Chapter 55 1966
It’s nine o’clock in the evening at the end of my first week at work before the last starlet in our appointment book leaves and I can finally sit down with a glass of tequila—my first since my meeting with Flitter—and toast myself.
I’ve just finished my drink and I’m about to pack up when my aunt steps into my office.
“We’ve done a good week’s work,” she says, voice as showy as her outfit—a bright red caftan with elaborate silver embroidery, like she’s ready to plunge into a pool or take to the stage.
After my meetings, each actress sits down with Miss Devine, who’s in charge of the soft side of the business—pastoral care, if you like—which is no less important than finding the work for them, which is my domain.
Drifting through my door all week has come the sound of chatter and laughter and occasional tears, and it’s made me smile because my aunt is good at this.
She knows when to pet them and when to tell them to get it together.
From all the effusive goodbyes, it sounds like they love her.
And it sounds like she loves her second chance at life too.
Now she’s eyeing my tequila glass. “Is that a good idea?”
I laugh. Miss Devine Rey giving out temperance advice. Who’d have thought?
“I needed it this week. But the hardest things are done.”
My aunt shakes her head. “You have another appointment.”
I look at my diary. “No, I’m going home.”
She walks away, calling over her shoulder, “I’m going to be late for my date with Dr. Foster.”
“What?” I shriek, while my heart does a little dance. My aunt and Dr. Foster!
She makes a noise that sounds a lot like a giggle, tells whoever’s waiting, “It’s through there,” then I hear the front door open and shut as my aunt leaves for her date.
I stand up, ready to try to save one more starlet.
But the person who enters my office isn’t a starlet.
He’s tall, dark-haired. He hovers uncertainly in the doorway like every single starlet this week who couldn’t quite believe that there was a female agent named Aria Jones who’d been recommended by every famous actress in Hollywood, one who wouldn’t make them give goodnight kisses to get a part.
What do you say to the man you love when you haven’t seen him for over a year and you want to run into his arms like this is your very own Hollywood finale?
I say nothing. I just stand there and smile while my insides spontaneously combust.
Theo curses profanely. Of course he does. “You look very…” He exhales. “Good.”
My smile widens. “I thought you were a songwriter? Is ‘very good’ the best you can come up with?”
He’s smiling too when he says, “I wrote you a whole song. Won’t that do?”
“I heard it,” I tell him. “In Paris. It made me cry.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “For everything. But I promise not to hide any more exes in bungalows—”
“And I promise not to make lifelong plans to run off without you.”
“That,” he says, walking over to me at last, “sounds like a good deal to me.”
When there’s no gap between us anymore, when the cotton of his shirt grazes mine every time he inhales, he says, “You still wear your heart in your eyes. In your beautiful green eyes.”
I smile. “What’s it saying?”
“Something indecent. But also very, very hot.”
I laugh like I haven’t laughed in a year. Theo does too.
He draws me in until there are no more spaces between us, and now he’s staring at my lips as indecently as if what we’re about to do is beyond all my wildest imaginings—and my imaginings are pretty damn wild.
So, Reader, I kiss him. Wouldn’t you?