Chapter 23 Ada
Ada
On the last day of filming, Ada and Vince must kiss on camera. One single, brilliant take is all they need. Ada can manage
that. Then they never have to do this again.
As they begin the first take, they stand in a large, open room, facing a table displaying evidence uncovered in a previous
scene. Evidence pointing to Stella’s remaining sister as the culprit, for which she blames the detective, certain he has framed
the only sibling she has left.
Both Ada and her character know this feeling: the loss of a sister. Something neither Stella nor Ada could bear once, certainly
not a second time, and certainly not like this. A sister’s death is a tragedy; a sister’s betrayal is a choice. It cannot
be true, so she blames the detective—but what if she’s wrong?
The scene proceeds as their argument erupts, then Ada seizes Vince’s collar. “Tell me the truth! Tell me you framed her, that
this is your doing—”
“Accusing me won’t bring us answers. And once we know the truth—whatever it is—you can either face it or make it go away. Isn’t that what you do with all your problems, destroy them so they can’t destroy you?”
That last line is not in the script, yet every part of it resonates through her—well done, Vince. Ada raises a hand to strike him. He catches her wrist before she can land the blow.
A tear slips from her cheek, though it was not in the script for her to cry in this moment. Next, Vince is supposed to kiss
her. Instead, he does nothing.
This is the take; she can feel it. And without the kiss it will be ruined.
Ada jerks him closer and kisses him, this man who has voiced her character’s deepest struggles, this man her character has
come to respect and now doubts, so perhaps this is the only way to uncover true honesty from him. And from herself.
All part of the scene. Yet a small, deeply buried part of Ada awakens to the roughness of his lips, the tension in the palm
pressed to the small of her back, the way he angles her toward slightly more prominence for the camera, the sharp breaths
joined as one when they pull apart.
In the script, the kiss meant to lead her to clarity only leaves Stella more uncertain. Indeed, Ada’s grip on Vince’s collar
does not loosen, does not permit him to draw back. Nor has he relaxed the hand holding her against him. This must be the take;
Ada cannot film another, because kissing him is not like it was when they were together. Now it is more intense, sharpened
by the reality that they are not Ada and Vince anymore, even though it is easy, far too easy, to feel like Ada and Vince again.
“Cut! A bit off script, but we got it,” Mr. Sternberg announces. “Ladies and gentlemen, that’s a wrap!”
Amid cheers and applause, Ada shakes outstretched hands and accepts congratulatory kisses on the cheek and pats on the back.
Every nerve buzzes with energy, and not simply from the scene.
The film is complete, but her work has only just begun.
Interviews, press, mingling with the public—all of it awaits.
All of it will determine if this film is destined to be everything she believes it can be.
“Am I allowed to say well done?” Vince asks.
“Just this once,” she replies with a half smile. “Since when does Vince Hart freeze on set?”
He chuckles. “Thank God you salvaged the take.”
Yet the look in his eyes is the one from her dressing room several weeks ago, indicative of something she has no time to examine
before it disappears. Whatever it is prompts warmth to bloom against her cheeks.
“It’s been a pleasure working with you, Vince, and I mean that with utmost sincerity.” She kisses his cheek, then takes his
hand. “Years ago, you offered kindness and encouragement to an aspiring actress, and I’ve never forgotten it.”
“That’s right, I did say you would see your face in the papers someday.” He kisses her cheek in return. “Get ready, Miss Worthington-Fox,
because that day has come.”
Heat lingers on her cheek from his touch and his breath against her ear. Her face in the papers.
It’s what she’s wanted ever since she began this journey—to perform, to entertain, to help people escape. And the closer she
comes to being a star, the more she can use her position to leave a positive impact. Perhaps even to uncover the fate of a
particular escaped Nazi who, at her core, she feels certain is alive. She has no proof, really, other than the feeling she’s
carried even before the notes began. Now, by using her position, her voice, the possibility of drawing him out is stronger
than ever. Either he will emerge to silence her, or she won’t rest until she finds him.
“Miss Worthington-Fox!”
The bellow reverberates around the room, so loud Ada jumps while extras, assistants, and crew members abruptly cease chattering.
Mr. Hendrix barges through the crowd, clutching a paper, his face aflame.
A copy of The Dish, and Ada feels quite certain she knows what it contains. The exclusive. Earlier this week, Ada had notified Minnie Musgrave
of her final day of filming, reminding her that the exclusive could run once it was completed, which the gossip columnist
apparently interpreted as permission to proceed. Never mind that Ada had stressed the exclusive should not run until filming
ended—and, knowing Mrs. Musgrave, she would argue it is over as of today, therefore she has not violated their agreement.
At Mr. Hendrix’s outburst, Vince steps closer to Ada while a crowd lingers, eager to hear about whatever sin the film’s leading
lady has committed.
“What the hell is the meaning of this?” Mr. Hendrix brandishes the paper. “After I gave you strict instructions, after I plucked
you from obscurity—”
“She was my idea, not yours,” Mr. Sternberg says, so the studio head rounds on him.
“Stay out of this! I’ve already had to reassure countless investors and executives that this film is not tainted by your politics—”
“No director would alter a film into propaganda and expect to get away with it,” Mr. Sternberg scoffs. “I’m not one to sabotage
my own career, Hendrix, and you and your investors should know that.”
“Be that as it may, I don’t need my actress spouting her opinions.”
“Mr. Hendrix,” Ada interrupts through her teeth, not bothering with a tone that might placate him, because there will be no
placating him. “I apologize for upsetting you, but extenuating circumstances required something different from my standard
approach.”
“Contributing to all this nonsense will only make it linger. Had you kept your mouth shut, you would have avoided getting caught up in it, but now you’ve destroyed everything you’re supposed to be.
Ada Worthington-Fox is charming, alluring, uncomplicated.
Not this.” He shoves the paper into Ada’s hands.
“This is not who you are, not who I want, and not who your fans want.”
“Sir, I—”
“Not another word about this, any of this, while involved with my company and my film, or I will ruin you.”
Mr. Hendrix barrels past Ada and storms off set. Quiet lingers like the moments after an earthquake, then cast and crew slowly
move along now that the spectacle has ended. When a familiar hand covers Ada’s, she blinks and looks at Vince, who gently
takes the paper from her.
“Too bad the cameras weren’t rolling. That was a better scene than any in our film,” she says with a weak smile.
His blue eyes are alight with anger as he stares after Mr. Hendrix. Then he opens the article and reads while Ada waits, her
heart suddenly racing in anticipation of his thoughts. Once finished, he looks at her.
“This is an excellent piece—not divisive or accusatory or portraying yourself, the film, or anyone in a negative light. Mr.
Hendrix should be thanking you for it.”
“It’s not something I would normally do, therefore not what he wants from me, so he thinks the public won’t approve either.
Take away the mystery, take away the intrigue.” She gives a half-hearted shrug, then flashes a teasing smile. “If I hadn’t
been so aloof and evasive, would Vince Hart have been interested in me?”
“Nothing would have made me disinterested in you, Ada.”
He does not match her lighthearted tone, and her cheeks warm even as their eyes meet before shifting away. Once again, they
have returned to that place. To recalling what they were, leaving them with the stark reality of what they are.
At last, Vince clears his throat. “You’re all right?”
“Fine. Thank you,” she murmurs, touching his arm briefly before stepping away.
As she goes, though, she feels him staring after her. She cannot determine if her heart is still racing from the conversation with Mr. Hendrix or the one with Vince.
Back in her dressing room, Ada changes out of her costume and notices a small parcel on her dressing table. A congratulatory
gift from Gordon or Ingrid, perhaps, which must have arrived during filming. She unwraps the package—no card, only a small
box. And when she opens it, a gasping cry catches in her throat.
The gift is a silver brooch in the shape of an ornate key. A skeleton key.
Ada presses a palm to her pounding heart, to the scar on her chest, to everything inside her that knows who sent this. The
only person who would have chosen this symbol.
He is alive. And he has found her.