Unscripted

by Swallow, Lisa

  We’ll likely meet again as we’re both in the industry. I’m surprised we haven’t in the two years since I arrived in LA. When we do, I don’t want Tate’s clearest memory of me to be what occurred in the hallway.

  Or of me in the same state as Audrey is right now.

  * * *

  Audrey sits on the low wall outside the hotel entrance, head between her knees, with Bryn’s jacket over her shoulders swamping her figure. Beside her, I pat Audrey on the back as I squint at the world. If I only open one eye, the spinning stops. I slug from the water bottle in my other hand.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Really, Myf?” Audrey’s voice is weak and hoarse. How many times was she sick in the past half hour? A lot. Her back heaves again, but nothing spills.

  I’m a crap friend. Why? Because I don’t want to return to the hotel. I’m happy to help Audrey back and make sure she’s okay, put her to bed, but then I want to head back out.

  I can’t stop tonight until I forget everything about today.

  Dylan, Bryn, and Liam huddle together talking, glancing our way occasionally. The car they summoned hasn’t materialised yet, and with each passing minute, I’m tempted to leave Audrey in their care.

  No. That’s awful. Bad Myf. I hiccup.

  Tate stands alone nearby, and I watch as he removes his jacket and loosens his shirt further. Mmm. Where did his date go? Date? I can’t figure out if they’re a couple or not, since she found other equally beautiful friends to sit with us. As the only guy in the group who’s available, Tate had at least three girls lapping up his attention at one point. Unnamed Beautiful Girl didn’t seem to mind, and all four moved on once they discovered the Blue Phoenix guys aren’t interested in hook-ups these days.

  I blink him into focus. Does Tate know the whole story why we’re here? The crazy, drunk Myf he spoke about edges in, because as I look at him, I imagine what it would be like to get my hands on the famous Tate Daniel’s body after all these years; the one he’s not offering the other girls. The temptation to throw myself at another man, as a ridiculous attempt at validation after the rejection this morning, jumps to mind.

  I stand and look down at the ground, the gold flecks sparkling in the pavers seeming to dance.

  I’m an idiot.

  “Is the car almost here?” I call to the guys.

  “Should be,” replies Liam.

  I take another look at Audrey. I’m not the only one leaving. Somebody else could take her home.

  “Aud—do you mind if I stay out for a bit?”

  “Out where?” she mumbles.

  “On the Strip. I want to watch a show or something. I could ask one of the boys to take you to the hotel.”

  “Yeah, dussunmatter,” she slurs.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.” She rests her head on her knees. “S’long as I get to bed. Soon.”

  “Bryn!” I beckon him over, away from Dylan entrenched in a phone conversation. “Can you take Audrey to the hotel?”

  He approaches and glances down at my inebriated friend. “You not going with her?”

  I shake my head and place a finger on my lips. “She’s happy for you guys to take her back to her hotel. I’m staying here.”

  Bryn opens his mouth to speak, and I clamp my palm across it. “Shh. Please.”

  He pulls my fingers away. “But...”

  “Thanks.” I stumble over to the sidewalk edge and look left and right along the Strip. The noise and neon of the unsleeping city beckon me away from the darkness that’ll overcome me again if I stop my night now.

  Almost bumping into Tate, I pause and whisper. “I don’t want to go back to my hotel yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “I haven’t finished my night.” I lean in, conspiratorially, and murmur. “Don’t tell the others, but I’m going to find the hottest guy I can and screw him.”

  Tate’s eyes widen in shock, and he places a warm hand on my arm, glancing over to Dylan. “Do you think that’s a good idea, Myf?” No, don’t tell Dylan. Big-mouthed me.

  “Pro’lly not.” I grin. “Not you, though. Besides, you’re with that girl.” I gesture to the hotel entrance. “Where is she?”

  “Lola? She left as soon as your friend started puking on the floor.”

  I shake my head as if I have water in my ears and misheard. “Lola?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nooo. You are kidding me, right? Lola? Is she a showgirl?”

  Tate’s face tells me the answer.

  I snort and break into loud, unladylike, laughter. This is freaking hilarious. I launch into the song “Copacabana,” and accompanying showgirl moves. A song I’m sure Lola’s heard a million times over—if she were with us. “Hey, Dylan!” I shout. “Did you know Lola’s a showgirl?”

  Dylan looks around. “I heard the song. The whole bloody Strip did, Myf.”

  “No, Tate’s Lola.” I break into song again and grab the hands of a passer-by. The middle-aged woman snatches her hands away and mutters something, moving closer to the man she’s with. Instead, a young guy with a group of friends thrusts his beer bottle at one of them and takes hold of my hands. We dance in a circle, singing and laughing as the passers-by edge around us.

  “Myf. Stop.” Tate disentangles my hands from the young guy’s.

  “Oh, sorry, dude.” He holds his hands up in a gesture of peace, panic flickering across his features. “Didn’t know she was with you.”

  “All good.” But the steely gaze Tate fixes him with doesn’t match his words.

  The young guy darts away into the passing stream of people who crowd together tightly and move fast, preventing anybody stopping to take a close look at us. One or two pause, as if ready to approach Blue Phoenix, but nobody pays attention to Tate.

  The black car’s arrival outside the hotel blocks my view of Dylan and the others, so I kick off my shoes and pick them up in one hand, stumbling slightly.

  “What are you doing?” Tate asks.

  “Screw leaving for the hotel; it’s only 1:00 a.m. You coming?”

  “What?”

  “To have fun,” I call and step into the crowds away from him. He disappears from view as I weave between the people. I pick up my pace, before anybody else notices, leaving a refrain of “Lola” in my wake.

  I refuse to stop until I remember nothing.

  6

  The tiled floor cools my cheek, but my head bangs harder than I’ve known my entire life. That’s saying something; I’ve had my fair share of drinking binges. I peer around me. White. Huge ass, big as my bedroom, squeaky clean, designer bathroom.

  I push to sit, and my stomach disagrees with the movement.

  Oh shit. Taking deep, do-not-puke breaths, I move onto my hands and knees and focus on the marble-tiled floor.

  Nope. Not working.

  In a sudden fit of energy, I make my way to the sink and clutch the edge as I vomit. In the mirror, besides the girl who looks as if she’s half-dead, a shirtless Tate Daniels reflects back at me.

  Whoa.

  What the hell?

  “Why are you—” I’m interrupted by my stomach contents, and I flick the tap on, mortified this is happening. My mind’s on overdrive figuring out why I’m in a Vegas hotel room, vomiting, with Tate watching.

  “Please go away,” I croak.

  “Just checking up on you.”

  I slump back to the floor and rest against the tiled wall. “Okay. I need to lie down, and not on the floor.”

  This is not my suite. Too big. No idea where the bed is. I gingerly turn my head, relieved to find this monstrous bathroom is actually en suite, and the bed’s in sight.

  I stagger out into the bedroom, where a window stretches floor to ceiling, overlooking Vegas in daylight. The dazzling morning sunshine sears my eyeballs and doesn’t help my delicate situation.

  In an attempt to escape, I land face down on the soft, unmade bed.

  What have I done?

  Oh shit, no... I r
un my hands along my clothes, bloody glad I’m still wearing the wedding dress from yesterday. I reach behind and pull at the back of my skirts, as the petticoats ride up my legs. Can Tate see my backside? A sudden and horrific thought hits: he might already have seen my backside. And more.

  The mattress sinks as Tate sits next to me. I twist my face to look at him, my cheek squashed and mouth tasting like hell. “Did we... sex?” I croak out.

  “Not for want of trying on your behalf,” he replies with a chuckle, then winces and holds his forehead.

  “And we definitely didn’t do anything?”

  “Well... Do you remember anything?”

  Crap.

  “No. Everything’s blank after I left the Venetian. What did I do?”

  His beautiful eyes are dulled and lined by red, set in a pale face. At least he looks like his hangover measures up to mine, and he isn’t one of those people who can wake up after a heavy night out with his looks unscathed.

  “I’ll get you some water.” The bed moves again as he stands. “And painkillers. Then we need to talk about something.”

  Talk? I close my eyes, unable to move an inch in case my remaining stomach contents creep out.

  * * *

  Panicked texts from Audrey answered, with the sparsest details, I made my way back into the bathroom. I sit on the floor in the double shower, water washing over me as I attempt to resurrect myself. Tate’s taken up residence in front of the TV in the lounge, so I manage to sneak in here alone.

  What talk do we need to have? I check my body for injury. None. For tattoos in case I’m dumb enough to ink something embarrassing onto my body. Nothing. Good, I hate tattoos. I scour my black hole memories. Zilch. Did I get into a fight? Or Tate needed to help me out of a delicate situation?

  The last memory I have is running along the Strip, shoeless, before bursting into the nearest casino. Tate appeared but nobody else. And then...

  Blank.

  I step out and grab the soft towel robe hung nearby, which covers me from head to toe, and I tie the belt tight before sneaking into the lounge. Tate rests back on a large sofa, feet on a small table. His mouth is set hard, and he flicks a thick sheet of paper against his knees as I approach.

  “Feeling better?” he asks in a low tone.

  “No. And I have no clothes.”

  “You have your wedding dress.”

  “Which has vomit on it.” I pause. Wedding dress. “Oh, did I tell you?”

  “About Miles jilting you? Yes.”

  I wince at the term. “I’m sure I was more explicit than that.”

  “You were.”

  He’s stiff, more distant than the man who waited for me outside the bathroom last night with my shoes. I lower myself into a nearby chair. “Thanks for looking after me.” He shakes his head with a laugh. “Why’s that funny?”

  “You had your wedding dress on, Myf.”

  “Yes. We established that.”

  “But you wanted to make use of the dress because you think it’s pretty.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. You’re still the strange girl you were, Myfanwy Gwen Roberts.”

  He taps the paper against his tired face and watches me warily for a couple of moments before holding the paper out. “In my defence, I was drunk too.”

  “Right.” The words on the stiff vellum sharpen into focus as I decipher the thick black, cursive letters.

  No fucking way.

  I jump to my feet, hand shaking as I thrust the paper at him. “Did we get married?” I shriek.

  “Yes. I am stunned that you don’t remember,” he growls.

  “I’m bloody stunned you married me!”

  “I didn’t exactly force you into it. The wedding was as much your idea as mine. And stop shouting.” He grips his head in his hands and rubs his temples. “I have a killer headache, and you yelling is not helping.”

  My settled stomach churns again, and I stare past him at the High Roller wheel slowly turning in the distance. “When? Last night? How?”

  “Does it really matter? We’ve done it now.”

  How can I not recall getting married? This can’t be real.

  I’m famed for Myf memory blanks, and the stupid crap it leads to, teased through my adult life by friends who think it’s amusing to hide some of the gruesome details.

  But this...

  “This is a joke, right? Ha ha, you got me.”

  “No.” His face remains stony.

  Ah, shit. “Okay.” My panic recedes as a new thought hits. “It’s okay. We’re both British. The marriage isn’t legally binding in the UK, right?”

  “Wrong.”

  “Fuuuuck.” My chest tightens so hard I can hardly breathe. “Did we know that fact before we married?”

  “No.” Tate’s voice is hoarse and flat, verging on pissed off. “If we thought the marriage was legally binding, why the hell would we do it?”

  “Didn’t we freaking ask someone first?”

  “Obviously not. I didn’t bloody know until I searched Dr Google.” He waves his phone at me.

  “Right. We can stop this. Annulment. How long before we can get a divorce?” I drag fingers through my damp hair.

  “My agent will totally lose his shit about this.”

  “Your agent? That’s what bothers you? Not that you’re married to some girl you’ve hardly seen for years?”

  “That’s not what I mean. I told you last night; I’m the one trying to keep my behaviour in line and my face out of the press.”

  I slump back onto the seat again and drag my hands through my damp hair again. Silence wraps around us, holding us together in the surreal situation. “This isn’t happening.”

  “Yeah, well it happened,” he mutters.

  “And you can remember?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Why? Why did you... we get married? Are you insane?”

  He turns to face the skyline I keep staring at and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Because we were drunk and thought it would be funny. Fuck, I can’t remember the last time I was that drunk. I’d forgotten some of last night until I found the certificate this morning.” He pauses and continues with a growl, “Do you realise how bad this is for me?”

  I stare at the back of his head. “For you?”

  “I told you last night, I’ve been told to stay clear of trouble, and pulling a stunt like this doesn’t exactly help. I can’t have anybody finding out about this. This could screw up a big career move.”

  “Suits me,” I mutter.

  He turns back to me. “I have a new role coming up, in a show with a big name producer. I was expressly told to keep away from scandal. They want somebody clean. A guy who’s matured and does charity work in his spare time or some shit like that. I’m managing to smooth over the past, paint myself as a reformed boy, but... this? Not exactly the kind of publicity I want. What if I lose this role? I’m fucked!”

  “Really? And what about me? I’m trying to make my own acting career. This is one hell of a step from the casting couch!”

  “We didn’t have sex, Myf.”

  “Whatever happened, and for whatever reason, this is one fucked-up mess. Hell, how bad does it look that I’m jilted on my wedding day, then hours later marry a different guy I haven’t seen for years?”

  I head to the small kitchen and grab a glass with shaking hands. Water? I need another drink. Now. From the corner of my eyes, I see an empty champagne bottle and two glasses. The water forces itself back up. I swallow. “What do we do next?”

  “Pretend it never happened?” he suggests.

  “How? It did.”

  He closes his eyes. “I know. And I have no bloody idea what to do. I need to think about things, and all I want to do right now is sleep this off.”

  “Should’ve thought about that at whatever stupid time this morning. This isn’t something you can sleep off!”

  “I don’t like the fact you keep laying the blame on me!” he snarls back. “I wou
ldn’t have done this if I thought it was legal. It was a joke. This is a joke.”

  Yeah, the situation pisses me off, but to be told I’m a joke? I grit my teeth. “I don’t give a crap. Means nothing. You’re not the sort of person I’d ever be interested in, never were.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean, you’re Tate Daniels, and have a reputation for putting yourself before everybody else, including your girlfriends.”

  “And? I’m pursuing my career.”

  “And walking over people in the process. As usual.”

  “Like who?” His face darkens. “I’m where I am through my own hard work.”

  “Uh. Lola? What happened to her?”

  “She wasn’t—”

  “Anything special? She seemed to like you. Nothing changes, huh? I refused to date you back then, and I sure as hell don’t want to be married to you. Or anybody else. Not for a bloody long time.”

  The Vegas skyline frames the Hollywood star, and I refuse to admit the anger pouring out isn’t at him, but at myself. I’ve lived in Hollywood for two years and not once succumbed to tempting, hot actors, who use their position to get me into the ones they want.

  “Nobody can know,” I repeat. “Nobody apart from lawyers. Not even your agent.”

  “Suits me. No going to the press.”

  “As if I would,” I retort. “Get your lawyers to draw up divorce papers and bribe the chapel. Anything! End this and quickly.”

  “I already had to pay off the chapel so they wouldn’t talk. Marrying you is fucking expensive.”

  “Wow. Okay. Want me to contribute some money?”

  He waves a hand dismissively. “You don’t earn anything close to the amount I do. It’s nothing.”

  “Of course.” Asshole.

  The word “nothing” rings in my ears. That was proven to me yesterday by Miles, and now by Tate. I’m a joke.

  I grab a hotel pen and scrawl my phone number; this conversation is descending into unpleasantness, and my temper won’t hold. I need to get back to Audrey before she starts asking more questions. “I’m leaving now. I think we need to calm down and talk about this when we’re rational. Call me when you’ve spoken to your lawyer. And don’t worry. I won’t say anything to ruin your new image.”