Chapter 6 Jack
“Are you sure this shirt is good?” I ask, standing in front of the phone screen and turning around.
“Mate, it’s a white shirt. I don’t know what sort of feedback you want from me.” Nico’s voice rings from the tinny speaker. My best friend sounds suspiciously close to laughter.
“Yeah.” I roll my shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension there. “I guess you’re right.” I cast another look over my reflection in the mirror. “Why am I so panicked?” I wonder aloud.
“Errr, I think it’s because you’re about to try and convince Cynthie Taylor to be your fake girlfriend,” Nico pipes up, and he’s not even trying to hold back the laughter now. “You are the luckiest guy in the whole fucking world. Imagine having Cynthie Taylor as your girlfriend.”
“It’s not like it would be the first time,” I murmur.
“I always forget that part.” Nico hesitates. “But… that wasn’t real either, right? Didn’t you guys hate each other?” He stares off thoughtfully into the distance. “Now that I think about it, didn’t you refer to her as ‘Satan’s Bride’?”
I clear my throat. “That was a long time ago. A lot has changed since then.” I hope .
“Sure.” Nico peers out at me from the phone. He looks tired, maybe a bit pale, but I suppose it is late in London. “I’ve got to go, anyway. Hot date.”
“Isn’t it almost midnight there?” I ask, reaching for my watch and buckling it round my wrist.
Nico just smiles, that crooked smile that seems to win over an ever-changing roster of beautiful women. “The perfect time for a date.”
I huff a laugh. “Right. Don’t let me keep you.”
“Don’t get so wound up about this,” Nico says. “I know there’s a lot going on, but remember… she needs you more than you need her. And the shirt looks good.”
“Yeah?” I dust down my front. “Okay. I’ll let you know how it goes. Have a good night.”
“I will.” Nico grins. “Oh, and roll your sleeves up. Women love that. Trust me, it’s a whole thing. Like Victorian ladies and their ankles.”
He ends the call on this bizarre note, and I’m left alone in the quiet of the hotel suite.
I should have let my agent come along. Mike was adamant that he should be here, but my instinct told me that Cynthie would be more comfortable in this incredibly awkward situation if it was just me.
Now I’m second-guessing myself. What if asking her to meet me alone in my hotel comes off as creepy?
Oh god. I have done that, haven’t I? I’ve lured her here to my hotel room to discuss business: the notorious move of the Hollywood pervert. I’m a lurer .
Turning to look back in the mirror again, I take a breath. My own perfectly normal reflection stares back, perhaps a little dazed around the eyes.
I’m not a lurer, I’m the picture of respectability.
I chose the shirt and the tailored soft gray trousers because they have a business-meeting vibe.
It seems like that is the way to handle the situation: it’s a simple business arrangement.
We don’t need to bring our history or—God forbid— feelings into it.
It’s going to be cool, considered, and nothing like it was before.
Shit, these things are so awkward.
If I had a pound for every time I’ve been asked to establish a fake relationship with Cynthie Taylor for the benefit of the press, I’d have two pounds, which isn’t a lot, but it’s pretty wild that it’s happened twice. I hope this part goes better than it did last time, at least.
I wince at the memory, still looking in the mirror, and decide to follow Nico’s advice and roll up my sleeves. Yes, this is fine. Relaxed but still professional.
I move from the bedroom of the large suite through to the living room where the meeting will take place. I’ve already had room service send up an assortment of cold drinks and a fruit plate. At a loss, I wander around the room like a caged animal, glancing down at my watch a couple more times.
Finally, I stand, looking out the floor-to-ceiling window with its impressive view over the city.
Even after spending so much time here the past few years, I still get a buzz out of seeing LA laid out like this.
If she were here, my mother would snort derisively and quote Fran Leibowitz in ringing tones: “Darling, Los Angeles is just a large city-like area surrounding the Beverly Hills Hotel.” But I can appreciate the sprawl.
This place still holds that edge of Hollywood glamour for me.
There’s a knock and I start, glance at my watch again. Right on time.
I take a deep breath and move to the door, checking through the peephole. I don’t see Cynthie, but I do recognize the woman standing there.
I open the door and smile. “Hey, Hannah.”
It’s been years, but Cynthie’s best friend doesn’t look too different—a more polished, more expensive version of the quiet, funny girl I knew, the one with the watchful eyes.
“Hi, Jack,” she says, running her gaze over me in a much more overt assessment. I step back from the door and spin slowly in a circle, arms outstretched.
“Unarmed,” I say, and when I come back to face her, she’s smiling, just a little.
“Good to know.” Her voice is dry. She peeps over my shoulder. “Just you?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
She glances off to the side, and that’s when I realize there’s someone standing next to her, out of my line of sight. If Hannah’s expressive eyebrow movement is anything to go by, some sort of silent communication passes between the two of them, and then Hannah nods.
“Cool,” she says. “I’ll be down at the bar. Just buzz if you need me.”
She wiggles her fingers and then turns and walks away. There’s a pause, and then a small, platinum blond woman in a baseball cap and sunglasses appears in the doorway. It takes me a second to realize it’s Cynthie.
My heart bumps—one slow, solid rolling over in my chest. I clear my throat, step back, and gesture inside with my hand.
“Thanks,” she mutters, already striding in, pulling off the hat and the wig, which she throws down on the sofa behind us. She removes her sunglasses and turns to face me, shaking out her long, golden-brown hair.
There’s a moment of hesitation as she finally looks at me, the tiniest hitch in her movement.
“Hi,” she says softly. “Sorry about that. Getting out of the house has been a bit of an ordeal. The paparazzi…” she trails off.
“Of course,” I reply. I can hardly pretend to be ignorant of her circumstances—not only is the story plastered far and wide, but it’s the whole reason we’re here in the first place.
We stand for a beat, watching each other.
I haven’t seen her in person for a long time, though her face has followed me everywhere.
The career she’s built over the last thirteen years has been—until recently—a fairy-tale climb to the top: coming out of nowhere and building to an Oscar nomination, two Golden Globe wins, an impressive list of roles in solid, critically acclaimed movies that any actor would envy.
In fact, Cynthie is exactly where I once thought I’d be by now, and that thought stirs up a lot of confusing emotions.
The changes in her are more obvious than the ones in Hannah.
Gone is any trace of the awkwardness she carried at twenty.
Her face is almost impossibly perfect: a luminous peaches and cream complexion, thickly lashed hazel eyes, the sort of rosebud mouth old Hollywood went wild for.
My gaze snags there for a moment, while something long-buried sizzles to life in my blood.
Her hair falls in a long silky sheet, dark and glossy shot through with caramel and honey.
She even stands differently. The Cynthie I knew was all restless energy, but now she has a stillness about her that makes her hard to read.
You used to be able to see everything she thought written all over her face.
At least I could whenever she looked at me.
You have to really pay attention to see the tiredness around her eyes, the shadows there. I know it’s been a bad time for her, and for a second she looks so small and vulnerable that I have a very strong and inappropriate desire to pull her into my arms and tell her everything will be okay.
I try to remind myself that I know better than to be taken in by the damsel-in-distress look—if anyone is aware of what Cynthie is truly capable of, it’s me. Sure, she looks delicate, but I know the truth: she’s not delicate like a flower; she’s delicate like a scalpel—and twice as sharp.
“You look well, Jack,” she says, rigidly polite, and I realize that I’ve been staring at her like a creep. So much for dispelling the lurer vibes.
I lift my hand to the back of my neck. “Thanks, so do you. Why don’t we sit down?”
She sinks onto the sofa, picking up her wig and untangling a knot in it before laying it across the back of her seat. Her face is a carefully controlled blank. I round the coffee table and sit in the chair across from her, grabbing a bottle of water from the tray in the center.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask. “I can call down for some tea?”
“Water’s great,” she says, but makes no move to take anything from the tray.
I twist the top off my water bottle, then twist it back on. I would love to be able to think of anything to say right now. Literally anything. What a perfect time for my brain to start playing “Girl from Ipanema” elevator music.
“Thank you for flying in for this,” Cynthie says, breaking the awkward silence. “I know it’s a… strange situation.”
“Sure.” I nod. “No problem.” Then after another pause, I add, “It is strange. I don’t know how to start this conversation. It’s been a long time.”
Talk about an understatement. I meet her eyes, and for a second it’s all there, spilling between us. Everything that happened thirteen years ago. All the things we never talked about. The moment stretches, the air buzzing with a tension so thick I can practically see it.