Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
EMILY
“Austin, I need to talk to you.” My heart thumped in my chest as I stood on the dirt path, my body heavy with worry over the future of the farm.
“Of course. What’s wrong?” Austin, dressed in a firefighters outfit and standing next to a firetruck, stared at me with concern.
Tears welled in my eyes. I tried blinking them away.
“Hey!” Austin stepped forward, reaching out and rubbing my upper arm. “What is it?”
“Our truck broke down. It’ll cost thousands to repair. I don’t have that sort of money. Without the truck, we won’t be able to hand deliver Christmas trees to all our local customers.” I swiped my eyes with the back of my hand and sniffed.
“We’ll work something out.” Austin frowned. “We could run a fundraiser. Maybe a talent show or a baking competition?”
I paused for a moment, my shoulders relaxing. “You know, that isn’t a bad idea. The people of Maple Falls do love a competition. Perhaps we could do a gingerbread cookie contest? I adore gingerbread cookies, so I’d be more than happy to judge.”
Austin chuckled. “Sounds like a win-win situation. Raising money for the farm and eating delicious food in the process. Let’s print off some posters and get the word out.”
“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I smiled.
“And cut!” Charles yelled. “Excellent work, you two.”
My whole body buzzed. For the past few minutes I’d been Molly, experiencing her emotions as if they were mine. This is why I act.
The adrenaline rushing through my body almost overpowered the dull ache in my chest from the devastation I’d just experienced as Molly.
Austin removed the heavy firefighters jacket and placed his hand on the small of my back. I jumped away, struggling to control the involuntary shudder that vibrated through my body. Phillip used to do that.
Austin furrowed his brow.
Shit. I was clearly being overly sensitive.
“Sorry, I’m just a little jumpy after that scene.”
“Those tears were amazing,” Austin said as we walked toward the trailers. “I’ve never been able to cry on demand.”
“Thank you.” I waved to Mihira, who played my best friend, as she headed toward the craft services table. “I don’t always find it easy, but for some reason it worked this afternoon.”
“How are you liking being in a HolLove movie?” Austin asked, as we came to a stop outside our trailers. A trio of crew members passed by carrying lighting equipment.
“It’s certainly different. The pace is a lot faster and the last-minute script changes add to the challenge,” I said. “But I’m honestly just excited to be working again. Do you like it, doing so many HolLove movies?”
Austin gave a half?smile. “Look, it’s not my preferred role. I always dreamed I’d do action movies and thrillers—be the next Tom Cruise. But I can’t complain. I make a living from acting, which is more than a lot of actors can say.” He kicked a stone down the path outside our trailers.
“Hey,” he said, straightening, “do you feel like coming into my trailer for a drink? We can talk about all the things that led us to scraping the bottom of the barrel with HolLove. All the failed auditions and roles we just missed out on.”
“Oh, uh.” I eyed my trailer door. After the amazing scene I’d just had, the last thing I felt like doing was dwelling on the negatives with Austin. “As fun as that sounds, I really need to rest before the next scene. I’ll see you there?”
He shrugged and turned away. Poor Austin. He clearly wasn’t as satisfied with HolLove as I’d assumed. Perhaps I should have been more willing to offer a sympathetic ear.
I hopped up my trailer steps, wriggled out of Molly’s navy blue coat and pulled my phone out of the drawer. I’d left it in the trailer today, not wanting to be distracted by any more calls or texts.
Lucia had messaged, checking in on how filming was going.
I should try calling her again tonight. I hadn’t heard from her since she’d messaged the family group chat to say she wouldn’t be going to Ryan’s family’s house for Thanksgiving and would be coming home alone instead.
I’d called her to check if everything was okay, but she hadn’t called me back and it had been a few days.
My stomach lurched as I noticed I had another missed call from the journalist.
Should I block her? It felt kind of rude. Perhaps it was better to just call her back and tell her to stop hounding me.
Before I had a chance to overthink it, I dialed her number.
“Emily, hi, thanks so much for calling me back,” Rebecca answered swiftly.
I took a deep breath. “No problem. Look, I’m not interested in talking about Phillip so I’d appreciate if you could stop calling me. Please.” I walked over to the small desk and stared out the window of the trailer at a pair of brown cows munching on grass in the distance.
“I understand why you feel that way, but could I just quickly explain what the article I’m writing is about?”
I sighed. I’d seen enough articles about him before to know what it would be about. Phillip Weatherstone, the director of a generation. Phillip Weatherstone, the Hollywood director with the Midas touch. But if it would help get Rebecca off my back to listen to her spiel, I’d suck it up.
I gripped the side of the desk. “Okay.”
Her voice softened. “I appreciate this might come as a shock, but we’re investigating serious allegations that Phillip sexually harassed and assaulted a number of female actors who worked with him over the years.
I understand you might have experienced this firsthand and I was hoping you might be willing to talk to me about it.
I know this is really hard, but sharing your story may help prevent other women from being hurt and ensure Phillip is brought to justice. ”
The cows out the window seemed to sway. I slowly lowered myself onto the sunken gray couch.
Rebecca wasn’t writing a puff piece about Phillip. She was investigating him.
He’d harassed other people, too.
“Emily, are you there?”
“Sorry, yes.” I traced my finger down a seam in the couch.
“I know it’s a lot. Could I ask if Phillip made you sign an NDA?”
“An NDA?” My hand froze.
“A confidentiality agreement. To stop you from speaking to anyone?”
“No. He never asked me to.”
Was his threat to ruin my career in place of an NDA? Or perhaps he thought what had happened hadn’t been serious enough to require one?
“Okay, that’s great. He has a habit of using them, which has made it very difficult for a number of women to speak to me on the record.”
My thoughts jumbled together. My clothes were suddenly too hot and too tight.
Sometimes, I’d let myself wonder whether I’d done something to attract Phillip’s attention—had I been too friendly, and he’d misread the signals? I’d never considered Phillip’s behavior toward me might be part of a broader pattern. Now I wondered why not. Of course, I wasn’t to blame.
I grabbed a bottle of water from the table next to the couch and took a swig. “How did you get my number?”
“A source mentioned that you’d been targeted by Phillip. I asked around and managed to get hold of it.”
A source? The only people I’d told about Phillip were Cat and Brittany, and I’d sworn them to secrecy. Brittany definitely wouldn’t have said anything. She’d told me not to. It must have been Cat. My hand clenched around the water bottle. I’d told Cat about Phillip in confidence.
“If I decide to talk, I’ll call you. Please stop calling me.”
“Okay, bu—”
“Sorry, I’ve got to go.”
I hung up and slumped back on the couch.
There had been other women. My stomach churned. How many others?
I’d been put in an unpleasant situation, a situation I should never have had to deal with, but I’d been able to extricate myself before anything actually happened.
Had it played out differently for those other women? What had he done to them? I shut my eyes. I didn’t want to know.
I stood, and started pacing around the small trailer.
Why had Cat spoken to Rebecca about it? I clenched my jaw.
I’d trusted her. Filming Clique together, our first major film, had been an incredibly bonding experience.
We’d grown so close that when everything happened with Phillip, I’d confided in her, despite Phillip’s threats.
But after filming we’d lost touch, just exchanging brief texts every so often.
The last exchange had been when she’d won an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress in March.
Unless all the fame and success had gone to her head, I couldn’t imagine her betraying my confidence like this.
I sat back on the couch and navigated to the ‘contacts’ section of my phone and swiped down to her details. My finger hovered over her number. She was probably busy—she’d had a steady stream of work since Clique.
I stared at her number, my leg jiggling. Fuck it. I might as well try. I wanted to know.
“Hello, who is this?”
“Hi Cat, this is Emily. Emily Rossi.”
“Emily!” Cat’s voice was warm. She sounded just as I remembered. “I’ve been trying to contact you. Have you changed numbers?”
She’d been trying to contact me?
“Yeah, a few months ago.”
“Well, I’m glad you called. How are you?”
“I’m okay.” I swallowed. “I just got off a call with a reporter. She wants to speak to me about Phillip. Did you tell her about what happened?”
“Shit, I’m sorry, Em. I mentioned your first name in passing—it just slipped out. As soon as I said it, I kicked myself. I’d hoped she wouldn’t work out who you were, but she must have put two and two together.”
I stood up again, unable to keep still, and started to walk. “Why were you talking to her about it in the first place?”
There was a long pause. Then she said, “Because it happened to me too.”
I stopped walking. “What?”
“It was after what happened to you.” Cat paused. “I saw how he treated you after you said no, so I went along with it.” Cat’s voice broke.
A tight knot formed in my stomach.
“Shit, I’m so sorry. I wish you’d told me.”
“I was worried you’d judge me. You were so strong, saying no…”