.”

  He leans back on his heels to watch, then looks back. “How long have you been there, Myf?”

  “No idea. Not long.” The door bangs again. “Is it them?” I press.

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  I stare at my painted toenails, attempting to quell the surging emotions sweeping me back toward despair. “Oh god...” The words come out as a half wail. Embarrassing. I bury my face into the white skirts again, heaving breaths in an attempt to calm myself. I conjure memories of yoga classes and breathing techniques, but they remind me of time with Miles again, and the sobbing takes over, unrelenting in its grip on me.

  “Are you okay?”

  Same question. Obvious answer. Typical man with no idea what to say. I grit my teeth, praying Tate gives up and walks away.

  “Yes. Just drunk,” I lie.

  “I think it’s more than that. Who’s the ‘fucking bastard asshole’?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” I turn my head again. I need to build the wall back up if I want to finish my night and not discuss why I’m in this state. Talk about him. “How are you, Tate?”

  “Better than you, I think, Myfanwy.”

  I crack a small smile. “Your attempt at a Welsh accent was always terrible.”

  Tate places a large hand on the wall and sits on the carpet. “Want to talk about what happened to turn you into this mess?”

  “No bloody way!”

  With a nod, he stretches his legs out, until we’re leaning against opposite walls. Tate’s close, with millimetres between his thigh and my calf, as if we’re friendly enough to need little personal space between each other. “Do you remember the last time we met?” he asks.

  “Not sure.” My drunken brain isn’t great at remembering any parties where alcohol flows. I can hold my drink without vomiting or collapsing, but inevitably I reach the point my memory blanks.

  I love life and live every opportunity I fall across, but my free spirit loses all constraints and morphs into “crazy-ass girl” after too many drinks. I’m never aggressive although have been borderline illegal. But we won’t go there. Sometimes amused, occasionally annoyed, my friends fill me in on stupid behaviour the mornings after.

  “One night. Four years ago. It was an after party for a movie premiere in New York. Blue Phoenix played on the soundtrack. I was there because I had a small role, and you were ‘plus one’ to somebody. Bryn, I think.”

  “Right...” I screw my eyes and nose into a thinking face. “Oh! Was the movie Stupid Love?”

  “That’s the one. First time in the three years we’d met since we left RADA.”

  “I know.” I pick at the red tulle petticoats.

  “Y’know, I was jealous that night. I wanted to spend time with you again, thought you’d hooked yourself a rock star.”

  “Jealous? Bryn’s a friend like the other guys are. You knew that from years ago. Nothing had changed.”

  “Yeah, you told me that later. Was still jealous, though.”

  I wipe my damp face with the back of my hand. “You don’t need to say things to make me feel better, Tate. It’s fine.”

  “I’m not. Whoever did this to you—I
presume a guy—is an asshole. You’re a great girl. Funny and smart. Be the Myf I saw by the fountains earlier; the one I knew before.” He sits forward and places a hand on mine. I’m too shocked to snatch it away. “Hold onto her right now. You’ll get through this.”

  I slowly move my hand away. Why is he this nice? Tate Daniels was never overfriendly to people unless he wanted something. “I’m sure you’ve forgotten me since.”

  Tate quirks a brow. “Seriously? You? You’re the girl from RADA whose energy sparked everybody else to life, and could turn up the brightness just by walking into a room.” He pauses. “You’re not unforgettable, Myf. Not to me.”

  “Because I was often amusingly drunk and did stupid crap?”

  “Ah, sometimes. But there was more than that between us, and you know it.”

  The first evening we met, when I was fresh to college, a smug thrill ran through me when hot-as-hell Tate spent the night talking to me. Nothing happened, not even a kiss, and I left disappointed. Just days later, I learned his reputation and the disappointment turned to the relief I’d had a lucky escape. Afterwards, when we hung around with mutual friends, I kept my distance. But however far apart, I had to fight crossing back to him.

  And then came trouble.

  “Remember the crazy thing we did the last time we met when you were drunk?” he asks.

  I blink at him, embarrassment edging in. Uh oh. “Crazy?”

  “After the premiere. You wangled your way into the after party and convinced everybody you were a minor member of a European royal family.”

  “I did what?”

  “People were drunk. I think if they did believe you, they’d forgotten the next day.”

  “Right. Wow.” I rub my eyes. Another escapade I have zero memory of to add to the list.

  His smile broadens, revealing perfect white teeth. “And I won’t mention the skinny dipping.”

  “Noo!” I protest. “I would definitely remember that. Water sobers me up.”

  “Oh, a regular occurrence?”

  “Once when I was about nineteen, and I was um... in trouble afterwards.” Arrested at the local outdoor pool. “I’m damn sure I didn’t do the same again, with you.”

  Tate rests his head against the wall and stares at the ceiling. “No, that one’s a lie. But you’re hilarious when you’re drunk. I remember that girl too.”

  “And here we are the hot property, Tate Daniels. Your life moved on quite a lot, Mr Famous. I’m still Miss Struggling Actress.”

  “I guess.”

  “Are you the same guy I knew back then?”

  “Are you the same girl from London all those years ago?”

  “Probably not.”

  Like an elastic band, I snap back to the present, with a sharp pain as the situation twangs against my chest. No, I’m not. Look at the state of me.

  We sit in silence for a few minutes, and my head pounds from the crying—and possibly alcohol. The short, tearful gasps ebbed as we spoke; whatever subtle ploy Tate’s used to calm me down worked. Talking about our past illustrates further how different I am to then, which I don’t need right now.

  I avoided opening up to Tate years ago, not wanting him to notice any weakness he could exploit. As the seconds pass, my embarrassment rises at the situation he found me in.

  I can’t stay here and talk to him.

  “I’d best sort myself out before heading back in there.” I point to the door to the bar and drag myself to my feet. “Don’t tell anyone what you saw, Tate,” I whisper as I stumble past him and into the bathrooms behind.

  The door closes between us.

  Shit.

  I grip the sink edge and take a tentative look into the mirror. How do I look?

  Bloody awful.

  Why did Tate Daniels have to be the one who witnessed my breakdown? If anybody saw me, I’d crawl away in embarrassment, but him... mortifying. Way to go, Myf.

  Deep, calming breaths. Focus.

  The bespoke, marble bathrooms are filled with more than the usual paper towels and soap dispensers. I grab a neatly folded facecloth from beside wrapped soaps on the small table, dampen it, and scrub the remainder of my make-up away. Au naturel is better than the clown impression happening on my face a few seconds ago. The dark club should help prevent my friends reading my face and freaking out about my state of mind. The last thing I want is a “certain someone” marching me back to my hotel suite, worried I’ll have a bigger breakdown in public.

  I will walk back in there, controlled and calm, and... I stare down at my feet. Ah, crap. No shoes. A new surge of embarrassment reddens my make-up free cheeks. I’ve left them where I petulantly threw them, in full sight of somebody whose influence in the industry could be bigger than I know. But, I didn’t throw the shoes at him, and actresses are allowed tantrums, right?

  I peer out as I open the heavy door with a shoulder. Tate’s tall figure rests against the wall nearby.

  Tate holding my shoes. Waiting for me.

  I step back into the bathrooms and gently close the door. Why didn’t Tate leave? How long will I need to wait until he gives up, leave my shoes on the ground, and walks away?

  A couple of minutes later, I poke my head out of the door again. If I don’t leave soon, Audrey will look for me, and if she discovers I’ve had a mini-breakdown, she’ll drag me back to the hotel.

  Steeling myself, I pull open the door. Tate’s definitely waiting for me.

  And I’m unsure I want him to.

  Something strange crosses his face. I expected him to thrust the shoes at me with a mutter and walk back to his evening amongst the bigger stars. Instead, his eyes hold concern. Removed from the earlier hysteria, I catch up to what’s happening. He stayed. Spoke to me. Why hasn’t he left?

  My chest aches from crying, but something soothes the rawness; a calming sensation runs over me under his soft gaze. Then I remind myself why I dislike the kind of man Tate always was, the one I knew back then honed his player ways into his life’s performance. After years trying, he could use the situation to win, when he lost for years.

  “Your shoes.” He holds them out, and I reach for them, maintaining as big as distance as I can.

  “Thanks.” My height grows, and I’m closer to his face as I slip them on. “Please don’t tell anybody what you saw.”

  Tate nods. “How are you feeling now?”

  “I’m okay.”

  His mouth tugs at one corner, disbelief clear. “Sure you are.” He indicates my dress. “You’re ah... dishevelled now. Maybe you’d better walk back into the bar a few minutes before I do, and not together, in case people think... things.”

  Things. An innocent word but not so innocent reaction building inside. Of course, I’m falling for his effect, which girl wouldn’t? Our history contains a physical undercurrent, which flowed between us on and off stage, one very much in our present too.

  No, his fame won’t be the aphrodisiac to me that he relies on. Remember, Myf?

  “That might be your reputation, but it isn’t mine,” I retort. “I don’t have sex with random men in public or... at all.”

  “I’m teasing. You have three guys in the bar who’d probably have me by the balls if I took advantage. Besides, sex in public equals trouble.” A muscle in his cheek twitches. “As you probably heard.”

  “Yes, you like to get yourself into unusual situations, don’t you, Tate? Always did.”

  “Yeah, and my agent telling me to keep my nose clean has moved from advice to threat. I have to be a good boy now. I’ve managed a month. I can continue.”

  I snort at him, and he frowns at the doubt. His inability to say no to anything on the hedonism scale? That’s grown over the years too. Good luck with that, Tate. “Don’t stress, I’m not about to try to get into your pants and ruin your new, shiny reputation.”

  Tate runs his tongue along his bottom lip, then moves his eyes to my lips and back to mine. “Shame. I’ve waited a bloody long time to get into yours.” He indicates
the door. “I’ll go first, should I?”

  Before I can respond, he strides back to the doorway leading to my friends, leaving my heart thumping faster than it should.

  5

  “Myf, isn’t it time you stopped?” Audrey grabs the half-empty bottle of tequila from me before I can refill the row of shot glasses.

  I snatch it back. “No.”

  The tequila splashes over the side as I pour, and then I push the glasses towards the others at the table.

  “I think I should,” she says.

  Audrey’s pale face pushes guilt through my exuberance. “Oh. Are you okay?”

  “If I sit here any longer, I’ll fall on the floor. How are you managing this?”

  With a shrug, I take another shot, and grimace. Bryn, Liam, and Tate follow suit, as Dylan’s frown joins Audrey’s.

  “Take Audrey back to the hotel,” I say and wave a hand at Dylan. “You look bored. We’ll stay here.”

  “Nah. Also drank too much.” He rests back against the sofa seat, arms stretched out along the top. “We should probably leave.”

  “We? I’m staying here!”

  A Dylan and Myf standoff ensues, our usual epic staring match intensified by our drunken state. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “I promised I’d look after you.”

  “I don’t need you to.”

  “Tough.”

  “Stop, Dylan. I’m not your—” My sentence is interrupted by a retching sound to my right, and I jump to my feet. “Shit! Audrey! Are you okay?”

  Audrey leans forward, blonde hair covering her face as she stares at the mess on the carpet and mumbles, “No.”

  “See!” Dylan gestures at her. “This will be you soon.”

  “Oh, shut up, let me help my friend.”

  But he’s probably right.

  Others around the table laugh, but I don’t look to see who. I’ve avoided eye contact with Tate since we returned to the bar, and I’ve treated him like he’s a man I met a few times when with the band, and nothing more. The guys know our RADA connection, but not the whole story, because I never discussed him further than any other person I studied with. Tate doesn’t speak to me either, and as time passes, I manage to wipe away the embarrassment of our earlier meeting.