Chapter 46 Aoife Is Late
Aoife Is Late
“I don’t know if I can just leave like this,” Aoife tells Jez, her driver, then groans, leaning against the car.
Jez nods, gently testing the front tire of the black Mercedes with his foot.
“Well, no rush from me,” he says finally. “Shall I call base and warn them? What time does the event start?”
Aoife grimaces. “Five for the red carpet, then the dinner after.”
Jez sucks in a wince. “Mayfair, this time of day? We’d make it if we left now. You’d make the photos and Gabby from Dior won’t go nuts.”
Aoife springs up and down on the spot, chilled by the breeze in her Dior skirt-suit, and wrought by panicky nerves.
“Shit-shit-shit,” she singsongs. “What do I do? What if she’s not okay, somewhere?”
“Listen, we got to go now. Call her again.”
“It’s voicemail. But like the guy said, she just ran off out the back door. It’s pretty bizarre, no? She might be in trouble. Maybe he’s chopping her up, you know?”
“I doubt anyone’s chopping anyone up, Aoife,” Jez says. “Why did she need you to go there, again?” He makes an effort to keep judgment from his voice. This isn’t the first time he’s been with Aoife while she’s caught in the middle of something totally incomprehensible to him.
“I don’t know, Jez. She was seeing him, but, like, she’s realized he’s a bit much. He lied to her; he stole her cat!”
Jez raises his eyebrows. “That does all sound bad, yep, but maybe not our problem?” he offers. How people even get involved in situations like this astounds Jez. He just goes to work, goes home, makes microwave dinners, games for a few hours, and sleeps.
Aoife is still not getting in the car; she is tapping out messages frantically on her phone.
“You can message in the car—I’ve got a charger,” Jez tries again.
Aoife looks up, not having heard him.
“Just go knock on her door?” he suggests. “Make sure she’s okay, then we’ll go,” Jez offers, checking the time on his phone performatively as if he isn’t completely aware of the minutes ticking by.
They gave him Aoife because she asked for him after the last job they did together; he knew what rubbed her the wrong way and what didn’t.
Aoife’s eyes flash across the road to Frankie’s door. And, without a word, she sets off at a high-heeled trot across the tarmac and up the steps of Number 18.
Her knocks echo through the hall, but no one comes, no stirring of feet upstairs, nothing. Aoife hammers on the door with the side of her forearm, just as the stunt coordinator on the first film she worked on taught her.
Still no response.
Aoife turns back to look across the street and her heart sinks when she sees Jez is now having a conversation on his phone, presumably with the producers, his back to her.
“Shit,” Aoife sighs under her breath. She’s already caused a stink with them over a handsy sound guy and now another running late phone call.
Aoife spins back to Frankie’s door, drops to her knees, pushes open the letterbox, and yells into the house: “Fran, it’s Aoife.
I got to go. Text me you’re okay. I’ll call over in the morning. Text me back!”
That done, Aoife rises, dusts down her knees, and walks apologetically back to Jez, who is holding the car door open for her.
She slips inside. Jez slams the door and looks up to the heavens to mouth: Thank you, God.
Inside the warm, leather-clad car, Aoife plugs in her phone and shakes her head at another near-miss disaster. “Okay, let’s do this,” she declares, refocusing and shaking Frankie and the whole situation off her.
The car pulls from the curb and glides away, leaving the street empty and silent once more.