by Mia Kay
Fiona barreled through the downstairs door in a clatter of keys and high heels. “Nobby?”
“Bugger off, y’ bint,” he bellowed.
She stomped up the stairs. “I’ve been ringing all afternoon. What’s wrong with your phone? Why are you in the dark?”
“New number,” he mumbled.
“Are you pissed?”
He leaned back against the sofa cushions and stared into the dark room as he raised his glass. “I pissed passed—pissed pa—piss—oh, sod it! Yes.”
Fiona sniffed the air. “Is something burning?”
“What do you want?”
“You’ve got an audition for the book movie. You have to be in L.A. in two weeks.”
Los Angeles. Grace is there, waiting for me. Stop it. No more. She was like everyone else, only smarter, and funnier, and softer . . . He ran his fingers through his hair and ended up trying to yank it out. “I don’t want to go.”
“Rubbish. You’ve been bashing on about this for weeks.” She perched on the couch. “What’s up?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Fe switched on a lamp, and he knew what she saw. He was slumped on the sofa, and the hacked and ripped pages of The Sun were under every bottle he’d scrounged from his cabinets. He’d just drained the last one. His chin itched and his eyes burned. His crusty, sweaty gym clothes scratched his skin.
“What’s happened?” Her voice was softer.
His throat closed off. He didn’t want kindness. “Go away, Fiona. Please.”
She shut off the light and walked to the door, cursing as she hit her shin on the edge of a table.
He clung to the one thing certain in his life—he had a professional responsibility. “I’ll be ready to go whenever you tell me.”
Grace stood in the window and watched the constant stream of L.A. traffic flow around the hotel like white-hot lava around her own private island.
It was after nine. Ben should have called by now to finalize plans. She’d talked to the concierge and learned a few spots away from tourists, and Meg had talked to someone about getting them into the observatory to look at stars. He’d like that, wouldn’t he? It was important he like it here.
They should’ve talked hours ago, but she’d been delayed in Phoenix and her phone had died because she’d thrown her charger in her checked bag instead of her carryon. Maybe cyberspace had eaten his message.
She pushed his speed-dial button.
The number you have dialed is no longer in service.
“Huh.” She tried again with the same result. Flipping open her laptop, she checked her chat window. He wasn’t online. She sent an email, and got an immediate response.
Undeliverable.
Her stomach rolled in dread as she opened Skype and clicked on his name.
Account has been terminated.
Her finger hovered over her mother’s speed dial number. What if something was wrong? He was half a world away, at least. He flew all the time. What if something had happened?
No. Camille would have called Mom, and Mom would have sent Meg and Paul to tell her. Of course she could call and make sure, but then Mom would butt in or, worse, call Camille.
Grace did something she’d vowed not to do. She googled him. Ben Brady.
Nothing. Well, a few twentysomethings, but not her Ben.
He was gone as if he’d never existed.
She stared at the blank wall and listened to the hum of the air conditioner. What had she said? Done? She’d tried to be encouraging but not needy. Maybe he’d wanted needy. Maybe she should have—
She leapt to her feet, shoving the desk chair against the bed behind her. Fuck that. He could’ve just said he’d changed his mind.
What was he playing at? She’d given him a perfect out in Paris, but he’d pursued her. Begged her, even. He could have left her alone instead of torturing her for months. What came from dragging things out, what other than this empty feeling? He’d dug himself into her life, only to dig through her and leave her hollow.
Was this how he had his fun while he jetted around the world doing mysterious things he avoided discussing? Did he laugh with his mates about the lonely American idiot who answered the phone whenever he called, who waited like a puppy for a pat on the head?
She violated another rule and invaded the mini-bar. Pulling a tiny Crown Royal bottle from the fridge, she piled onto the bed and turned on the television.
Hours later, she scraped a load of empty bottles into the trash and flipped BBC World News the bird. On wobbly legs, she shuffled to her laptop, opened her email and typed.
Who the fuck do you think you are? What goddamned game were you playing? How fucking bored do you have to be with your shitty life to decide to—
It went on for pages. When she ran out of English curse words, she used British ones, then German ones. Then she invented new ones. Unlike people, words had never failed her.
Words and work. They’d saved her more than once, and they’d do it again.
The next night, she took a cab to LAX. Sitting in baggage claim while his flight arrived, she cursed herself for clinging to the hope that he’d decided to surprise her.
Nothing was a surprise. Not the teary, lonely cab ride back to the hotel, not the raid on the newly stocked mini-bar, and certainly not the second drunken novella.
You at least owed me a goodbye. You spineless shitbag—
On New Year’s Eve, Grace stepped from the cab in front of Paul and Meg’s Malibu home. She wrapped her fingers around the bottle of wine the hotel sommelier had suggested, and reminded herself of her choices. She could have dinner with her friends or sit in her room, drinking alone, while couples crowded the hallways on the way to parties in the ballrooms. Besides, Paul and Meg would have come to get her.
As the car pulled away, the purr of the engine was replaced with cries of gulls and the crash of waves on the beach at the bottom of the bluff. Exhaust fumes were replaced by the salt breeze. December and no snow. It was another level of wrong for the holiday.
Meg and Paul had skipped their huge New Year’s bash this year, choosing instead to host a party for the cast and crew on the eve of their initial full day in the studio. For the first time in her life, Grace wished for a crowd to get lost in. She could disappear outside and sleep in a lounge chair next to the pool and no one would miss her.
There wouldn’t be any hiding now. Still, she could try. She stiffened her spine and told herself, again, she was done with Ben Brady, done with mini-bars, and done feeling sorry for herself.
Before she could knock, Paul opened the door and swept her into a hug.
“I told you we’d come get you,” he scolded as he took the wine. “And I told you not to bring anything.”
They walked through the large house to the kitchen, and Paul joined Meg at the island in the center of the room. He kissed her cheek as he reached for the corkscrew. Jealousy and guilt swirled through Grace, forcing her to drop her gaze to the countertop. After he’d poured glasses and handed them around, Paul left the room. There was a plot afoot.
“So, we’re thinking you should stay in our guest house once production starts,” Meg announced.
Grace grimaced at the bite of the dry merlot. “That’ll be an inconvenience, won’t it?”
Meg waved it off, much like she’d waved off loaning her favorite shoes their freshman year of college. “It’ll be like living in your mother’s guest house. You can come and go as you please.”
Grace sighed. She was thirty-five years old, and she didn’t own property, or even a car. Her tax returns showed she was productive, as did the books on her shelf, but she ate alone, and she traveled alone. Slept alone. Meg and Paul were her only friends because no one else could be trusted with her secret. Well, Adam and Nora had, so th
ey counted. And Ben might’ve.
It didn’t matter. She’d not been enough for him.
No more self-pity.
“C’mon, Gracie,” Meg cajoled. “You can sit by the pool and write, we’ll go shopping, and I’ll make sure you eat. You can ride to work with Paul.”
She’d rent a car and buy a GPS. She would be on her own.
“You’ll have more room to spread out as you work, and your mother won’t worry about you,” Meg wheedled. “I won’t worry about you.”
Grace capitulated. “You’re right. I’d like the room and to be close to you two. But food is off limits. You’ll have me so fat I’ll have to roll down the hill. I can cook for myself.”
“Great!” Meg bounced on her toes and offered a cookie, ignoring the ‘no feeding the writer rule’ and making Grace feel like she’d given the right answer in obedience training. “Try one, please. It’s a new recipe.”
Chocolate and salted caramel teased her taste buds. Buttery pecans added crunch. “Oh, scrummy,” Grace mumbled around the bite.
“What? Is that bad?”
Grace’s throat closed off. Her lungs tightened. She dropped the cookie to the counter.
“Gracie?”
“Scrummy,” she squeaked. “Scrumptious and y-yum-my at the s-same t-time.”
She wailed the last word as she dropped her head into her hands. “He’s gone, Meghan. He’s gone.”
Chapter 12
Ben wondered what came after exhaustion, because he’d passed that in New York. Misery had come during the layover in Chicago when he’d had to sit opposite a gigantic poster for The Field Museum and stare at the T-Rex looming over the passengers. And then the flight had been delayed due to weather over the Rockies, and the L.A. traffic had been nightmarish. They’d barely had time to check into the hotel and change. He was late for his audition.
Behind him, Fe’s heels clicked on the asphalt parking lot and her purse clasp jingled like a tambourine. Noah had shortened his gait to tend to her. Ben opened the door, and they all clattered into the cavernous, almost empty hangar. He was glad to have them as a distraction, but they were slowing him down.
A tall brunette in ridiculous heels strode toward them. She must be the casting director. “Hello, Mr. Oliver?”
“Bennett, please. Marie?”
“Yes. Thank you for coming.” She was already striding away, and he had to rush to catch up.
“I apologize for being late.”
“Couldn’t be helped.” She stopped at a table. “Before we start, you’ll need to sign a confidentiality agreement.”
“For the audition?” Ben asked. What sort of prima donna crew required secrecy on a first meeting? And on their first movie?
“I know it’s unusual,” Marie said, “but I believe you’ll understand in a moment.”
Fe stepped to his side and whispered, “It’s fine, Ben. Noah’s reviewed it.”
He scrawled his name on the proper line and kept moving. If he stood still for long, he’d fall asleep on the spot. Fe and Noah stayed on his heels.
They walked into a smaller room, clearly intended as a break room. The walls and lower ceiling were better for sound. The executives were his age and they were all in casual clothes. They surrounded him in a smiling gaggle, performing introductions and making small talk before they took their seats.
“We’re missing two,” Marie sighed. “I’ll be right back.”
She stepped away and through a back door, returning in seconds. Two shadows stretched behind her. Marie’s clear voice rang through the space.
“We’re lucky to have the author working with us on every aspect of the film, including casting. E.G. Donnelley, I’d like to introduce Bennett Oliver.” She stepped aside.
“It’s a pleasure . . .” E.G. Donnelley’s voice trailed off.
She had freckles under her glasses. Her brown eyes widened.
Grace?
Idgie.
E.G. This is a joke. This is a bloody unfunny joke.
“Ready?” Marie asked.
“A moment, please,” Ben mumbled as he walked away and straight to Fe. She couldn’t make him do this. Coming to L.A. had been bad enough. This was hell.
She dragged him further into the corner. “You listen to me, Nobby. This is an ace role with a blinding script. You’re perfect for this.”
“I can’t.”
“You can and you will.” She pinned him with a glare. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but if you scarper and bodge this, I’ll tell everyone within earshot on both continents you lost your bottle. Get it sorted and get on the job.”
Ben scowled at her, but she didn’t flinch. Nodding, he took a deep breath and faced the room.
“We’re ready.” Fiona walked to the table and extended her hand to Grace, who’d claimed a seat. “Fiona Ashe. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Donnelley. Maybe you have something he can read where Weathermore has jet lag?”
Laughter rippled through the room, but Grace didn’t join in. Even as she spoke to Fiona, she didn’t look at him. He was glad.
Fiona returned, and Ben read through the pivotal emotional scene. He rolled the words around in his mouth, getting the flavor of them. Every sentence was art. It was one of the reasons he’d liked this book.
Grace’s book.
He glanced up from the page. She was staring at the file in front of her. He recognized his head shot as she shuffled pages to read his résumé. As if she didn’t know it already.
Fiona elbowed him, and he focused on his job. Putting on the character he’d practiced during happier days, he squared his shoulders and lifted his jaw.
“With whom do I read?” The clipped, aristocratic tone he associated with Lord Weathermore jerked every head in the room to attention, including the writer at the end of the table.
God, but she was beautiful.
One of the producers spoke up. “Grace has been doing them.”
No. Not her.
“Marie can do this one,” she drawled the way she did when she was tired.
Of course she’s tired, y’ git. She’s busy plotting her career path. Get on the job.
Marie gave him the prompt, and he ran with it. Pacing and prowling the room, Lord Weathermore argued with his lover to either stay with him or take him with her.
On the last line, he spun to the table with coffee service spread across it. One sweep of his hand sent paper cups and sweetener packets flying. The words roared from him. “You are condemning me to half a life, unfeeling witch!”
The room was silent. He faced the panel, pleased to see smiles and nods. It doesn’t matter. I won’t take it. I won’t play whatever game she’s staging.
Grace was the only person unhappy, or at least not visibly happy. Truthfully, she looked ready to cry. Her perfume coaxed him closer, promising something more imaginary than the words in her script. He was tempted to pull her into his arms and find the nearest door.
He focused on the casting director. “Thank you for the opportunity. I believe you have my agent’s number. I’ve enjoyed meeting you.” It was a lie, but he needed to be a professional. He risked one last look over his shoulder. “Goodbye, Ms. Donnelley.”
He strode out the door and to the rental car, hoping Fe and Noah were behind him. As soon as Noah put the car in gear, Ben’s phone rang. He answered and Archie began rattling off the times and details for an appointment this afternoon in the West End.
“I’m not in London, Arch. See if you can move it to next week.”
Ben’s head spun as more pieces sorted in his brain. Fe never brought him audition news. That was Archie’s job, and he wouldn’t have double-scheduled meetings.
Unless he hadn’t known about this one. Grace must have skipped his agent and
sent the invitation to him directly.
This was worse than a tabloid exposé. She’d used him to pitch her bloody movie. She’d probably promised to deliver him in exchange for a production credit. She’d used him for her career.
“Get me on the first plane out of here.”
Fe leaned forward in the back seat. “What about—”
“No.” The taxi was still rolling to a stop in front of the hotel when he opened the door. “I’ll be in the bar.”
As the car slogged through L.A. traffic. Grace sat in the passenger seat, oblivious to the city on the other side of the window as Paul chauffeured her to the hotel.
Bennett Oliver. A good actor with stellar credits. He was exactly what they were looking for.
I can’t work with him, whimpered the introverted, sweater wrapped writer on her right shoulder.
Be a professional, growled the businesswoman on her left shoulder clad in dominatrix heels, a pencil skirt, and a leather bustier. He’s perfect. All he’d needed was the costume.
“Do you need help?” Paul asked.
They’d stopped in front of the hotel. The bellman was holding her door.
“I’m just tired and hungry,” she lied. “I’ll be good as new after a few days at home. I’ll call you on Friday with my decision.”
Up in her room, she threw her possessions into her suitcase and zipped it shut. Two weeks ago, she couldn’t wait to get to L.A. and see ‘Ben.’ Well, she’d been here and she’d seen him.
Back in the lobby, the smell of french fries made her stomach growl like a predatory animal. She had enough time to eat.
The hostess led her to a booth with high-backed red leather seats and a monstrous table. Grace sat, balanced her laptop bag against her carryon, and then rested one arm on the pile. Her appetite disappeared. “I’m not feeling well. Just a side salad please.”