I check the clipboard. “But you guys did great. We have everything we need.”
“I have something I want to say to Jess.” He shoots me a shrewd smile and wiggles his eyebrows cartoonishly. “Trust me, you’re going to want to get this on video.”
My stomach knots as I study his face, and I try to think of a million different things I can say to talk him out of what I suspect he is about to do. The blend of excitement and nervousness, uncertainty and hope. The memory of William down on one knee and that very same look on his face hits me so hard I step back.
“So I’ll give you a signal and you can just pretend like we have to reshoot our entrance,” he instructs while wringing his hands together.
After a few minutes, he gives me a subtle nod, an edge of fear clouding his usually confident demeanor. I clear my throat and lean toward the crew.
“Thanks, everyone. Jessie, Ezra, can we just do one more take for B-roll? I need you both walking onto the set and sitting down.”
We reset, and I watch from behind the camera as Jessie walks into the frame and takes her usual starting spot, but instead of sitting next to her, Ezra gets down on one knee, his eyes already glassy with tears. A chorus of “awwwww” radiates from the crew as if they’d rehearsed it. Jessie gasps, her hands covering her mouth as if she’s trying to stop herself from immediately screaming her answer.
Ezra’s voice is shaky but confident. As though he hasn’t practiced but knows exactly what to say. He tells her that he has loved her since they met, and he can’t imagine life without her. Blood pounds against my eardrums and a prickling heat creeps up my neck and across my face. I swallow the familiar feeling of panic and try to focus on the camera’s red light, making sure it is on and recording. She starts frantically nodding before he even finishes, tears quietly streaming down her face. When he finally asks her to be his wife, she jumps into his arms to a wave of claps, sniffles and whoops radiating from everyone on set. Jessie and Ezra laugh through wet, happy sobs as he slides a ring with a huge, vibrant emerald surrounded by sparkling diamonds onto her manicured finger.
We wrap soon after, Jessie and Ezra practically running out of the building to the champagne-bottle-and-white-rose-filled limousine he had waiting outside to whisk her away for a surprise post-proposal vacation. The crew pack down the cameras and lighting and quickly filter out on to the next shoot. I decide to use staying behind to clean up as my excuse for not heading back to the office. It’s 2:30 p.m., and most of the team will be out at lunch or in meetings by now. I can’t bring myself to be around other people just yet.
I collect up the cushions from the dimly lit faux–living room. My breathing becomes more rapid as I stuff each cushion into a refuse bag, the soft fabric contorting and pushing against the clear plastic. My hands shake as I knot off the yellow ties, dropping the bag at my feet. My eyes water and I sense the hot sting of a tear escaping down my face. Another catches up with the first, and another, and another, until I can’t control the flow and the dam completely breaks. My chest tightens, and I feel like I can’t breathe but also am breathing too much. I’m hyperventilating between intense sobs and can’t stop.
“Grace?”
The familiar, comforting voice coming from the studio door makes me jump, and I quickly wipe my drenched cheeks on the sleeve of my jacket. Yemi strides over and sits next to me, leaning in and stroking my back.
I angle my face away from her and swipe at the last remaining wet streaks on my cheeks. “Hey, what are you doing here?”
“Thought I’d pop in to see if you were free for lunch. What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine...” I gasp, my voice squeaking out like the absolute furthest thing from fine. “... everything’s fine.”
Yemi doesn’t say anything, giving me space to gather my thoughts rather than scramble in the dark for an answer. I eventually relent, leveling my breathing for long enough to get out a full sentence.
“Jessie Fig’s boyfriend just proposed in front of everyone.”
Yemi’s eyes close briefly, understanding immediately.
“He had everything planned. Then he just did it. In front of everyone, the whole crew and it...”
I flop backward and let my neck dangle over the edge of the sofa, as though clearing my airway might clear the emotional weight sitting on my chest.
Her eyes soften as she joins me. “You don’t have to talk about it. But if you want to, it doesn’t leave this surprisingly uncomfortable sofa. OK?”
I let out a snotty snort and put my hands over my face, hiding the shame seeping out of my pores.
My phone dings with a calendar notification:
3pm: Ditto partnership meeting.
“Fuck, I have to go. I have a call with El Turo about the Ditto project in five minutes.” I wipe my final tears on my sodden sleeve and stand up, head aching with a post-breakdown haze. “Urgh, I don’t know how I’m going to handle Bancroft on the date test run. I’m a mess.He’s going to sense it and pounce while I’m weak. Maybe I am just better off letting him have the promotion.”
Yemi takes my shoulders tightly and twists me to face her. Her eyes are soft but serious. “Listen, Grace, you made the right decision.” She shakes me one last time as I steel myself, exhaling anxiety like hot, foggy breath into cold air. “Take a moment. Get it together. Then make the call and get that promotion.”
9
Three days later I pick at my freshly painted nails in the dimly lit corridor of El Turo. The hair on my arms stands on end as the sheer black sleeves move over my skin. To Alice’s credit, she altered the dress so well it looks like an entirely new outfit and restitched some of the seams to fit me perfectly. The way it hugs my waist and skims over my calves, a slit on one side hitting halfway up my thigh is only accentuated by my blood-red lips and gold dangly earrings. I borrowed a pair of her black leather boots, the only shoes in our flat that covered my ankle and scraped-up calf. The swelling went down after a day and a half of icing but my ankle looks like a toddler has drawn on it in purple and green crayon. The thought of having the injury on display and reliving our last date with Bancroft is worth the discomfort. This is so different from the outfits I wear to work but after the fiasco that was the hiking trail, I need to feel like a different person.
The heavy scent of roasted garlic is only eclipsed by the sound of mingling conversation, knives and forks on plates and clinking glasses covering the tread of Armani brogues stalking toward me.
Bancroft, dressed in a black turtleneck and navy pinstripe suit trousers, assesses me up and down with an unashamed, indulgent stare. “Hastings, I didn’t think you would even own something so...”
