by A. L. Brooks
Zane—what the hell kind of name was that?—tugged discreetly at her hand, and although she resented being pulled around like a puppy dog, Tamsyn followed because Zane did know how to work a crowd. His hand was slightly clammy; in the year since they’d worked together on Midnight Escape, the premiere of which they were now attending, she had forgotten that little snippet about him. Always with the damp hands. The rescue scene they’d filmed, with her in nothing but a flimsy camisole and shorts, had been particularly uncomfortable as a result.
“You’re doing great,” Zane whispered, and she rankled at how patronising it sounded, even while she maintained her perfect smile and poise.
Of course she was. She’d been doing this since he was in nappies, the little shit.
She inhaled slowly, a technique she’d learned years ago to fill her lungs without it looking like she was desperate for breath. The intake of oxygen helped, and she mentally shook herself out. You’ve got this. Come on, you are Tamsyn Harris. This is just a walk in the park.
Minutes later, the relative calmness of the foyer of the Odeon cinema in Leicester Square wrapped her in its embrace. There were still people everywhere, of course, but at least the clamour of the press and fans had muted and she could hope her head wouldn’t pound any harder than it was already. She made the rounds, greeting co-stars and all the right people, but was grateful when they were finally led into the auditorium and could take their seats. As the room plunged into darkness, she sighed in relief and relaxed back into her seat. Two hours where she didn’t have to talk to anyone, or pose for anything, or even think about the film playing out on the big screen in front of her if she didn’t want to. Bliss.
Later that night, after she’d kicked off her shoes and groaned in sweet relief, she looked around at her empty home and a shiver of something she couldn’t identify caused goose bumps to break out over her arms. Another solo appearance in public, another solo ride home, another solo night in a house that used to feel like her sanctuary and now felt more like a prison.
She’d not drunk all evening; she never did at public events, keeping her head straight so that nothing bad could ever hit the front pages the next day. But now she opened a bottle of her favourite champagne and took a glass to the living room, her favourite room in the house. The mock fire under the impressive mantle was a modern concession to London building regulations but at least gave her the illusion of the fires she’d shared with Maggie. She’d had it fitted soon after she’d finished filming Great Plains and sat in front of it every night she was home since the weather had turned cool enough to justify it. And every time she did, the flicker of the flames, even if they were artificial, immediately took her back to that heady few days where she’d found, for a moment, someone who made her feel…human.
The champagne was cold but delicious, and she sipped slowly in the quiet room.
When her phone rang, she was tempted to ignore it, but Lesley’s name appeared in the caller display and she smiled as she answered.
“Hey, you.”
“Hello! How was it?”
“Ugh, okay. You know I hate those things sometimes.”
“Yes, I know, but I saw some of the photos online and you looked gorgeous, as always.”
“You’re very sweet.”
“Are you okay, Tam? You sound awfully low.”
Tamsyn sighed. “I’m fine. Just tired. You know how it is.” The lie slipped out easily. Although she and Lesley had managed to meet a couple of times for lunch over the last few months, she still hadn’t told her about Norfolk, and she wasn’t ready to do so yet.
“Oh, you poor thing! Maybe you need to go on another retreat, take some time for yourself.”
“Well, funny you should mention that,” she replied, pushing thoughts of Norfolk out of her mind, “because I’ve got Jennifer’s villa on Sardinia booked next week.”
“Oh, lovely! How is she? Still as bitchy as ever?”
Tamsyn chuckled. “Totally. But the villa’s to die for so…”
“Do you want some company? I have a few things on but I could—”
Alarm flooded her and she cut Lesley off quickly. “Oh, no, it’s fine! Honestly, I’m so tired I’d be rubbish company. I just need a quiet week to myself and I’ll be right as rain again.”
“Sure. I understand. But call me whenever, okay?”
She was a good friend, and Tamsyn’s guilt at not making more time for her since Norfolk twisted in her gut. “You know, we really should do something more than lunch soon. How about we get something in the diary now?”
“Super! Just a sec.”
When Lesley came back on the line, they found an evening that worked for both of them, and Tamsyn offered to cook.
“That’s perfect, Tam. Listen, I’ll let you go now because I know you need some rest. See you in a couple of weeks, darling!”
Tamsyn placed the phone back on the sofa and sipped at her drink. The call had lifted her for a moment, Lesley’s natural cheeriness easing the gloom while they talked, but as soon as they were done, she was back to her own thoughts, alone in her big house.
She sighed. The melancholy that had gripped her the minute she’d finished filming Great Plains back in July had never loosened its hold. In fact, she could admit it was becoming stronger, and she’d briefly entertained the idea that she might need to talk to someone. But what could a therapist tell her that she didn’t already understand herself? She knew what was wrong, knew why she was feeling the way she was.
Maggie.
Memories tortured Tamsyn, kept her awake at night, and caused her to suddenly find herself standing in a room with no recollection of when she’d entered it or how long she’d stood there daydreaming before snapping out of it. Even bloody Gizmo invaded her thoughts on a way-too-regular basis. Every time she saw a Border terrier her heart did a little lurch. Ridiculous.
It wasn’t ridiculous to think of Maggie though, she knew that. What they’d had, what she’d walked away from, had been the most real thing Tamsyn had experienced in years. So of course she would keep remembering it with fondness and longing, wouldn’t she? That was fine. What wasn’t fine was that it was now starting to impact her whole life; she wanted to hide away from the world and wallow in it. She didn’t want to work, didn’t want to read scripts, or meet with Carmen or any other contact from the industry.
She relaxed into the mellow buzz of the champagne, grateful for the lassitude it imparted. Maybe tonight she’d sleep, for once. God knew she was tired enough after a whirlwind couple of days performing the mandatory interviews for the release of Midnight Escape. A few more tomorrow and then she was done for this cycle. The week in Sardinia would hopefully be the break she needed, and by sheer luck, coincided with the release of a new Maddie Jones book which she had on pre-order and express delivery; it was guaranteed to arrive sometime Friday, ready for her to pack for the trip. By Saturday evening she would be curled up on a sofa with a view of the ocean, Maddie Jones in one hand—so to speak—and a champagne glass in the other.
Her smile was, for the first time that day, genuine.
“Carmen, I’m fine.” Tamsyn wedged the phone under her chin and pulled the suitcase off the carousel. She stood it next to her while she rearranged her outfit, making sure the beanie was firmly on her head, the tinted glasses securely on her nose.
“I can’t help worrying.” Carmen’s soft tones definitely held a hint of that worry. “You really haven’t been yourself lately, and now you’re hiding away on your own.” She sighed. “I could easily have arranged a companion for you, you know. Alexandra is back in town and you always tell me you enjoy seeing her.”
Tamsyn grimaced. The thought of hooking up with someone else, even someone as distracting as Alexandra, had lost all appeal.
“Thanks, but no. Trust me, that sort of thing… Well, it’s just not what I want anymore. Alone time is exactly wha
t I want, actually.”
She pulled the suitcase after her as she stepped away from the carousel and made for the exit. No one cast her a second look; the disguise was either doing its job well or the people of Sardinia were so used to a regular flow of celebrities that her arrival didn’t warrant any particular attention. It was a relief.
“Okay.” Carmen sound dubious. “Do we need to talk about anything in particular? I mean, you’ve turned down the last three scripts I sent you, and—”
“They were all crap, Carmen. And you know it.”
Carmen sighed. “I know. I’m… I am trying, okay?”
“I know you are,” Tamsyn said with some force. “This isn’t your fault. You know that too.”
“Yeah,” Carmen breathed. “I do. So, is your driver there?”
Tamsyn walked out of the automatic doors and smiled when a suited gentleman with a sign that read “Mrs Mavis Wood” met her eye.
“Yes, he is. I’ll talk to you later in the week, okay?”
“Take care.”
She snapped the phone shut and slipped it into her handbag. The driver stepped forward and took her suitcase from her.
“Just this one?” he asked.
She smirked. “Yes, that’s it.”
He smiled and turned away, pulling the case behind him. Tamsyn followed, keeping her eyes on his back, not wanting to risk engaging with anyone else in the airport as they made their way to the car. It was, thankfully, a regular sedan, not a limo and she sent a silent thanks to Carmen for the subtlety.
The drive to the villa took just under an hour. As the driver swung the car up a steep driveway and through a security gate, Tamsyn’s entire body relaxed. A housekeeper met them on the front step. Her posture was as starched as her uniform, but her smile was warm and she welcomed Tamsyn into the house with alacrity, her English superb and sounding even more wonderful with the Italian accent.
After murmuring a goodbye to the driver, who merely tapped his hat in response, Tamsyn followed the housekeeper on a brief tour of the villa and its facilities. It was beautiful—the perfect spot, as she’d been assured, for a quiet getaway.
“All of the food and drink you requested has been stored in the kitchen, Mrs Wood.” Tamsyn smiled; the housekeeper undoubtedly knew who she really was. “I will clean as much or as little as you like during your stay. Merely leave a message on the service line there,” she pointed to a phone on the kitchen wall, “and tell me when.”
“Sounds perfect, signora. Grazie.”
“Prego.”
The housekeeper nodded once and then left. Moments later, Tamsyn heard a car start up. When the security gate clanged shut a few moments after that, she let out a happy chuckle.
Alone at last.
Humming contentedly to herself, she set about unpacking her suitcase. She really had packed light, intending to do nothing more than lounge around the beautiful villa or perhaps take a stroll along the rugged coastal path. After unpacking, she wandered into the bathroom attached to the master bedroom. The shower cubicle—such a minuscule word for the enclosure that faced her—was luxury personified, and its mere presence invited her to instantly disrobe and lose herself in the multiple jets of steaming hot water.
Twenty minutes later, refreshed and with her skin tingling from the pounding it had taken, she dressed in her softest yoga pants and a loose T-shirt, with a sweater thrown over her shoulders. It was past five in the afternoon, a perfectly acceptable hour for a glass of champagne to celebrate her first real week of freedom since April.
Since Norfolk and Maggie.
A wave of sadness had her pulling on the sweater in a vain attempt to fight off the chill that consumed her body. No amount of warm clothing could combat that sort of chill, though; it came from too deep within.
Come on, you can’t spend the whole week wallowing in memories.
She poured herself a drink and took it through to the large, open room that served as both living and dining area. A long sofa faced the enormous windows that looked out over the deck, the pool, and beyond to the sea. The villa was up on a promontory, so although she couldn’t see the waves breaking against the rocks immediately below, she could see the surf pounding the cliff across the bay. She watched for a while, mesmerised by the action of the waves, and slowly some of the sadness drifted away, crawling back into the hole in her heart where it usually resided.
It still shocked her, just how much pain had stayed with her. She’d assumed it would fade over time as she forgot Maggie. The problem was, she couldn’t forget her, and that hadn’t factored into her plan at all. Throwing herself into her work afterwards should have been the perfect tonic for recovery, for moving on. Except, she couldn’t move on. Memories of Maggie, and what they’d been for each other that week, haunted her.
Briefly, the day after wrapping Great Plains, she had considered trying to contact Maggie via her publisher. She’d fantasised about it for one whole day, then found herself right back at square one: what was the point? They couldn’t date, not openly anyway, and something told her that Maggie would hate to be someone’s dirty little secret. And Tamsyn wouldn’t ask her to do that anyway—Maggie was far too special to be treated that way.
She finished her champagne and set the empty glass down on the sleek, glass-topped coffee table in front of her. Food was next on her list, and in ten minutes she had a plate piled high with olives, prosciutto, artichokes, assorted crudités, and a dip she couldn’t identify but which smelled heavenly. Before making her way back to the sofa with her haul, she trotted into the bedroom to retrieve her book. The new Maddie Jones was still in its Amazon packaging. She ripped off the brown cardboard and turned the book over in her hands. The cover startled her somewhat—a photo of a woman, her back to the camera, her arms shielding her face as she faced a barrage of photographers. Tamsyn’s skin prickled, the image stirring up memories of the premiere she’d just attended. She turned the book over as she wandered back to the kitchen. She’d not read the blurb before ordering—for authors like Maddie Jones she never did, not caring what the story was, just knowing that she wanted their latest offering.
Her footsteps faltered as she read, until she came to a standstill in the hallway between the bedrooms and the living area.
What the—?
She turned the book back over to look at the cover photo, then read the blurb again, only much slower. Key phrases leaped out at her, making her heartbeat quicken and her confusion intensify.
“Writer on retreat.” “Actress in hiding.” “Holiday romance.” “Actress in the closet.” “Is she willing to risk all for love?”
Food forgotten, she stumbled through to the sofa and sat down, staring at the book in her hands.
Well, this was…weird. How could she be holding a book that promised a story so much like the one she’d shared with Maggie only a few months ago?
I mean, obviously it’s pure coincidence, but how bizarre is that?
She put the book on the coffee table and sat back. Do I even want to read this now? Isn’t it going to strike a bit too close to home? Her sigh was exasperated. And she’d been so looking forward to losing herself in another one of Maddie Jones’s wonderful stories of love triumphing against the odds.
Knowing it was rather irrational but doing it anyway, she shoved the book under a cushion, then stood and walked back to her bedroom. Choosing one of the other three books she’d brought—checking carefully that its storyline wasn’t something likely to mess with her head—she finally retrieved her food and returned to the sofa.
An hour later, half her food still on her plate and her second glass of champagne beside it on the coffee table, she closed the book and threw it on the sofa beside her. Two chapters. That was all she’d managed to read, and she’d read each of them twice because she simply couldn’t focus. The Maddie Jones book, even out of sight, niggled at her. How similar wo
uld it be to her own story? How would it make her feel to read something that close to home?
“Oh, for crying out loud,” she said into the empty room, and stood. Ten minutes later, she’d returned the food to the fridge, topped up her champagne, and wrapped a soft throw over her legs as she stretched out lengthwise on the sofa, the Maddie Jones book in her hand. With trembling fingers, she turned to page one and began to read.
By the time she reached the end of chapter two, her champagne was forgotten. Two more chapters in, her hands were shaking as her heart pounded. And after reading—and re-reading—chapter five, she was a mess of conflicting emotions that were almost making it hard for her to breathe.
Confusion. Disbelief. Anger. Sadness.
Maddie Jones was Maggie.
Of that one fact she had no doubt, not after reading five chapters that described, almost word-for-word, how she and Maggie had met and begun their fling. Everything was there—every meeting prior to their first kiss, the description of the estate in Norfolk, even the writer having a pet dog, although the one in the book wasn’t nearly as adorable as Gizmo.
She reached for her phone and Googled Maddie Jones’s website. No author photo, and only the briefest of biographies which illuminated nothing. Next she tried the publisher’s website; nothing extra. Similar searches of Jessica Stewart’s website and her mainstream publisher’s website also drew a blank. None of them gave Tamsyn any hint that Maggie was either writer, but she knew Maggie was Jessica Stewart, and she was convinced she had to be Maddie Jones too. It was all too close to the truth. And although Maddie—Maggie—had used poetic licence to fill in the scenes that were written from the actress’s point of view, she’d done so with alarming accuracy. Tamsyn hadn’t realised she’d revealed that much of herself to Maggie—or was she just that easy to read?
A sour taste filled Tamsyn’s mouth. Maggie had been reading her all along, simply using her and what they shared as material for her next bestseller. The idea sat like lead in her stomach. She’d thought she meant more than that to Maggie; that their time together had meant something. Clearly not, if Maggie had been so quick to turn their experience into this. The one thing she was thankful for was that the actress wasn’t identifiable as her—Maggie hadn’t been that cruel. Or, at least, Tamsyn wasn’t identifiable from the first five chapters alone.