Chapter 18
I call Alison a few times in the next few days.
But she doesn’t answer. Hasn’t replied to any of the texts I’ve sent her in the past two weeks.
But at least I’m not losing my mind alone in a big hotel any more.
After shooting wrapped, I moved straight back in with my parents.
So I’m losing my mind in my childhood bedroom instead.
And it’s been pretty good, as far as hideouts go.
I needed somewhere the paparazzi – who hounded the hotel when I arrived to pick up my things – wouldn’t find me.
Hertfordshire is probably quite low on their list of locations to search for disgraced film stars, if I can even call myself a film star at this point.
Especially where my parents live, in the middle of a comfortingly anonymous suburb.
And so, in the absence of Alison in our childhood home, I do my best to stay busy.
To keep any thoughts of Avi out of my mind.
I keep reading the scripts Nat’s sending through to me – at least a few people still seem interested in working with me in the wake of the press storm.
She also calls me most days, to check in.
To see if I’ve been through the list of publicists she sent me.
To prepare for the press tour, she says.
It might be a good idea. But I feel stagnant.
Stuck in my hurt. In my disappointment in myself.
I stay up late instead, reviewing script after script.
Focusing on the one thing I can control, the one thing I can hold on to.
Ignoring the emptiness I’m feeling. And I try to stay offline, as much as possible.
I’ve basically deleted every social media account I own.
Spencer and Hannah text me pretty much daily to see how I’m doing; I reply to every few, not wanting to give away too much information.
I can’t – because of Sienna, because of the statement that’s going to be released imminently.
But also because I’m ashamed and I don’t really want to talk to anyone about it.
Except, maybe, Alison. But she isn’t returning my calls.
This is why you shouldn’t have listened to her, I think, in a dark moment.
Your world was fine before. Now everything is messed up, because you stepped outside of it.
But even then I push the thought away – I know it’s not her fault.
I’m just sad, and let down, and looking for someone to blame for my own stupid behaviour.
I know screwing my co-star wasn’t what she meant by expanding my horizons.
I just wish she’d talk to me; for once, I want her critical eye.
I want her to tell me I’m an idiot. I want her to tell me what to do with my life.
But I’m worried I’ve upset her so badly that something might be irreparably damaged between us now.
On the third or fourth day of my self-imposed isolation, I break.
Open my laptop, scroll through the articles.
Looking for the statement that Avi said he was going to put out.
But there’s nothing – just a few more gossip column profiles entitled Who even is Lara Francis anyway?
and Meet the woman who might’ve destroyed Hollywood’s most beloved couple.
One or two articles with paparazzi photos of Sienna and Avi out in London, hands lightly entwined.
Pictures that – even though I know they don’t mean anything – make me feel sick.
The headlines: Trouble in paradise? Avi and Sienna spotted in London looking serious.
Once I’ve scrolled through enough to make me feel incredibly unwell, reading comment after comment about how relieved people are that they’re still together, about how ugly and B-list I am, I close my laptop.
Put down the script I’m reading. Pick up the copy of A Murder in London Spencer and Hannah gave me, with the note inside it.
The list of life goals. My heart twists when I look at it.
The words I scrawled down – filled with hope, for a career I’ve now potentially destroyed.
Words that don’t seem to mean anything any more.
You have let Amelia down – Alessandro’s words ring through my mind.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, and I throw the book on the bed and walk through the door.
I leave my parents’ house in sunglasses and a hat.
Though I do feel a bit silly taking such measures, it makes me feel a little safer on the Tube.
More anonymous. Less like the homewrecking whore who stole Avi from Sienna, and more like an ordinary commuter.
And on the journey I start to feel a little better – because I might’ve screwed everything else up, but this, at least, is something I can fix…
I hope. I’ve let Amelia down, and myself.
But maybe this will help. Maybe this will be a step in the right direction.
I text her flatmates again to make sure that they’re still okay with my plan – that they’ll be there to let me in.
I stop at a supermarket en route, picking up a cake, some candles, a few birthday hats and some confetti.
And when she gets home from work, I’m waiting.
The candles lit. A bright red birthday hat on my head.
But she throws her bag down on the sofa and sits down on it. As if I’m not there.
‘Ally?’ I say, my tone careful. I hoped she’d be surprised – happy, even.
‘I don’t want to see you, Lara,’ she says. ‘How clear can two weeks of not replying to your texts be?’
‘I’m sorry…’ I say, but she just looks at me sharply.
‘Is this about me, or is this about the fact that your life is falling apart around you right now and you need someone to talk to about it?’
Something pinches in my chest. Because she’s not wrong.
‘It’s not about that…’ She looks at me for a long second. I sit down next to her.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Okay – I let you down, Ally. And I’m really sorry for it. And I hoped you might see how sorry I was, with the cake—’
‘I don’t need a fucking cake, Lara,’ she says. And then she breaks down. Crying, her make-up running down her face. ‘I need my sister.’
When I put my arm around her, she leans into my shoulder. Sobbing. Something I haven’t ever seen. Because she’s usually so bright. So completely fine, all the time.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask. She shrugs.
‘Everything.’ And then she tells me – that she thinks she’s about to be fired.
That her new boss basically hates her and undermines her work every chance she gets.
That her friends have created a group chat without her in it to plan a holiday that she’s not invited to.
That the last person she dated and really liked – the French guy she told me about – moved back to France without telling her.
That she feels like she’s treading water the whole time and nothing really clicks into place for her.
That she’s never felt as passionate in her life about anything as I do about acting.
That she feels like she’s drifting, purposeless – life just happening to her day by day.
And she sometimes can’t find any meaning in it any more.
And when she’s done, I sit there completely gobsmacked.
‘So you see,’ she says. ‘Everything does not come easy to me. The opposite, in fact.’
‘Ally, I’m so sorry—’
‘You’re not the only one who struggled when Dad lost his job,’ she says.
‘I did too. I might not have been there for some of those conversations, but I heard them. I knew how bad it was. And I hated moving schools, too – every time I made a group of new friends I had to say goodbye to them within a year. I could never let anyone too close because I knew I’d be leaving soon.
And I knew how much it would hurt to say goodbye if I did.
So I had lots of friends, but they were all surface-level friendships.
And when I came home and felt the tension and stress, I smiled wider.
Told Mum and Dad about everything that was going well at school – because that was what they needed to hear.
Because they needed me to be the golden child, because you were in your room the whole time.
Buried in a book or a script. Or at play rehearsals.
And so I played that role. And I’ve been playing it my whole fucking life – and I’m just so incredibly tired. ’
And I can’t help it – some tears start to escape. ‘I had no idea,’ I say.
‘I know you didn’t,’ she says. ‘Because you were in Lara-land. But the day of my birthday, I’d had the worst day at work.
And Pierre had just texted me back and told me that he didn’t want to see me any more.
That he’d never been interested in me. And about fifteen people had cancelled last minute.
And I just thought—’ She cuts herself off to catch her breath, another tear falling.
‘I just thought that maybe my sister would show up for me. That I’d see you and I might feel okay.
But you were so late, Lara. And it hurt so much, to hear that I’d come second to your work again.
I’m sorry,’ she says, wiping away the tears.
‘I think I’ve been holding on to this for a long time and I’ve overreacted.
And I’ve definitely been judgemental towards you, which wasn’t fair.
But I just thought that maybe if I could get you out of your shell a bit…
’ She looks at me, her eyes wide and innocent. ‘Then I might get my sister back.’
And I pull her towards me, holding her while she cries herself out.
Kicking myself for being so caught up in my own world for such a long time that I never stopped to think that Alison might have her own stuff going on.
For believing the image she was putting out – of success, and ease, and sunshine. For being jealous of it, even.
I realise I’ve been doing it to her too.
Hiding things. Trying to seem fine, in my own way.
Not telling her what’s been going on in my life.
Because somewhere along the way I picked up the same fear – the same idea that I had to hold it together, no matter what.
And for me, that looked like disappearing into books and acting.
For Alison, it looked different. But that doesn’t mean we weren’t both struggling in our own ways.
All this time I was waiting for her to hear me – see me.
Resenting her for not being able to. For being stuck in her own ways.
But I was so stuck in mine that I wasn’t looking closely at her, either.
Wasn’t seeing beneath the surface of her seemingly perfect life.
I feel awful, that she’s been struggling so much.
That I was so thickheaded I couldn’t see it.
‘I’m so sorry, Ally,’ I say.
‘Dad’s fine now,’ she says. ‘You know, they haven’t had any issues with money in a really long time. And I think – I think maybe they don’t need us to do this any more.’
‘You’re right,’ I say, nodding. Thinking about how happy my parents have seemed in the last week, even when I’ve been shutting myself in my room on the pretence of dealing with this PR catastrophe and reading scripts, and only really emerging at meal times. Something lifts as I think about it.
‘So,’ she says. ‘I don’t need a cake. I just want you to put the fucking scripts down and come and visit me sometimes.
And I want you to tell me what the fuck has been going on.
I’ve seen the articles, Lara – it’s been so hard not to call you.
And I’ve been stupid not to. And I’m sorry. I was just… angry.’
‘It’s okay, Ally,’ I say. ‘I understand.’
And then I tell her – about Avi and I meeting for the very first time, at the pub.
About him becoming my friend, and my favourite person.
About the feelings I developed for him, slowly and then all at once.
Feelings I thought maybe he had too. Feelings that, recently, I was sure he shared.
Feelings that blew everything up between us.
Twice, now. That might potentially, this time, have ruined my career.
The conversation I had with Alessandro. Sienna showing up on-set.
The pictures, the articles. The statement that they’re about to put out.
Everything going wrong, all over again. And me being the one that’s left behind.
She looks at me for a long second when I’m done talking.
‘Jesus,’ she says.
‘Yeah,’ I reply.
‘That’s rough, Lara,’ she says, leaning on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply.
And she frowns, like she’s making a decision. Then reaches for her laptop – pulls it from her bag, lying next to her on the sofa. Opens it and looks at me with an expression that sends warmth surging through my chest.
‘Right,’ she says. ‘Let’s make a plan.’