I don’t care really who she is, I’m more annoyed that he broke a rule and made me look stupid while I was singing about how in love with him I was. My blood felt hot, cheeks flushed, but I still can’t explain the vague empty feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Three steps closer and it’s not Luc at all. The man’s hair is straight, none of those signature curls in sight.
Everyone is standing in groups in the dark, huddled closely in the small corners to block anyone else from joining. I take a sip of whisky, scrunching my nose, while I look around the room, analysing each group for one with the biggest opening. There’s a group of actors from a series of vampire movies I’ve never seen standing by the door to the staircase which leads to the bathroom. They’re looking at everyone who walks past them, analysing their outfit stitch-by-stitch, their faces cell-by-cell, and then launching into a discussion. I don’t want to be a part of that. I take comfort in being back at the bar – an observer, rather than the observed.
I glance at my watch, which I don’t usually wear but needs must when we can’t use our phones. And I am dressed as a fucking clock. Twenty-five minutes to twelve. I could get away with going home now, sneaking out the back.
‘Sad girl drinking at the bar is an aesthetic that suits you.’The voice is dry, hoarse in a way that says it’s been shouting over music all night. It’s familiar, but not familiar in the warm way which feels like home.
Alex Pauls.
His hair is pushed back off his face with matte wax, but there are no little white balls of the stuff in the same way my brother is dusted in after styling.
‘Sad girl doing anything is an aesthetic that suits me.’
‘If you’re going to be sad, you might as well look pretty doing it.’ Alex sits on the bar stool I’m standing next to and puts a finger up to call for the bartender’s attention. ‘I’ll grab two of whatever Sienna’s drinking.’
Alarm bells go off in my head, bringing me back to when I was sixteen and just getting started in the industry when Alex Pauls won his fifth Oscar. My childhood celebrity crush is sitting opposite me in a bar nearly fifteen years later.
And I can’t even do anything about it because of that rule with Luc.
The rule that Luc has already broken.
Fuck him.
‘You want to try out the sad man drinking whisky at the bar aesthetic?’ I ask.
‘Hm, not quite.’ He clears his throat. ‘I could never be sad drinking with you, Sienna Martin.’
The internal alarm screams. The type that tells me alcohol is making a decision for me, that I’m about to do something I’ve told myself hundreds of times that I shouldn’t. But also, that I won’t be able to stop myself.
The brunette and the smile that adorned Luc’s face in that photo will live in my nightmares for the next few weeks, but at least for now I’m free. I have no obligation to follow that rule now that he broke it first.
‘We didn’t get to talk at the premiere,’ Alex says.
‘These things are always so busy,’ I say noncommittally. ‘You never get to speak to everyone you want to speak to.’
‘So, why are you sad, Sienna Martin?’
The bartender puts two more whiskies down in front of us and I immediately take a big gulp. The bartender makes himself scarce to polish the glasses.
I shrug. ‘My Grampy died.’
Alex watches me while I pin my attention on the bartender. ‘Shit, I’m really sorry, Sienna.’
Why does everyone say that when they’ve learned about a loss? Like it was their fault? It’s a weird way to make themselves feel better before they break into a different conversation, too uncomfortable to hear about anyone who has passed on in fear that the person will cry or break down. I break my gaze and pick up my drink, moving my hand in circles so the drink swishes around in the bottom.
‘Is this how seasoned whisky drinkers drink?’ Alex questions, doing the same with his glass.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t know,’ I admit. ‘Only had my first today.’
‘Thank god.’ Alex laughs. ‘I’m much more of a rosé man myself.’
A loud laugh escapes my lips, from the depths of my stomach to rattle in my chest. ‘You’re such a pick-me.’
‘Damn. I thought that was a good line.’ At least he’s being a good sport.
‘Try again, Pauls.’
