Chapter 46
Ellie was drifting. There was no other way to put it. It was the final day of shooting season seven of Universe Below and she could not keep it together.
“Action!” cried Anastasia for the fifth take of this scene — Estella Grant, gun in hand, murdering her husband — and Ellie could not do it. It felt like she was actively disassociating, hovering outside herself, watching the woman who she’d kissed, who she’d shared a bed with, take a human life.
It wasn’t like this series of events was news to her, for fuck’s sake!
Estella herself had admitted it. But the way the script was written, it wasn’t the final straw of an abused woman taking out the monster who’d tormented her, the way Alison — and also Ellie — believed it to be.
Instead, it was cold-blooded murder, a woman with a bloodthirsty desire for power, the man she’d married just the final barrier to the top.
And so, Ellie stood frozen, stuck inside her own ever-looping mind.
Because Estella was capable of such an act; the violent deaths of the men who’d attacked Ellie were proof of that.
If it wasn’t for the dangerous collision of Ellie Graham and Estella Grant, there’d be two men still alive and one more uninjured — brothers, husbands, sons — and as Ellie held the prop gun in her shaking hand, it felt like she was killing them all over again.
“Cut,” called Anastasia. “Eloise? You okay?”
Eventually the director called time on the scene, sending them all off to lunch for a break.
Ellie swore blue that she was fine, then hunched up in her trailer sucking in deep ragged breaths, her head swimming.
She couldn’t eat, her stomach rebelling.
She’d gotten through weeks of filming, but something about this final day on set was getting to her.
She couldn’t make herself fire this gun.
Her phone rang, tugging her out of her panicked spiral as she saw Zara’s name flash up on the phone.
“Oh my god, Ellie,” Zara said. She sounded tight with shock. “Arthur just got suspended from school.”
“For what?!” Ellie stood up, worry spiking through her body.
After Genevieve’s funeral, Arthur had seemed softer again, though still withdrawn and moody.
Ellie couldn’t begin to deal with the idea it had only been a momentary reprieve.
Terrible images leapt into her mind, all those teenage girls at school, her nephew, so filled with confusion and vile misogynistic propaganda.
“Well,” said Zara slowly. “He punched Kyle in the face. Apparently, Kyle used a transphobic slur against Felix, and Arthur socked him in the middle of class. Busted his nose.”
“Yes!” Ellie went weak-kneed with relief. “Fucking yes, Arthur!”
“I mean, I don’t think I can say that to my son who just used violence at school, but I have to say I agree with you.”
“Punching nazis and future wife-beaters is fine,” Ellie cried. “He was protecting his friend!”
“It’s odd hearing you say that,” said Zara, the sound of her car door slamming in the background, the echo of her voice as she switched to speaker. “Seems you’re okay with someone hurting bad guys, if it’s your nephew?”
Ellie barely had to pause to think that one through. “Punching someone is different from killing someone,” she pointed out, feeling sick all over again.
“I mean, we’re talking different playing fields, though?” Zara said. “Killing a teenage boy who’s a dick would be wrong. But killing a killer… I mean, punching a member of a violent crime organisation isn’t going to do much, is it? Just get you killed probably.”
“I think the key is to stay the hell away from organised crime in the first place if that’s where your moral barometer ends up,” Ellie said defensively.
“Shame if it’s chosen for you,” Zara said.
“If it’s the family you’re born into. The only life you know.
Anyway,” she said hastily, steering them away from rehashing this argument all over again.
“I’m going to pick up my delinquent son.
Take him out for ice-cream and tell him violence isn’t the answer, but fuck I’m glad he’s seen the light. ”
“Love you,” said Ellie. “Tell Arthur I adore him.”
When they hung up, Ellie found that even though she still didn’t agree with Zara, she could, at least, film the final scene.
“Cut!’ cried Anastasia. “That’s a wrap! Well done, team!”
The cast and crew all whooped and cheered and hugged each other, but Ellie felt numb.
Getting the final scene in the bag had taken it out of her, and she felt shaken to her core.
Squeezing the trigger on the prop gun and watching her colleague grab his bloodied chest, it was half Estella and half Ellie that fell to her knees as the light died in Mike Grant’s eyes.
The proper wrap party was tomorrow night, but everyone was heading out for drinks to celebrate the successful conclusion to the season.
Ellie stumbled into her trailer to get changed, only to realise she couldn’t even begin to fathom the idea of drinking wine and accepting toasts for her performance as Estella Grant.
Not when she knew what she’d done to get there.
She was sick of herself. She wanted to get out of there so badly that she didn’t even pause to take off her costume, fleeing the set for her hotel room in full wig, makeup and contacts, the designer red dress squeezing her body so tightly it felt as if her insides might fall out if she removed it.
She fled past the reception desk, practically fell into the lift and made it all the way into her hotel room before she started hyperventilating.
It all swept over her in a tidal wave of confusion, from the very first time she lay sprawled on the pavement gazing up at Estella Grant’s blazing blue eyes until the last moment, turning her back in horror as Estella walked away.
It had been all in there, from the beginning, hadn’t it? Estella had tripped her to the ground, making her bleed. A woman of no compunction, who’d take what she wanted and dole out pain and death where it suited her? And yet, Ellie still could not see her that way.
Her body wouldn’t let her forget all those moments that Estella was desperately tender, all those moments she’d been so utterly, terribly human.
Estella had been electric with fear that moment that Gio had hunted them in her office, yet she’d stepped out with her head high, doing everything possible to draw him away from Ellie, to keep her safe.
Estella had been wide-eyed and nervous, her hands trembling as she’d touched Ellie for the first time, scrambling to stay in control, to take what she so badly wanted.
She’d sobbed when Ellie was injured; whipped her to safety; held her hand, and then, eventually, her body, as she’d healed.
Racing back to Melbourne to keep Zara and Arthur safe, whispering the truth of her traumatic past to Ellie those days in Gold Hill.
No, Estella Grant was no monster; even though Ellie had treated her like one in the end.
It would be so much simpler to fear her or hate her or judge her, but Ellie was much more unsettled by the nagging realisation that maybe Ellie had hurt her.
That she’d been the one to accept taking on the role of playing a real living human being in the first place, that she’d sought out Estella, stalked her, wanted more, then crossed the final line to seduce her.
She’d known the whole time who Estella was, so it was very late in the game for Ellie to be shocked by her crimes in the end.
She was pacing the room, the contacts gritty in her eyes, her mind whirling with thoughts.
Arthur punching Kyle; Felix’s tender worried parents; Zara’s furious words flung at Ellie, the man who raped me got nothing; Alison’s troubled eyes, admitting she’d not intervened knowing Estella was about to kill her abuser; Estella breaking down in Harry’s cottage garden, the dirt streaking her wet cheeks beneath the foxgloves.
The conclusion hit her in a sharp, heady rush. She had to get to Estella. She had to tell her—
Just like that, there was a rap on her door. Her heart seized in her chest. Who else could find her, here in an anonymous hotel room, bypassing security to make it to her floor?
She flung open her door, almost lightheaded with relief. The words died on her lips.
There in the doorway, stood Jimmy Jenkins.
Ellie stepped back automatically, trying to put space between her and the unwelcome visitor, but Jenkins took it as an invitation, stepping right into her hotel room.
“Eloise,” he said, his voice like a caress, making her skin crawl. “You didn’t make the cast party. I was concerned about you.”
“I’m not feeling well,” she said instantly, wanting nothing but this man gone. Her spine was rigid, and her cheeks blazed with discomfort. “I needed to lie down.”
“You haven’t even taken your wardrobe off. You look great as a blonde, did you know that?” His eyes tracked over her skin, almost proprietarily, like she was merchandise.
“Thanks,” she said thickly. “I’ll bring it back, obviously.
” Her thoughts were racing, trying to figure out how to make him leave, but almost as if he heard her, he stepped in closer.
She couldn’t step any further without hitting the bed and, at that thought, she became lightheaded with fear.
Every sense she had was screaming that she was in danger.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I need some space. I’m not feeling great—”
“Oh, don’t be like that,” he stepped closer again, almost touching her, his eyes gleaming with what looked like victory. “I think you know, don’t you, this dance we’re playing?”
“There’s no dance—”
“You got my flowers,” he said. “I hardly think it’s a secret that I’m interested.”
“That was you?”
“Of course. Don’t be shy now, Eloise—” Just like that he reached for her, big hands going around her waist. She wrenched away, fast, backing away from the bed until her back hit the little desk built into the wall.