Chapter Twelve
After a long final day of filming, the crew threw a wrap party.
There was a toast at the end of the night, led by one of the producers. “To topping the box office!” he said, punctuated with the rise of his champagne flute. They all conveyed their agreement with a chorus of cheers followed by the whole room knocking back the contents of their glasses.
It wasn’t just the sparkling water that made Dimple feel like she was floating.
While nobody stayed on set longer than her and Jerome, Shyla Patel was always eager to run lines and gossip in their trailers after hours.
Even Chris Porter was a better scene partner than expected, adapting to improvisation with ease, ebbing and flowing with their manufactured emotions.
The hard part was over and Dimple couldn’t believe it. The waking nightmares were less frequent and being the face of such an anticipated movie meant her name was gaining some traction. Julie was having a much easier time setting up opportunities for her.
A group of Dimple’s co-stars chose then to approach, faces bright and mouths stretched wide with laughter.
Before she knew it, she was being corralled into a photo.
Shyla Patel was the ringleader. She insisted on putting the leads front and center, which Dimple good-naturedly refused a couple times before embracing it with flushed cheeks.
Her co-lead, Chris Porter, swung a leaden arm over her shoulder.
“We did it, gorgeous,” he slurred.
Dimple froze under his weight, but everyone else seemed too preoccupied to notice.
This uncomfortable weight against her side reminded her of those blurry photos of Dimple on set, completely unaware of a camera tailing her.
Shots of her and Chris Porter through the window of a café.
They were framed in such a way to look like the two of them were alone even though the entire main cast had been there as well.
Dimple tried to avoid it at all costs. Horrid words from Chris’s jealous fans always accompanied them. Insults to her appearance from a cluster of blurry photographs. Attacks on her character coming from people who’d never so much as crossed paths with her.
But there was nothing that could be done. The producers liked the implication that their two main leads were romantically involved. Apparently, it was good publicity. As though art had to be publicized. If it weren’t for Julie, Dimple might’ve deleted her accounts right then and there.
Surrounded by her co-stars, the heavy arm holding her down, she was utterly trapped.
The flash of the camera lens couldn’t have come quick enough.
She ducked away, unapologetic at the way Chris stumbled without her support.
Claiming to the crowd at large that she needed a refill, Dimple fled across the room fast enough to avoid their chorus of disappointed boo’s.
The poisonous phantom of Chris’s touch lingered long after she left him.
It was ridiculous. So what if he was drunk—they’d had to kiss on set, for god’s sake.
Five takes. That was how long it took to get it right.
Shyla had teased her about it for days. The entire cast had a running joke about Chris having to stand on a platform so he could appear taller than her.
He was annoying and arrogant, sure, but the man had never bothered her to this extent before.
Dimple watched her coworkers shriek with laughter from across the room, unreasonably angry with herself. Had she even smiled for the photograph?
It wasn’t until she noticed someone approaching that she remembered to put on her best face. She affixed her brightest expression and raised an empty glass in greeting, but faltered when she noticed who it was.
Jerome Bardoux looked around to make sure no one else was listening before leaning in close. Contrary to the champagne in his hand, he seemed sober. “I would say sorry for what it took to get you to take this job, but I’m really not.”
His words took a moment to register. When they did, Dimple was more shocked at his carelessness to say such a thing in public than at the words themselves.
She tightened her grip on the stem of her glass.
Other than to direct her, he’d never actually initiated a conversation with her.
Not even a hello, how are you, or so much as a customary good morning.
This was an interesting attempt at their first, Dimple would give him that.
“I’m sure you’ll agree once you see the final product,” he continued, reaching out to pry her empty glass from her death grip and replacing it with a full one. Then, at full volume, “We work well together, don’t you think?”
Dimple stared at the clear bubbling liquid in her new glass. Raising it to her nose, she confirmed that it was indeed sparkling water. Jerome clinked glasses with her. When he pulled away, Dimple noticed he was picking his fingernail raw.
With that, the man was gone, leaving Dimple dumbstruck.
She could do nothing but stare at his retreating figure, attempting to parse through mixed emotions.
Jerome truly thought he’d conned her. It would be laughable if it weren’t so concerning that Dimple shared such a damning secret with an idiot.
If he was acting so careless already, how much worse off would he be with pressure applied?
Dimple was one step closer to effective immortality through art.
If Jerome ever dared to stand in the way of that, she would have no choice but to deal with him accordingly.
For now, though, perhaps their tether could work to her benefit.
A small body barreled into Dimple’s side, breaking her free of her thoughts. She tightened her grip on her champagne flute at the last moment, saving it from a shattering death.
“Priyal,” she said.
“Sorry I’m late,” the girl breathed.
Dimple had invited Priyal to set after lunch, correctly assuming that the director would be far too busy to care about his more minor rules.
She surmised it would be an interesting experience, getting to see up close how film projects wrapped.
It was something Dimple wished she’d gotten insight on before being thrown into the deep end.
However, according to the clock, it was seven in the evening.
This was late, even by Priyal’s standards.
“You might as well have called in,” Dimple said, raising her brows.
“I know, but I promise I got you your coffee at noon,” Priyal said.
Dimple frowned. “And is this coffee in the room with us now?”
“No, I kind of spilled it all over your friend.”
Dimple blinked. “My…friend?”
“I’m just now realizing that I never asked for her name.
” Priyal said. “You used to work together. She’s from Arizona?
About your height, black hair. Some kind of businesswoman, I’m guessing?
” When Dimple showed no signs of recognition, Priyal continued.
“She looked pretty angry, even when she said she wasn’t. ”
Dimple knew no one by that description. “Ah, yes,” she said. “Was she all right?”
“Yeah! It was an iced coffee, so no burns, thank goodness.”
Dimple resisted the urge to pinch her brows and sigh. The one day Priyal actually bought her an iced coffee and it never made its way to her. She felt more despair toward the lost drink than she did for the con artist it ended up on.
“That doesn’t explain why you’re late,” Dimple said.
“Well, we got to talking and I lost track of time. And then I took her to get her shirt dry-cleaned because I felt bad,” Priyal recounted. “And then I was hungry, so I—”
Dimple tuned out the rest of her explanation.
It was possible this stranger would target her assistant again.
Perhaps she needed to speak to her manager, Julie, about potential security measures.
She didn’t want to scare the girl, though.
Especially if it was nothing. Perhaps she really did know someone by that description.
Dimple wasn’t exactly one for remembering people who didn’t catch her interest.
“What did you talk about?” she asked.
“Mostly you,” Priyal admitted. “You should really call her, by the way. It seems like she misses you.”
“I’m sure she does,” Dimple said dryly.
“She sends her condolences about Irene. Oh, and…” Priyal leaned in conspiratorially, “she told me to tell you that she hates Jerome just as much as we do.”
Dimple’s heart stuttered. It took a moment for her to find her voice. “She told you to tell me that?”
Priyal nodded, a secretive grin stretched across her lips.
Dimple had never told another soul about anything relating to her work, Jerome, or even Irene.
There was a good chance she had a new blackmailer on her hands.
And so soon after she’d dealt with the last one.
To make matters worse, this one seemed much smarter than Isaac Klossner. Bolder too. This would be a problem.
Priyal’s phone chimed. “Oh wow, did you hear?” Dimple hummed, half listening. “The Singhs aren’t going through with the lawsuit anymore.”
That had her attention at once.
“What?”
Priyal showed her the headline, sending Dimple’s stomach twisting into knots.
Either a chill had washed across the room or Dimple’s heart had stopped beating altogether.
The full article revealed nothing as to why the Singhs had suddenly changed their mind.
It did, however, offer several quotes from the family stating that they’d been too hasty in assigning blame and that they were confident that Salomé had nothing to do with their daughter’s death.
But if Salomé no longer held the blame, then who did?
This coupled with the mysterious stranger who’d approached Priyal couldn’t be a mere coincidence.
It was never ending, this practice of setting fires only to put them out again.
Dimple had already decided that from now on she wasn’t just going to survive.
She was not going to take the gift of her life for granted.
She would make sure her likeness lived on even longer than she did.
Whatever it took to break the cycle—even if it meant burning the whole world down—she’d have no choice but to do it.
Dimple reached into the shallow pocket of her dress and traced the shape of her lighter. She had enough presence of mind not to pull it out and ignite the flame like a madwoman, but knowing it was there was enough to ground her.
She had found the thing under the fridge of her first Los Angeles apartment, discarded by the previous tenants.
A deep red lighter with two scratches at its base, completely out of fuel.
She’d been about to toss it, but something had stopped her.
Her waitressing job had kept her on her feet nearly every day of the week, dealing with entitled, angry patrons and managers with no respect for her time.
And she’d still barely made rent every month.
Dimple had figured she might as well get something out of her lease.
So she’d kept it, refueling as soon as she was able.
She’d landed her first speaking role not too long after.
No matter how far Dimple had come, though, or however far she would go, it seemed Irene Singh was determined to reclaim what should have been hers. Her role, her trailer, her wrap party. But Dimple was not willing to let it go.