Chapter 19
Elle
Ihad no idea table reads could be so exhausting.
I’m lying on the sofa in yoga pants and a cosy jumper with Olive on my tummy, completely pooped after the emotional turmoil of today.
In the space of a morning and an afternoon we’ve read through two episodes, which means I’ve met Dominic, he’s fallen for me, professed to Rugby his desire to marry me, professed the same desire to my cousin, proposed to me and married me. All against my will.
I’m bloody knackered. Thank Christ Episode Two ends with the wedding ceremony, so Josh and I didn’t have to grunt and moan our way through the dreaded wedding night today. Not that Alyssa would make us do that at a table read. I hope.
We’ll be shooting out of sequence, as far as I can tell, given the amount of locations we’ll need to use, but Alyssa’s planning on shooting the intimate scenes sequentially, to help Josh and me find our feet as Dominic and Georgiana.
I suppose it makes sense. It means that any nerves from the actors during the early kissing scenes will be channelled into making the characters’ nerves more believable, and it also means I can plausibly be shitting it during the wedding night scene.
(Although there’s nothing clever—or funny—about using that turn of phrase when you have Crohn’s.)
To be clear, the wedding night scene is So Hot. I lapped it up when I read the book. And the screenplay. I was fanning myself. Which means the prospect of acting it with Josh Lander, perpetrator of the best sex of my life and breaker of my heart, is So Scary.
But presumably, by the time we’ve coasted through the honeymoon scenes, I’ll have completely got over myself and we’ll be going for it like old-timers. That’s the plan, anyway.
Nora has miraculously extricated herself from the office in good time today, and Mara has shown up with a couple of bottles of lovely organic red.
My friends are nothing if not obvious. But I know their presence here tonight is twenty-five percent nosiness, seventy-five percent fierce concern for me.
Okay, maybe it’s fifty-fifty. But that’s fine.
Mara folds herself elegantly on the floor like a cat and shakes her hair out. ‘So, I don’t need to spin any unfortunate murders just yet?’
‘He’s still breathing.’ My tone is as grim as my face.
Nora brings over a tray with three enormous glasses, an open bottle of Mara’s red, and a bowl of our favourite chickpea crisps. She sets it on the floor and squats down beside Mara.
‘We need every detail. Chronologically, please.’
I groan and pick Olive up off my tummy, swinging my legs over the edge of the sofa so I can sit up with my wine. Nora and Mara sit at my feet like two Olives waiting for a treat. Which is, basically, exactly what they’re doing, though the treat is the vicarious thrill of reliving my nightmare day.
‘Give her here.’ Nora reaches out, wiggling her fingers, and I hand Olive over to her. She settles Olive in the crook of her arm and croons to her. I swear, Nora loves Olive more than she loves any human I know.
‘So,’ Mara orders. ‘Tell us what it was like when you actually saw him for the first time.’
And so I dutifully relay that moment when Josh Lander walked into the room after five years of silence and seven weeks of completely bricking it on my part, and my relief that Alyssa allowed us to meet privately before the read, and my even greater relief that she stayed to hold my hand for a minute.
‘How did he look?’ Mara demands.
I nod my head begrudgingly. ‘He looked—great.’
‘Hot?’
I nod again. ‘Seriously hot, if you like that kind of sexy sociopath look.’
‘I hope he showed up with his fucking tail right between his legs,’ Nora says, stroking Olive’s tiny head. ‘Who’s the most beautiful girl in the whole world? You are! You are!’
I roll my eyes. ‘I think he was smart enough not to try anything. He let me speak, and—’
‘Did you do your speech like we practised?’ Mara points at me accusingly.
‘Word for word.’
‘Good girl.’
‘And he didn’t put up a fight.’
‘He didn’t try to apologise, or explain, or any bullshit like that?’
‘God, no. I made it clear he doesn’t exist for me off screen. I should hope he gets the message loud and clear that any attempt at explaining or building bridges will be completely unwelcome and utterly inappropriate.’
Nora nods. ‘Exactly. We need serious boundaries when dealing with these celebrity wankers,’ she tells Olive, who’s gazing at her in fascination. ‘Especially when they’re so entitled, they probably think their past crimes are totally normal.’
While Nora is my biggest fan, she finds the world of celebrity deeply disturbing and thoroughly unimpressive.
‘So, how was the read?’ Mara asks. ‘Please tell me he’ll get hung out to dry for his British accent.’ She says the last two words in an over-the-top American accent.
‘Ugh, so here’s the thing.’ I pop a couple of crisps in my mouth and crunch them satisfyingly before continuing.
‘Not only was it flawless—we’re talking Gwyneth-Paltrow-in-Emma-level flawless—but it completely transformed him.
At the table, it was like Josh Lander disappeared and Dominic Coventry was in his place. ’
‘How irritating,’ Mara says, ‘but hopefully it’ll make your life a bit easier, if you can see him more as Dominic and not Josh?’
Nora perks up. Despite being far more cynical than me, she’s an even bigger regency romance aficionado than I am. I got her into them when we moved in together, and she’s never forgiven me. She’s also never got bored of them.
‘Was he sexy? As Dominic, I mean. Do you think he’ll make a good duke?’
I’d like to think I’m not an unfair person. I can be generous when I need to be. ‘He’ll make a great duke, Nor. He was seriously sexy—all rakish and arrogant. Just what we love.’
‘Oh, shite.’ Nora groans and buries her head in the soft fur of Olive’s chest. ‘You’re so fucked. It’s so annoying he was good.’
Mara brandishes her wine glass. ‘Okay, so I’m sorry to ask such a wanky and touchy-feely question. I’m only asking because I fucking love you. And you keep me in Balmain, so I need to make sure you’re okay. But… did it hurt? Your heart, I mean, when you saw him?’
I drop my head and focus on the pretty colours the pinot makes as I swirl it in its goldfish-bowl glass.
And for the first time since we walked out of that room this morning and into the table read, I allow myself to reach beyond the anger and nerves and mortification and let the emotion that hit me when I saw him wash over me once again.
Heartbreak.
Because the last time I laid eyes on Josh Lander in the flesh, I was with him. And watching him walk through that door, as big and golden and fucking gorgeous as ever, and seeing the uncertainty and fear in his eyes, hurt. It really fucking hurt.
I thought we were so good together.
I got him so wrong.
And that spectacular error of judgement has haunted me for the past five years.
But as I formulate my response to the girls, which will include an admission of most of the above, I’ll keep something close to my heart. Because if they knew, they’d bollock me. Or worse, they’d be really concerned about me.
Because the biggest revelation I’ve had today, sitting next to Josh Lander for three hours in total, was that I’ve missed him.
There was so much anger and outrage and bitterness after he dumped me, and Mara and I both worked so hard on damage control and on fashioning my new reputation as a solo actor and not as one half of a celebrity couple, that it sometimes felt I wasn’t allowed to grieve.
I had to be dignified.
I had to be strong.
I had to be a good role model.
I couldn’t be a weepy, heartbroken mess, either in public or in private.
But I’ve missed him so fucking much. And it’s such a massive, physical relief to see him, to be in the same orbit as him.
Even if I hate him.
Even if he did something unforgivable.
And I’m deeply ashamed of feeling this way. So ashamed I have no intention of unpacking this revelation just yet. I’ll keep it safely bundled away until I’m feeling stronger, and until then, I won’t give Josh Lander an inch.
My therapist will have a lot to say about that.
JOSH
I sit on the sofa in my beautiful apartment in Notting Hill.
It’s in a gorgeous period building, and the living room looks out onto a private park out back.
The apartment is on a road called Elgin Crescent, and apparently the communal park is the exact one where they filmed Notting Hill the movie.
It looks forlorn at this time of year, so I haven’t made it out there yet.
But it should be the perfect place to relax when spring comes.
I’m not gonna lie; I’m a little overwhelmed after today. Seeing Elle was a major deal. Doing my first read in front of the cast with my shiny new British accent was a major deal. So the two things together have pretty much finished me off.
The temptation to have a drink—a whisky, or even just a beer to take the edge off—is all-consuming.
What I wouldn’t give to feel that scorching heat down my throat as the liquor hits me.
My mouth waters just thinking about it. But I have no liquor in the apartment for exactly this reason.
I checked in with my British sponsor as soon as I got back this evening, but the thing that stops me from hitting up some whisky on Uber Eats is the thought of Elle.
If I give in, I’ll be the pathetic loser she thinks I am.
If I give in, I won’t stop till I’ve drunk the bottle, and I’ll sleep like shit and show up tomorrow smelling of alcohol and looking like shit. And not only will I not let her see me like that, but I won’t do that to her.
Tomorrow, we have our first dance rehearsal together.
Tomorrow, I get to touch her.
It strikes me for the millionth time that I never let Elle see me high or wasted when we were together, and although I did that because I cared so much about her, it probably made it harder for her to guess at my motives for cutting our ties.
I’m sure she heard on the grapevine I went to rehab after I sent that tweet, and I’m sure it puzzled her.
Because the Josh Lander she knew wasn’t a user.
I kept the ugliest parts of myself hidden from her.
I was so careful. But it probably made it all worse.
I’ve typed out the twelve steps from Narcotics Anonymous and put them all over the apartment.
I substituted the word God for the universe, because I am definitely not a God type of guy.
There’s a copy right above my fridge, just in case I’m tempted to fall.
I read it as I grab a bottle of cold Pellegrino and drink.
The bubbles don’t help, but the twelve steps do.
Particularly Step Nine.
Step Eight is listing all the people we’ve harmed and becoming willing to make amends with them all. That’s fine. I’m there. I’m willing.
Step Nine is making direct amends to these people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
Motherfucker.
I think about Step Nine as I walk into the bathroom, crank the shower to cold, and shuck off my clothes. I have shown up for so many goddamned people, except for the one person at the top of that fucking list.
Elle.
I step under the spray, and the freezing water hits me in the face.
It’s exactly what I need. I let myself process the experience of seeing her today.
The old Josh would have raced to numb the pain with whatever the fuck he could find in his fridge or his medicine cabinet.
The Josh I am today, for whatever that’s worth, understands how important it is to let myself feel. Even if it’s fucking agony.
She was everything I remembered, and yet totally different.
The enjoyment of feasting my eyes on her while Dominic bantered with Georgiana was matched by the pain of what a fucking waste it’s all been.
That lost time. That unnecessary heartbreak all round.
The suspicion that this new, brittle, cynical Elle 2. 0 is that way because of me.
If I thought it would help her, I’d have flown over here after my first stint in rehab and apologised. Begged her forgiveness. Explained. Done whatever I could to give her closure.
But not only was I totally disinterested in the twelve steps when I got out that first time, but I knew it would do her more harm than good if I showed up.
She needed to get over me cleanly. She needed to hate me so goddamn much she’d never be tempted to look backwards.
Not once. The thing she hates me the most for was the greatest gift I was capable of giving her at the time.
This time, it’s different. Step Nine is one of the reasons I’m here: to see if I can make things good without hurting her.
But it’s not the only reason.
This time, I’m standing at the foot of the mountain that is the journey to seeking Elle’s forgiveness, and I don’t care how long it is, or how hard.
This time, I want more. So much more.