Chapter Thirty
Five days before Insomnia’s premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival, Dimple Kapoor found herself on the receiving end of far more pity than she could withstand.
“I always knew he had it out for you. The way he would look at you sometimes—I only wish I had said something earlier.”
Dimple had already forgotten the name of whomever she was talking to, not that it mattered.
This was definitely the first time they’d spoken on the phone, and possibly the first time they’d said more than a few sentences to each other.
This influx in pity was an unforeseen consequence of the article about Hector Olsen she’d anonymously leaked last week.
On her couch, scrolling through her notifications, Dimple listened with one ear. She tried not to flinch when Irene Singh’s face took up the screen. Ever since the public found out her death was no accident, there’d been a whole new resurgence of love for her.
Even more disturbing was the small yet vocal group that vehemently denied any and all claims of Irene’s death, swearing up and down that she had, in fact, gone into hiding somewhere in the Cayman Islands.
“Don’t blame yourself. You couldn’t possibly have predicted this,” Dimple replied.
“How are you doing?”
“I suppose I am shaken up.”
Dimple smiled at the messages under the most recent photo Priyal had posted of her. Fans seemed to enjoy her recent magazine cover shoots. Perhaps she ought to say yes to those opportunities more often.
“Oh, you poor thing.”
It was obvious they’d only called so they could sell their story to the press later on. Up-and-coming actor Whatever Their Name Is has shared that their close and personal friend, Dimple Kapoor, is “shaken up, but hanging in there” in light of recent events.
Having gotten what they wanted, the unknown caller quickly made their excuses and hung up. Dimple watched the likes of her most recent post steadily increase. She refreshed the page and the number doubled.
The only genuine call she’d received had been from the owners of the café next door to her first Los Angeles apartment.
Every lie that had slipped from her lips while speaking to them had made her stomach twist with guilt.
She’d already abused too much of their kindness and so she tried her best to avoid their efforts to reconnect.
In addition to screening phone calls, Dimple had been extraordinarily busy.
Between the new lead role she’d landed and promotional work for Insomnia, Dimple hardly noticed as the leaves browned and wind picked up in preparation for a cool Los Angeles fall.
There was too much to worry about—for one, the knowledge that her newest movie would be filming at the same lot Hector Olsen was working on.
This proposed trouble, but also a unique opportunity.
Amidst the chaos, however, it had been rather calm. Perhaps a little too calm. Hector Olsen’s trial—moved up to the middle of the month—was still too far out for Dimple’s liking. And it would be just like Saffi to pull the rug out from under her at the last moment.
Dimple slipped on a pair of her favorite heels and took the stairs out of her apartment complex.
The weather outside today was too nice to ignore.
She decided she needed a walk, desperate for the opportunity to clear her head.
The wind ruffled her hair and she breathed in the herbal aroma wafting over from the biryani place nearby.
It reminded her of walking by Irene during lunch breaks on set. Dimple stuffed her hands in her pockets and walked briskly in the opposite direction. She could feel people stare as she passed—perhaps they’d recognized her—but Dimple kept her head ducked.
Months ago, when Dimple Kapoor had fallen off the balcony at a party and been subsequently hospitalized, the Hollywood whisper network had been under the impression that she had a substance abuse problem.
Now, however, since every media site was pushing the idea that not only had Dimple Kapoor been attacked, but that Hector Olsen was the culprit, it was another story altogether.
Suddenly, partygoers swore up and down that they remembered Hector Olsen following Dimple Kapoor out to the balcony.
Several posts even claimed that they’d witnessed him leaving the party in a blood-soaked suit.
And these claims weren’t just limited to the anonymity of the internet.
Nearly every single one of Dimple’s acquaintances had been reaching out to her with similar sentiments.
Hollywood was rich in many things, but none so much as scandal.
It was imperative to grasp for any stake you could in the fiasco of the moment; that way your interviews for the subsequent documentaries, memoirs, and the like would be secured.
All this worked in Dimple’s favor. It was glorious, the power of a single seeded thought.
It didn’t matter what Saffi did, nor did it matter that the trial had yet to take place; the world now considered Hector Olsen a guilty man.
Insomnia churned on regardless. Their scheduled premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival was days away and, realizing that there would be no pleasing everyone, Chris Porter was banned from participating in any promotion after being released from his rehabilitation.
This resulted in a drastic increase in Dimple’s own interview time and, suddenly, she was the only lead. It wasn’t exactly a terrible feeling.
A car sped past, sending Dimple’s hair flying. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she scrambled to check it. It was only a text from Priyal. She tucked it away.
Chris Porter, eager to rehabilitate not only himself, but his reputation as well, had gone as far as to set up a foundation for victims of DUIs.
The producers of Insomnia had publicly announced that a sizable donation of box office proceeds would go to that very foundation.
And just like that, public opinion was cemented in the positive.
Julie had told Dimple privately that the producers had only agreed to the donation in the first place because they projected that the movie would bring in enough revenue to make up for it.
Now, days away from her first-ever red-carpet appearance, Dimple felt as though she were walking on air.
It was likely the reason she ended up here, at the front steps of Andino and Taylor Private Eye.
Steeling herself, she pushed the doors open.
To say the PI agency was a chaotic mess would be an understatement, but Dimple hardly blamed them.
She figured they must be busy these days in preparation for Hector Olsen’s trial—or in Saffi’s case, her attempts to derail the trial.
The floor was littered with memos and rubber bands.
The trash cans were piled high. All three PIs were locked in their respective offices with their blinds drawn. The printer seemed to be smoking.
The conclusion of Hector’s trial, however, wouldn’t be the end of things.
It certainly wouldn’t be enough to dissuade Saffi, and that was what worried Dimple the most. What, short of death, would stop her?
If nothing but death would do, how could Dimple kill her?
Everyone seemed invincible until they weren’t, and the quality of a performance hinged on its conclusion.
Deciding she wouldn’t find her answers lingering in the hallway, Dimple knocked twice on Saffi’s door.
When she heard no answer, she pushed her way inside.
Compared to the rest of the building, Saffi’s office was as neat as ever.
Even more so, perhaps. The few square spaces of surface not stacked high with files and memos were sparkling.
“Did I say you could come in?” Saffi huffed, typing rapidly on her keyboard. She sounded tired.
“And here I thought I was always welcome,” Dimple said, coming to sit on the desk, beside Saffi’s elbow.
Predictably, Saffi exited out of her tabs quicker than Dimple could read them and swiveled around to face her. The only evidence of her lethargy were her dark circles. They’d always been there, but they were much more prominent now. And yet the show must go on.
“The opposite, actually,” Saffi said. “What do you want? Thanks to the stunt you pulled, I’m very busy.”
Her false disinterest was futile. Dimple remembered how Saffi had looked at her after watching Insomnia’s trailer. Like a moth to the flame. Seeing it for the first time, Dimple had thought, This is what it’s all for.
A thought wormed its way into Dimple’s mind. One could call it an impulse even. Before she could think twice, she was saying, “I rather think you could use a break.”
Saffi fixed her with an unimpressed look. “What part of I’m busy do you not understand?”
“Not now,” Dimple countered. “Next week.”
Saffi’s brow twitched slightly as she turned her mind over the importance of the date. “Toronto International Film Festival,” she eventually concluded. “You want me to go to the goddamn TIFF. You’re joking.”
Dimple wanted to see Saffi outside this office for once. Canada had abolished the death penalty, and Dimple found herself curious how Saffi would act when there was nothing holding her back. When there was even ground between them.
“Never,” Dimple said. “You should feel honored. Not everyone has the privilege of being invited.”
“I feel cheated, to be honest,” Saffi said, leaning back and crossing her arms. “What’s the point of knowing a famous actress if the best time she can offer me is some film festival? Where’s my Oscar invite?”
“It’s not just some film festival,” Dimple replied. “The sheer number of critics that show up to these things—it could make or break any debut. In many ways, it’s even more important than the Oscars.”
Those dark eyes bored into hers unflinchingly. Despite knowing Dimple’s full truth, Saffi hadn’t once been afraid of her. Dimple straightened.
“And you want to take me with you?” Saffi asked.
“Of course.”
“What about—?” Saffi held her hand up to Dimple’s hip, severely underestimating Priyal’s height.
“Priyal is already coming as my assistant. You’re my date.”
With a deep sigh, Saffi rubbed her temples. “You’re too much,” she murmured under her breath.
Dimple inclined her head. “And you deserve the most.”
She didn’t miss the way Saffi studied her computer screen as she considered it. Dimple had piqued her curiosity.
With a final push, Dimple asked, “What are you so afraid of?”
Saffi scoffed. “You’re the one who should be afraid. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
“Was that a threat?” Dimple asked, eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. “That was almost cute, Saffi. Even if you killed me, I’d just come back to haunt you.”
“You really think they’d let you out of hell?”
That startled a laugh out of Dimple. As she looked down at Saffi’s smirk, she felt even more resolved.
After seeing Insomnia, even Saffi wouldn’t be able to deny that the end justified the means.
She could die knowing she’d been in the wrong all along.
The more Dimple felt this desire, the harder those phantom fingers pressed into her neck. It was becoming difficult to breathe.
Saffi turned back to her computer, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, and Dimple got the distinct feeling she was going to decline.
Just as the disappointment was settling in, Saffi said, “I’m not paying for a plane ticket.”
Dimple was already heading for the door before either one of them could change their mind. “I already have everything we need; I’ll forward you the details. All you have to do is pack.”
“Hold on, I didn’t say—!”
Dimple only paused to wave goodbye before shutting the door conclusively behind her. She leaned back against it, glad everyone was too busy to take notice of her in such a state. A strand of hair chose that moment to break free of its artful placement, and she hurriedly tucked it away.
It wasn’t just Saffi. The premiere meant the world would see her as a lead for the first time. Even if the film flopped at the box office stage, the way Dimple looked, spoke, and acted would be immortalized like this forever. Frozen in time for generations to come.
Proof that her mother’s death hadn’t been in vain, and it was close enough to taste.
She almost wished her aunt and uncle were here so she could shove it in their faces.
Although Saffi was right, hell rarely extended the courtesy of a day pass to its inhabitants.
Dimple banished them from her thoughts. If anyone’s meaningless existence deserved to be forgotten, it was theirs.
“Oh—hello,” a familiar voice said.
Dimple straightened at once. Atlas had a half-eaten granola bar in hand, jaw slack in surprise. When she nodded politely at him, he immediately returned the gesture.
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh, just visiting,” she replied vaguely.
“By the way, have fun at TIFF. You’ll have to tell me all about it,” Atlas said.
“Actually, you can ask Saffi. She’ll be coming with me.”
Dimple, admittedly, only said it to see what kind of reaction it would elicit from Atlas. There was a brief flash of jealousy that amused her greatly.
“Will she, now?” he asked, thoughtfully. “I have to admit it’s strange how much the two of you have hit it off. You couldn’t be more different. I’m surprised her terrible attitude didn’t put you off.”
“I find it rather endearing,” Dimple replied.
“Fair enough. That’s how Saffi treats the people she respects.”
Dimple blinked up at Atlas, caught off guard.
“Right?” he laughed. “It’s no wonder she has no friends other than us.”
Us. Dimple contemplated that for far longer than necessary.
“Can you do me a favor?” Atlas asked suddenly, wrenching Dimple from her thoughts. “Look out for her, will you?”
Atlas had such an earnest gaze, another one of the rare reminders that he and Saffi held more than just contempt for each other.
She thought of a photograph, three foreheads brushing, huddled around paperwork.
He had no idea the weight of what he was asking, nor whom he was asking it of.
Nor did he have the self-awareness to know that he was part of the reason Saffi needed looking out for.
“I will,” Dimple said. “I promise she’s safe with me.”