Chapter 2 Cynthie
“There’s more,” Gayle says.
“Of course there is,” I murmur, rubbing my temples, a tension headache brewing.
Because naturally it can’t end there, with the reappearance of my mortal enemy.
Obviously , there has to be some further catch—a scene where I have to roll around in jam before being chased by a swarm of angry bees, perhaps.
That actually sounds preferable to working with Jack again.
“The funding for the film comes with a couple of… stipulations.” The way Gayle breezes over the words has me on high alert.
“What sort of stipulations?”
“Nothing too daunting.” Gayle sips demurely at her latte. “In fact, everything should work in our favor.”
“Just tell me.”
Gayle runs her finger around the rim of the china coffee cup, suddenly coy. “Alongside the film, the producers are interested in pursuing another project: a documentary.”
“A documentary?” I’m going to have to stop parroting everything she says back to her, but the situation just keeps getting more and more bizarre.
Perhaps this is all a hallucination, and back in the real world I’m still lying on my exercise mat, Petra cackling gleefully over the unconscious, dehydrated husk of my body.
“An all-access, behind-the-scenes look at the filming process. The whole cast and crew back together after thirteen years to make a second-chance romance, you and Jack reuniting on-screen after all this time, reminiscing about the original Lady , the movie that launched your careers. And the whole production is being driven by a wave of new, young fan interest… It’s a great angle,” Gayle continues, and there’s excitement in her words.
She’s fired up about this. “You know how much content people consume now; the studios simply can’t keep up.
This is a two-for-one for them, double the exposure for us. Win-win.”
I narrow my eyes, suspicious. “The film is a second-chance romance?”
Gayle waves an airy hand. “I mean, the first movie ended happily, so the conflict in the sequel obviously comes from the fact that events have separated the young lovers in the interim. This film is about them reuniting: older, wiser, a little more jaded. It’s called A Woman of Fire , and it’s gorgeous stuff, Cyn.
Gorgeous! Think Persuasion meets The Notebook . A total swoon!”
My suspicions are not allayed. In fact, I can almost hear warning sirens wailing in the distance. “So… the film is about a second chance between the characters,” I say carefully.
Gayle doesn’t blink but Hannah looks increasingly shifty. She’s always been a shit poker player.
“Well,”—Gayle leans forward, places her coffee cup down with a decisive clink—“now we come on to the other stipulation. Naturally, the angle of the movie did get the folks at the studio thinking. Former lovers reuniting… a second chance at romance… young love rekindled…” She trails off suggestively.
My stomach drops as I see exactly where this has been heading all along.
“If you’re talking about me and Jack then I’ll remind you that there was never any romance the first time around.
It was all a publicity setup. In fact”—my breath is coming quicker now—“I can’t believe you’re even bringing this up when you know how bad things were between the two of us. ”
“Now, now,” Gayle chides. “ You know that the public perception was a very different thing, so you can’t blame anyone involved in making the film for thinking it’s a neat spin that’ll draw the crowds.
” Her eyes are shrewd behind her thick, red-framed glasses.
“What’s a little pretend romance between co-workers?
They just want you to do a few appearances, get your picture taken together, stir things up.
And you can protest all you like, but even you can’t deny the chemistry the pair of you had on-screen.
” She fans her face with her hand. “You can’t fake that kind of heat. ”
“It’s called acting,” I insist. “We absolutely hated each other.”
“And that was the whole story, was it?” Gayle lifts her brows, and it’s my turn to look away.
“Anyway,” she continues after a moment of weighty silence.
“The two of you did a great job playing things up for the cameras once before… Why not do it again? You’re both professionals; you know how to handle something like this.
” She fixes me with a sudden, penetrating look, her easy charm dropping away to give me a glimpse of the hard-boiled dame beneath.
“Frankly, Cyn, we need to do something for your image. If we don’t act now, then Iron Maiden could be just the start of our problems. I’m offering you a lifeline here. ”
“Okay, just so I’m clear.” I briefly close my eyes, letting the facts settle.
“Not only am I supposed to make a sequel to a film from thirteen years ago with a man I can’t stand, but he and I are required to pretend we’re in a romantic relationship…
in front of a documentary crew that is following our every move. ”
Gayle nods.
“Let me ask you a question.” I sit forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my chin in my hand as I scan her face. “Are you high right now?”
Gayle hoots. “I mean, I’ve had my morning edible, but you know I gave up the hard stuff years ago.
California sober, darling! I get your hesitation, but if you give it a little thought, I think you’ll realize what a no-brainer this is.
” She gets to her feet, the chunky beaded necklaces she wears clacking wildly.
“I can’t believe Jack would agree to this!” I blurt.
Gayle’s face softens. “Of course he did! You’re Cynthie Taylor.
Any man would be lucky to have a relationship with you—even a fake one.
You’re a brilliant, beautiful force of a woman, and a once-in-a-generation talent.
” She shakes her head, her lip curling in distaste.
“Shawn Hardy did a number on you, that weaselly little shit, and I’d like to smack him right in the face, but he’s not going to derail your career. Not while I have breath in my body.”
Easy tears spring to my eyes, and I try my best to blink them away.
“I’ve already sent Hannah a copy of the script.” Gayle grabs her voluminous Herm?s handbag. “I’m going to give you time to read it, to process things, and then we’ll talk again. I’m off for lunch with Leo.” She rolls her eyes. “The man is so needy.”
On this note, Gayle breezes out, leaving Hannah and I alone.
“What… the… fuck?” I say finally.
Hannah lets out a wheeze of laughter. “I know,” she agrees, curling her feet up beside her on the sofa.
“I don’t even understand what just happened.” I shake my head. “I can’t believe Gayle thinks this is a good idea. I can’t believe anyone thinks this is a good idea.”
“Welllll…” Hannah trails off.
“ You think I should do this?”
Hannah hesitates for a moment, and then she sits forward, pushing her hands through her hair in an impatient gesture. “Okay. Do you want softly-softly, or is it finally time for hard talk?”
What I want is to squeeze my eyes shut, to find a blanket and curl up under it, to hide from the whole world, but Hannah is looking at me expectantly.
It could have been a huge mistake, all those years ago, hiring my best friend as my assistant.
There are a million ways it should have blown up in our faces, but it didn’t.
It has never felt like Hannah works for me.
It’s like it has always been, since we were kids: we’re a team, partners in crime, Cynthie and Hannah against the world.
I might be the one who stands in front of the camera, but Hannah is with me every step of the way; she undertakes every practical aspect of the job, organizes my entire life, and keeps me sane.
I couldn’t do what I do without her, and we both know it.
I trust her more than anyone else on the planet, and that is the only reason I’m going to listen to what she has to say, even if I begin to suspect that Gayle hasn’t been the only one hitting the edibles.
“Fine,” I huff. “Hard talk, let’s go.”
Hannah sends me a long, measuring look, her lips pursed, as though she’s working out exactly what I can handle. Eventually, she gives a satisfied nod, and it’s clear I’ve passed some sort of test.
“Okay.” Picking up the iPad again, she taps the screen a few times and turns it to face me.
SAINT OR CYNNER? the headline screams in giant letters, and I groan.
“I am going to let you read this article,” Hannah says firmly, “because we both know it’s bullshit, and we are capable of detaching a bad, fabricated story that is written to attract clicks, from the reality of this situation. Right?”
“Right,” I repeat, but the word is shakier than I’d like.
After another second of hesitation, Hannah hands me the tablet so that I can read the whole thing.
It’s been four weeks since Saint Cyn was caught on camera with her very married director Shawn Hardy , the article begins, gleefully.
I cringe. I didn’t think it was possible, but Saint Cyn—the most awful nickname in the world—has become even worse now that it’s being used in this smirky, ironic fashion.
Underneath the opening paragraphs are the grainy pictures of Shawn and me—the ones that blew up my whole life.
I’m practically wrapped around him, his hands are on my ass, our faces fused together.
The fact that we were—I thought—in private, was apparently irrelevant.
Neither of us had seen or heard the drone camera overhead.
I feel a wave of nausea at the sight of the photos. The caption underneath reads: Saint Cyn’s wicked deeds! Cynthie Taylor, 33, and Shawn Hardy indulge in a passionate clinch.
It’s hardly the first time I’ve seen the images, but I find myself examining them again like a detective scrutinizing shots of a grisly crime scene. It feels as though I’m looking at someone else. I wish the woman in the pictures had known what a colossal mistake she was making.