He turned up in London unscheduled, managed to get tickets to the final performance—the one with Giselle—watched me take an interest in her beyond the roles we played, stuck around after the talkback, and saw Giselle and me exchanging glances as she waited for me… He connected the dots, established Giselle’s identity, and told his psychopath uncle to look into her.
I step out onto the street, reeling from my best friend’s betrayal. Four MESS agents join me as I cross Mint Street Park toward the underground station. The agents’ faces are eager, and their eyes are bright with anticipation. Shaking my head, I explain what went down.
“We can drive you to your house,” one of them offers. “You don’t need to hide in the Tube anymore.”
Even as I’m nodding, a sudden urge overcomes me.
I turn to the agent who seems to be the boss. “Do you happen to have the addresses of everyone on the show’s cast?”
“Yes. You think you may have another lead?”
“I wish!” My sneer is so bitter I can taste it in my mouth. “No, it has nothing to do with the mission. Just a private call.”
“Whose address do you need?”
“Margot Nolan’s.”
The agent queries a file on his phone and gives me an address in Blackfriars. “Shall we drive you there?”
“It’s an easy walk. Besides, I need to clear my head.”
They nod in understanding and let me be.
When I buzz Margot’s flat twenty minutes later, I have no idea what to say to her if she’s at home. I don’t know why I came here, what I’ll do if she tells me to fuck off, and why I’m adding another potential disaster to my already catastrophic day.
She’s home.
Inexplicably, she lets me in.
CHAPTER30
JONAS
Margot opens the door, and I step in.
She’s wearing a plain gray sweatshirt and jeans. Her long dark hair arranged in a casual knot at the top of her head. She smells of lavender soap. Despite her unassuming outfit, she looks even lovelier to me than before.
Her flat begins from the front door after a hint at an entryway. It’s tiny. A big shoebox, really, not much bigger than my bedroom in Bloomsbury. The space is uncluttered with potted plants that line the windowsill and a charming oakwood bookcase against one wall, filled with hardbacks and paperbacks side by side. I spy a kitchenette tucked away in the opposite corner, complete with a vintage stove and an array of mismatched dishes and cups on an open shelf above it.
It’s clear, though, that she wasn’t expecting any visitors today. Two piles of unfolded laundry sit at the foot of a sofa bed, no doubt from her fortnight at my house.
Instead of the comfy-looking sofa, Margot gestures to one of the chairs at the small table on the opposite wall.
“Sorry about the mess,” she says, grabbing another chair.
“Thank you for letting me in despite… everything.”
“I wasn’t going to, but curiosity won.”
My response is a humorless smile.
We sit like that for a few long moments, our silence anything but companionable. Margot is hot under the collar. I can see it from the way she looks at me and talks to me, from her body language, from the fact she didn’t offer any refreshments, not even a glass of water.
Who can blame her?She has every right to be mad.
“So,” she finally says, “did you come here to grovel?”
I give her another smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I just wanted to see you before I decamp tomorrow. One last time.”
