by Early, Mora
“Josh, wait!”
He didn’t. He rounded the corner, the corridor widening. There was another set of double doors between him and the bank of elevators. The patter of Emma’s footsteps drew nearer.
Neon bright panic swelled suddenly in Josh’s gut. He wasn’t sure where the overwhelming urge to run from Emma was coming from, but he was too exhausted to question it. He chucked the nearly full coffee into a trash bin and ducked through a door beside a small, discrete plaque that read ‘CHAPEL.’
Like most of the hospital chapels Josh had seen, the place was almost entirely empty. One man, a shabby looking guy in his late forties, sat in the last row, head bent. Josh couldn’t tell if he was praying or sleeping. To the man’s left was another door, an open arch, though Josh couldn’t see if it was an alcove or perhaps another part of the chapel, the chaplain’s office or something. The walls were a soft, warm honey color. The pews were dark wood. The lighting was low. Faint, vaguely choral music filled the hushed room.
Candles flickered on a tiny altar, behind which hung a mosaic window of various hues of glass – green, blue, purple – lit from behind so it glowed in the dimness.
Josh stood stock still between the two rows of pews, unsure what he was doing here. His breath was uneven, ragged, catching in his chest with each exhalation as if his ribs were broken off in jagged edges. He didn’t sit; he just stared at that multi-colored mosaic as if it held answers for him.
The door opened behind him. Several seconds passed before it closed again, as if she were just standing in the doorway. Staring at him? Josh tensed, waiting for Emma to speak. She didn’t. He was pretty sure she was there though. The hair on the back of his neck rose and his body prickled with cold and then flushed with heat. As contradictory as his emotions.
The mosaic reminded him of the rose window at the church in Saint Helena. The church where they were going to film several scenes within the next few weeks. The church where he’d begun his faux marriage to Emma. Right now, in this moment, feeling as if someone had shoved a rusty corkscrew into his lungs as he tried to get away from her fake love, it seemed like the worst idea he’d ever had.
She’d asked him not to push it, he remembered. That first morning after he’d ‘proposed’ at the press luncheon, Emma had come to see him in his office at the house. She’d agreed to his scheme, but before she’d left she’d said, ‘I’m going to ask you, just once, to let this go’. He remembered it vividly. He’d been incensed at the thought that the idea of being his wife, even in a pretend capacity, was so abhorrent to her.
He should have listened to her.
“Josh...” Her voice was hesitant. The scuff of her shoe on the thick carpet made him flinch as if she’d kicked him.
“Don’t.” Josh threw a glance over his shoulder at her. He didn’t see the man in the last row. Gone, he guessed, when Emma had come in. He met her wary green gaze. “I know we agreed you’d play the dutiful wife because we’re in public, and you’re just trying to hold up your end of this whole twisted arrangement, but... just don’t. I can’t right now.”
The muscles of her face tightened, the skin around her lips going white. “Josh, I...” She stopped, took a deep breath. “Okay, in the cafeteria I was trying to get us out of an awkward situation, yes. But this...” She waved a hand at the walls, indicating the hospital around them. “This isn’t about our agreement. It’s not about me pretending to be your wife. It’s about me really being your friend. You’re stressed and I’m trying to help. Can’t you let me do that?”
His first inclination was to turn, go to her, and let her hug him like she’d done in his father’s room. She was right. Sham marriage or not, they had been, were becoming, friends. Friends comforted each other. Immediately on the heels of that though, however, he felt the urge to ask her to leave. To go very far away from him. Being near her was unsettling, and he couldn’t deal with being so off balance while they waited to see if his father would wake up.
When. Waited for when his father woke up.
Bile crawled up the back of Josh’s throat. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Emma took another step forward, closer to him, and a feeling as if someone had ripped out his guts with a bailing hook tore through Josh’s body.
“You need to go.” He choked on the words, not looking at her, once again staring ahead at the glowing mosaic. Behind him, Emma sucked in a whistling breath.
“Josh –”
“No. I can’t deal with faking this right now, Emma. I need to be here for my mom, and my father. And that’s it. So, you need to go.” He swallowed, hoping the rawness in his throat – from the too hot coffee – would ease. The room was so quiet, even with the soft music, that he actually heard her lick her lips.
“Won’t your mother wonder why I’m not there? As your wife, I should be here with you.”
“You’re not really my wife!” The words came out harsher than he’d meant them to, but he felt the sting of tears at the back of his eyes and just wanted her to go before he broke down.
Emma made a noise in her throat, a soft ‘unh’ of... protest? Anger? Josh wasn’t sure. He couldn’t turn around and look at her.
When she spoke, her voice was low and calm, as if talking to a frightened animal. “She doesn’t know that.”
“She’s too busy being concerned with her spouse to worry about mine.”
There was a long moment of silence. Josh could hear the rapid, uneven beat of his heart, the soft shushing of Emma’s breath and the low, almost hypnotic choral humming. He inhaled, long and deep, and then pushed the breath out again, regaining a small measure of control. “I’ll see you on set tomorrow,” Josh said, his voice more gentle. She sighed.
“No. Uh...” Emma cleared her throat and then spoke, just as gently. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle Morse and the rest of the crew. You stay here with your mom and dad. I had Martin send some of your things to the Mandarin if you need them. A change of clothes, toiletries. You just... do what you need to do.”
“I’ll see you on set tomorrow,” he reiterated. He didn’t want to think about sitting around his father’s hospital bed and staring at his still form for another day. Or maybe days. He was a wreck enough as it is. And what if it went on longer than that? Josh shoved the thought away. “Goodbye, Emma.”
There was another soft sigh behind him, and then he heard her walking away. The door creaked open again, paused. “Josh? Call if you need me. For anything.”
She didn’t wait for a response. As the door squealed slowly shut, Josh was glad she didn’t pause, because he didn’t have one.
***
Emma glanced from Martin’s pinched face to the glossy tabloid on the table in front of her. Her mouth hung open, the mug of mocha trembling in her hand. Some of the rich, hot liquid slopped over the rim and splashed on her hand. She sucked in a breath at the sting and set the cup down, mopping at the spill haphazardly.
“I-is this the only one?” She didn’t meet Martin’s dark gaze, but she could feel it boring into the top of her skull. Emma knew he’d understand what she meant. Was this the only magazine running the story?
“As far as I can tell. But they’ve got it online too. Already over 100,000 hits.” Even without looking up, she knew Martin’s wide mouth would be pressed into a thin, disapproving line. Disapproving of the gossip rag? Or of her?
She swallowed around the thick lump in her throat, the late breakfast she’d consumed sitting like a brick in her belly.
The picture of her and Josh on the cover of The Sun Star was from their wedding, but it wasn’t one of the slew they had officially released to the press. It was slightly grainier, for one thing. She recognized the look of a picture taken with a telephoto lens. Who knows how far away the photographer had actually been?
In the picture, she and Josh sat side by side at the table, he in his tux, she in her wedding dress. Her eyes were wide, a little shocked, while the twist of her lips spoke of chagrin. Beside her, Josh was scowlin
g, his blond brows low over his blue-green eyes. He didn’t look at all pleased.
Emma couldn’t say for sure, without a wider shot for context, but she’d be willing to bet this photo had been taken at one of two moments during their reception. Either during her brother Todd’s toast, when they’d both thought he was about to reveal their charade, or in the next moment, when Lolly Tate had made her grand entrance.
She had to admit, in this picture, neither one of them looked pleased. Which is, of course, what The Sun Star was going for. A picture to match the headline.
Above their heads, in red, accusatory letters, were the words JOSHUA OWENS’ DECOY BRIDE?
It was clever, in a tabloid way. The Decoy Bride was a little-known movie Josh had produced a few years back, starring Emma’s favorite Doctor and involving a wonky plot line about a man who tries to trick the media with a fake wife. Of course, the decoy in the movie was someone the groom didn’t really know who was standing in for his actual fiancée, and they’d ended up falling in love at the end (it was a romantic comedy, after all). But objectively, Emma could appreciate the play on words.
Only fleetingly though. Panic gripped her chest in an iron fist, squeezing the air from her lungs. Spots of whirling color danced in front of her eyes as she flipped to the article inside. The piece was brief, accompanied by a few more out of context photos of her and Josh looking distant or irritated. There was one of Emma on set, head thrown back in a laugh as one of the crew, a grip she thought was named Chris, looped an arm around her shoulders. It had been a harmless, friendly moment at the time. The reporter, if you could call him that, insinuated that there was something going on between her and the goofy young man.
The next picture was another grainy, telephoto lens shot from the set. Emma recognized this one instantly. It was Josh and Emilie, the pretty French-Canadian actress, in the craft services tent. This photo had clearly been taken the other day, when Emma had met the girl for the first time. Josh and Emilie’s backs were to the photographer and Josh’s hand rested very clearly, and very familiarly, low on Emilie’s back.
Josh’s head was slightly inclined. Emilie’s face was tilted toward him, eyes wide, full lips parted. It looked very intimate, like they were maybe about to kiss. Of course, Emma had been there. They’d neatly cropped her and Ben out of the picture, leaving only Josh and Emilie.
The article quoted a ‘reliable source close to the faux couple’ as saying that she and Josh slept in separate beds and had barely spoken to each other since their initial meeting only a few short months ago. The reporter speculated on various far-fetched reasons why they might be faking their marriage – to research a role (the insinuation was that Josh was making a change from behind to in front of the camera), or, most ridiculously, to hide her from the Mob.
None of them were even remotely close to the truth, thank god. They offered no proof for the allegations beyond pointing out how short a time they’d known each other and insinuating each of them were carrying on affairs (Josh with Emilie, and Emma with Chris, or possibly Ben!)
And then, at the very bottom of the article, next to a small picture where it appeared Josh was shirking away from Emma’s hand on his shoulder, his back slightly turned to her (though she might have been getting his attention, it was hard to tell) Josh was actually quoted in bold italics. ‘You’re not really my wife!’ says handsome Hollywood producer to his make-believe Missus!
Emma wasn’t sure where they had been or what they’d really been doing when the photo had been taken, but she sure as hell remembered when he’d said those words to her. She could still feel the vicious gut punch of the words in the pit of her belly. They’d been alone in the chapel. Had the reporter from The Sun Star, Albert Jenks, according to his byline, just made those words up and gotten lucky? Or had someone overheard their argument?
The sinking feeling that had begun last night when Josh sent her away from the hospital grew stronger. Her brain hummed as if she’d had too much caffeine. The bacon, eggs, and toast she’d eaten just a short half hour ago curdled in her stomach, rolling and pitching.
“Emma?” Martin’s voice was both questioning and condemning at the same time. Obviously, he could see the turmoil on her face. She knew it hadn’t been the reaction he was expecting when he brought her the paper. She should have laughed it off. And maybe she could have, if it hadn’t been for the cold mantle of dread that had been hanging over her shoulders since yesterday evening.
“I... uh...” She pushed away from the table with shaking hands, unable to look away from the italic quote. You’re not really my wife!
Acid burbled in her throat. Emma dashed for the nearest bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before her breakfast returned in a stinging, hot rush. Tears squirted from the corners of her eyes, trickling down her cheeks as she heaved, muscles aching from the force of her violent regurgitation.
When nothing more came up, she subsided, shaking, and pressed her forehead against the cool porcelain. Tears still dripped down her face and soft sobs shook her already trembling frame. Emma hated throwing up, hated the helpless straining of it, but that’s not why she was crying.
Oh no. If only it was that simple.
It had started yesterday, seeing Josh in his father’s room looking so wan and worried. The second she’d given in to the need to comfort him, the second she’d smoothed his silky hair behind his ears and wrapped her arms around him, the slow erosion of her fantasy world had begun.
Her carefully constructed walls had slipped a little further, there in the cafeteria, under the wide-eyed innocence of that pretty cashier. The girl, Jenny, had asked her what it had felt like to be swept off her feet by Josh. Emma had answered without thinking. Josh’s violent reaction, fleeing from her touch, had knocked another chunk loose.
And then he’d sent her away. That had really been it, Emma knew. The beginning of the end of her self-deception. Because when he’d said those words, ‘You’re not really my wife’, it had crushed her. Fear like she hadn’t experienced since she was an orphaned child had knifed through her.
When Martin had shown her that article, it had become crystal clear that their jig was up. Their charade was exposed. Even without proof, she thought William Ransler would see this as confirmation of all his suspicions.
She should be relieved that she didn’t have to pretend anymore. She could go back to her life. Back to her job. Back to being plain old Emma Ness, party planner.
Except for one thing. The small, glimmering, diamond-pure truth that had been revealed to her the moment she’d realized her and Josh’s marriage was over.
Emma was hopelessly, irrevocably and truly in love with Joshua Owens.
Chapter 10 ~ Fake Relationships
He’d never been so tired in his entire life. Even back in college, when he’d pulled all-nighters with Ben and Crissy, editing the weekend LARP footage into goofy short films, cruising on coffee and Red Bull.
Josh scrubbed a hand over his face. He needed to shave. His stubble was a sharp rasp against his palm. His eyes ached. Martin had included a razor in the bag of toiletries he’d had delivered to the Mandarin, but Josh had barely spent enough time in the room to shower before heading to the set.
Part of him knew he didn’t have to worry. Emma was capable and efficient. Even when he’d thought she’d lied to him about pretty much everything, he’d never doubted her competency. He’d left the cast and crew in proficient hands.
Still, he’d needed to get out of the heavy silence of his father’s hospital room. Dealing with the shifted shoot schedule was the perfect excuse. Now, if only he wasn’t dragging after a sleepless night.
Emma had pushed the call time to nearly noon to give William time to recover. But the crew was already about, setting up and preparing for the day’s filming. Several people were standing by the carriage, testing the repaired step by bouncing up and down, rocking the entire contraption. He heard a thumping bass line reverberating from Cleo’s make-up trailer.
Morse was probably still in his hotel room reviewing footage from the day before. William would most likely be in his trailer. Josh turned in that direction, sighing. He should probably check on the actor, make sure he had everything he needed.
He’d barely taken two steps in the direction of the trailers when the door to William’s burst open, smacking against the sleek black paint. The man himself, purpling bruise in the center of his forehead, stalked out, his cheeks red, blue eyes snapping. Josh frowned at the colorful picture the actor painted. It took another moment to realize that the expression on William Ransler’s face – his lips twisted, his jaw set – was anger.
He extended a hand toward Josh, fingers clenched around a crumbled sheaf of paper. “I told you I didn’t like being played, Owens,” Ransler snarled, shaking his fist, the glossy pages rattling.
“What are you talking about?” Tired as he was, Josh thought the actor must be referring to the change in call times. “Emma said she okayed everything yesterday. What’s the problem?”