I sigh. “Because he can offer a big spread in a prominent monthly magazine. It’s rare publicity, especially for a play—the glossies are usually reserved for actors promoting commercial films.” I bite my lip. “Audrey Abbot is an icon. She deserves better than Jonathan Cliff.”
“That’s why I came to you,” Nicole says. “The news that she’s joined the cast will get out at some point, and I want to ensure that the person breaking the story will see her for who she is and where she’s going next. Not just what happened in her past.”
“It was pretty ballsy of you to tell me,” I say, studying her face. “I’m impressed.”
She smiles. “A good journalist wouldn’t reveal her source.”
“Never.”
“So, you’ll write the story?” she asks hopefully.
“If she lets me. It’s going to be tricky getting through to her.”
“If she’ll speak to anyone, it’ll be someone like you,” Nicole says confidently. “You just need to get in there before anyone else.”
My driver beeps the horn again.
“I’d better go,” I say, gesturing to the car. “Thanks, Nicole.”
“You didn’t hear aboutanyof this from me.”
“Hear what?” I grin at her. “Enjoy the rest of the night.”
“Thanks, Harper. Good luck.”
She clacks back across the pavement and through the door to the party. I apologize to the driver for keeping him waiting before rummaging in my oversized tote for my phone. I need to Google Audrey Abbot to find who it is that represents her. When her agent’s name pops up, I grin. Shamari.
Her phone goes straight to voicemail and I realize she might very well be asleep, considering it’s already two in the morning.Whoops.I enjoyed the party more than I thought I would. There’s no way I can bring this up over email, so I decide to speak to her first thing tomorrow.
Before I toss my phone back into the abyss of my handbag, I read the WhatsApps waiting for me from Liam. He messaged hours ago to say he’s at my place, if that’s okay, as his flatmate had a date and he wanted to get out of his hair, but he hopes the party is great fun and if there’s any chance that he can join, to let him know and he will be there.
I feel a flash of regret that I gave him a key to my flat, swiftly followed by a wave of guilt. We’ve been seeing each other for three months and I think he is officially my “boyfriend” now. I do like him—he’s ambitious, enthusiastic, and passionate about his career, which is a big turn-on for me. Not to mention, he’s attractive in that sexy, scruffy musician kind of way.
It’s also very sweet that he wanted to let his flatmate and his date have the place to themselves. But I’m not sure I was entirely prepared for him to make himself comfortable at my flat quiteso soon, especially when I’m not even there. I suppose I’ve been single so long, I’m set in my ways.
Still, I’m glad I didn’t see his message about joining me at the party. If he’d been there, Nicole may not have approached me.
Audrey Abbot. I was obsessed with her as a teenager. She was so elegant and brilliant in everything she did. A classically trained British actor with a dignified air, she was a master of restraint and had the ability to make you feel whatever her character was experiencing with barely any movement in her face.
Her career began in theater, then transitioned to film. She’d become famous in her late twenties and appeared in several Hollywood hits throughout her thirties, both as the lead and in supporting roles. She won an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress in a film that was so dull, I didn’t even understand the ending, but she was so fantastic and convincing as the chain-smoking, hard-done-by, bitter wife of the ranch hand that it was worth sitting through two hours of men looking cross and talking about cattle.
I was a teenager when The Incident happened. I felt mortified for her and angry at the cruel headlines. In the aftermath, she withdrew from the public eye and gave up acting, even though she was only in her forties. She became a bit of a joke—The Incident cropped up again and again, alluded to mockingly by comedians and throughout pop culture. It was a lyric in a hit song a few years ago, and a podcast host described it as an “iconic” public meltdown.
By the time I arrive at my flat, I’m convinced I’m the only person who should write about Audrey’s return to acting.
Carefully turning the key in my lock, I tiptoe inside and shut the door quietly behind me. A loud snore comes from the bedroom. I leave my bag on the kitchen table and quietly make my way to the bathroom.
After a futile attempt at taking off my makeup, I brush my teeth and strip off my green midi shirt dress, leaving it on thebathroom floor. I trip over one trainer and then another as I pick my way to my side of the bed. I have a vague recollection of tossing the oversized gray T-shirt I slept in last night on the duvet. I feel around and triumphantly locate it crumpled at the bottom of the bed.
I wish I was the kind of person that slept in silk lingerie or slinky posh pajamas, but there’s something comforting about a T-shirt that’s several sizes too big. Liam and I are surely past the point where I have to pretend I always sleep naked, which is the impression I wanted to give off at first.
I’m climbing into bed when I remember my phone and creep back out of the bedroom to retrieve it from the dreaded depths of my bag.
There’s a lot swimming about in there: half-filled pocket notebooks, my digital voice recorder, loose lipsticks and eyeliner pencils, tissue packs, countless biros, stray business cards, miniature perfume samples, crumpled receipts, chewing gum packs, neglected hand moisturizer, a few sunglasses cases (unclear if there actuallyaresunglasses in them), a hairbrush, and the latest psychological thriller that I’m reading.
It’s hard to find time to read for fun, so when I do, I want real page-turners with lots of twists and suspense. I don’t have time for long descriptions about bleak landscapes. I want to know who murdered whom and why.
I set alarms for 5:55A.M., 5:57A.M., 6A.M., 6:03A.M., and 6:05A.M. before placing my phone gently down on my bedside table and snuggling under the duvet. I close my eyes.
