Chapter 33 Cynthie
Today is the last day I have to see Jack. Those words run over and over in my head.
It’s been six months since A Lady of Quality came out, and apart from a few publicity events, we haven’t had much to do with each other, but today it’s the MTV Movie Awards in Los Angeles and the film has been nominated.
Unfortunately, the category in which it has been nominated is Best Kiss, and the winners always reenact said kiss onstage.
I never thought I’d find myself hoping with every fiber of my being to lose an acting award, but here we are.
A Lady of Quality outperformed everyone’s (admittedly fairly low) expectations by making a modest profit at the box office and finding a devoted audience, predominantly of young women.
There are posters of Jack Turner-Jones in a wet shirt gracing bedroom walls all over the world, and—as Lorna predicted—the rumors of our perfect love affair have captured people’s imagination, giving both the film, and the two of us, a nice publicity boost. To her credit, Lorna hasn’t been smug about it, though her smile has only grown wider, and I fear she’s sprouted several new teeth.
Next week I start work on a new movie, a fantasy with a big budget based here in LA. Jack is flying straight back to the UK to start production on a gritty British drama with a big director, and he’s already in postproduction on another project. Unlike me, he didn’t wait around.
It’s been agreed by everyone involved that we can let our fake relationship die away, blaming the distance if anyone asks about it. So tonight is our last hoorah, the death rattle of Jack Turner-Jones and Cynthie Taylor as a couple. Finally.
“Where do we want to put this lamp?” Hannah asks, trailing through from her room in the two-bedroom apartment we’ve rented in Los Feliz.
I say we, but Hannah organized everything with Gayle’s assistant, and now—unbelievably—we have a six-month lease on our new home and all the visas and paperwork that mean we can stay.
We flew out three days ago, and the combination of excitement, jet lag, and having to see Jack has me feeling extremely edgy.
I eye the lamp that Hannah is holding. “Why do we have a lamp that looks like a penis?”
Hannah blinks. Looks at the lamp. “It doesn’t look like a…” She trails off, then tilts her head. “Huh,” she murmurs finally. “I guess it is quite phallic… because of the decorative orbs.”
“Decorative orbs?” I choke.
Hannah grins. “We accidentally bought a penis lamp!”
“ You accidentally bought a penis lamp,” I say. “And obviously it should go here in the living room for everyone to admire.”
“Obviously,” Hannah echoes, placing the lamp on a side table and flopping down beside me on the sofa. “How’s the prep going?”
I glance at the script in my lap. “Okay, I think. There are a lot of special effects… It’s going to be totally different from filming A Lady of Quality .”
“And that’s… bad?” Hannah asks.
I bite my lip. “No. I’m excited to learn more, to try new things… I suppose I just felt safe on that set in the end. Apart from the presence of you-know-who.”
“Satan’s minion.” Hannah nods wisely.
“Precisely. Apart from him, I think I was lucky that it was such a good experience. I hadn’t really thought about this part of it, you know… that you spend months living so tightly with a small group of people, before you all go your separate ways.” I sigh. “At least you’ll always be there.”
“Always,” Hannah agrees. “I’ve got your back, and all your lighting needs covered, too.”
“You are no longer in charge of interior design decisions.”
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready?” Hannah asks then, glancing at her watch.
“Gayle said they’re sending over hair and makeup people, right?” I stretch, trying to cover the flutter of nerves that I feel.
“Yes, they should be here in the next few minutes.” Hannah gets back to her feet. “And the car is picking you up in three hours.”
“Three hours to make me look like a human woman.” I shudder. “Do you think they’ll manage it?”
“They can only do their best.”
WHEN THE CAR ARRIVES I’M relieved to find it empty. I half expected to be traveling with Jack.
“He’s coming straight from the airport,” Hannah informs me. “So he’ll meet you there, and then you’ll do the carpet together.”
She’s going to watch the awards from our sofa while eating a giant pizza. When she waves me off from the doorway, she already has a spoon stuck into a tub of chocolate ice cream, and I let out an envious sigh.
I take the opportunity that the drive to the awards ceremony offers to press myself up against the windows and admire the view.
I can’t believe I live here. It seems absolutely impossible that Hannah and I could just pack our lives into a couple of suitcases, bid a tearful goodbye to her parents at Heathrow, and then move to Los Angeles . I don’t know who we think we are.
We drive down roads lined with palm trees, and I keep waiting for someone to tap me on the shoulder and laugh pityingly at my delusions—everything I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember is laid out in front of me. It feels like I’m on the edge of something huge.
Tonight’s ceremony is being held at the Nokia Theatre, which is just over a thirty-minute drive from my place. The time passes quickly, and I twist my fingers in my lap as I think about seeing Jack again.
For the last time.
The jittery anticipation builds, but when I reach the venue and the door is opened, it’s Lorna who’s waiting, and today her smile seems off. There are far fewer teeth on display than usual.
“Jack’s flight has been delayed,” she says, and my heart sinks. “You need to do the carpet by yourself, and we’ll bring him through to his seat during the ceremony.” She glances down to the phone in her hand. “Your category isn’t until near the end anyway.”
“And we might not win,” I say, trying not to sound too hopeful.
Lorna chuckles. “I’m not so sure about that. And just remember what we discussed if you do win—”
“Yes, I know,” I cut in, desperately hoping that it will all be irrelevant. “We’ll do the kiss.” Or a version of it anyway. A quick, chaste version of it. That’s what Jack and I agreed via various assistants.
The red carpet passes in a blur. This is a low-key ceremony, with a younger crowd, and I’ve been dressed to fit, in tight jeans and a pretty, pale pink corset-style top, which I think is supposed to be a nod to the Regency period of the film, but with the hard work it is putting in I’d say it’s less Anne Elliot and more Ann Summers.
The cameras flash and the photographers call my name, and I try not to panic about Jack’s precise whereabouts.
Before I know it, I’m shown to my seat in the giant amphitheater, which is worryingly near the stage.
(Is that a sign of some sort? Does that mean we’re going to win?
Please don’t let us win.) There’s an empty chair beside me with Jack’s name taped to it.
Perhaps with him turning up late, I won’t even have to talk to him.
We can just sit through the event, smile, and then go our separate ways.
I try not to dwell on why that feels like a horrible anticlimax.
After a lot of fussing about with the cameras, the signal is given that we’re going live, and the theater hums with excitement.
The charismatic actress who’s hosting is doing a great job, but I can’t help fidgeting, glancing over my shoulder and looking for any sign of Lorna or Jack.
A new fear takes root—what if we do win, and Jack’s not here?
It’s going to look like I’ve been abandoned by my fake boyfriend.
I’m going to have to accept the award for best kiss between two people , alone.
And then the news is going to come out that our relationship is over and people will think he basically dumped me live on camera. Oh, shit.
Time passes with no sign of Jack, and as the awards are handed out and I clap with a polite, if frozen, smile on my face, panic sets in. Where the fuck is he? Oh my god, has he left me here alone as some final act of humiliation? No, surely not. Even Jack Turner-Jones is not that evil.
During an advert break where they’re setting up the next shot, Lorna comes hustling over. She looks harassed and her mobile is clamped to her ear.
“What the hell is going on?” I hiss quietly. “Where’s Jack?”
“He’s on his way,” Lorna promises me before she starts barking directions into the phone. From what I can gather she is micro-managing Jack’s driver’s route from the airport. I guess that means he’s somewhere in LA at least.
“Isn’t it almost time for our part?” I ask desperately. “Do they know he’s not here? They’re not going to make me go up on my own, are they?”
“Everything is under control,” Lorna tells me soothingly before she clatters off on her high heels, still yelling into her phone and making increasingly dramatic hand gestures. It’s not reassuring.
“Everything is under control,” I whisper to myself.
Finally, it happens. Exactly as I was afraid it would.
In an increasingly bizarre series of events, Steve Carell is there, up onstage, announcing the nominees for Best Kiss.
The giant screens at either side of the stage play the clips from the nominated films, and when Steve says, “Cynthie Taylor and Jack Turner-Jones for A Lady of Quality ,” there we are, a million feet tall.
A passionate trembling of string music fills the air, as the camera follows Jack riding through the rain on the back of a majestic black stallion.
His dark hair is wet and tumbled, his jaw tight, his blue eyes burning with intensity.
The white linen shirt he wears is almost transparent, and when he pulls the horse to a stop, I swear a collective sigh runs around the room.
Throwing one leg over the saddle, he lands lightly on his feet and without hesitation strides toward me, through the long grass and the swirling mist.
The music intensifies, and the camera catches me wide-eyed, as I stand pale and frozen, raindrops running down my face like tears, my lips parting as I drink him in.
Without slowing, Jack hauls me into his arms, and it’s very forceful and manly, and even I feel my breath catch, watching it.
He kisses me, lifting me into his arms while his hand cradles my face, and I kiss him back, burying my hands in his hair and holding him close.
It goes on for some time, hungry and desperate, and I feel like I always do when I watch this scene: naked.
Because I don’t see Emilia up there. All I see is Cynthie and how much she wants that kiss.
The crowd is cheering and Steve fans himself with the envelope he’s holding.
The camera pushes in on me and I force myself to smile like everything is fine and I’m having the time of my life.
“And the winner is…”—Steve opens the envelope—“Cynthie Taylor and Jack Turner-Jones, for A Lady of Quality !”