He nods. “Right, I mean, I wish you’d just asked.” He sips his tea, conscious of the oddness of the conversation but clearly keen to keep things on an even keel. “I’m dying to know why you needed it.”
I remain silent, bathed in a weird kind of shame I haven’t felt since childhood. He’s not reacting like I thought he would. He’s acting like I borrowed his toothbrush.
“You didn’t use it, I’m guessing?”
“No,” I confirm with a firm shake of the head. “Definitely not.”
“You know there was a bullet in the chamber, right?” There’s the lightest shade of worry in his tone.
“Yes, well actually, no I didn’t. Not at first, but then yes.”
He’s quiet for a second, seeming to put the pieces together. “Is this something to do with Emily?” he asks.
“It is.”
He waits for more but I can’t give it to him, not unless I tell him everything. He lets a fresh silence stretch out before speaking again. And for the first time in the conversation he sounds genuinely concerned.
“Did you make up the whole Emily story, Mia? Is there something else going on with you? Something I should know about?” He looks worried, hurt even, and I find my resolve wobbling.
“No, I didn’t. She was real. I went to meet a friend of hers last night. I was worried the friend might have been responsible for Emily’s disappearance in some way.” I cobble truth muddied with half-truth. It’s all I can give him. “Turns out she wasn’t responsible for Emily, not really. But I didn’t know beforehand and I was scared. I know it was incredibly reckless going, taking your gun. Dangerous and illegal and I lied to you and stole from you but I just wanted some sense of security, I suppose.”
He studies my face, his expression unreadable. “And can I ask if everything is all right now? Are you all right? Should I be worried?” He indicates my face.
I had almost forgotten how I must look to him. A pale Englishwoman covered in bruises and cuts telling him everything is just peachy.
“I wasn’t fine. But I am now, it’s all…resolved. None of it should be a problem anymore,” I reassure him gently. Because Marla and Emily are gone and in a few hours I will be too. I choose my next words carefully. “I’ve told the police about it. It’s all in their hands now. Nothing more for me to do.” Nick’s concern returns at the mention of police, so I reach for the first almost-truth I can find to reassure him. “It was just an overzealous stalker, you know, so. But nothing happened to me. I’m fine. No one got shot.” I offer a muted smile. “I’m sorry, Nick,” I repeat sincerely.
“Ah,” he says, that narrative seeming to make sense to him given the little he knows. “No. I’m sorry you thought you had to go through this whole thing alone. You’re all right now?” Another wave of guilt washes through me as I continue to tell lies by omission.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I say, waving away the evidence clearly visible on my bruised face. “The car crash was me. I mean…it was entirely my fault. I just wasn’t concentrating. And I knew there had been a problem with the car earlier but there’s just been too much going on out here. I wasn’t focusing. I’d just been to see her. I’d left her and I—” I break off as the image of her falling from me flashes through my mind. In a way I’m telling him the truth although hopefully my confession sounds more like a tired driver blaming herself for a car accident than anything else. I change tack, moving from facts to feelings because at least I don’t have to lie about those. “I need to go home. It’s been too much, out here. After Eyre everything’s just been crazy. And then George. And here I am—” I catch Nick’s subtle flinch at the mention of George’s name. It’s the first time I’ve mentioned the breakup though I’m absolutely certain he’s seen the photos of George with Naomi in the tabloids by now. I bluster on. “I was trying to run away from things, not just George but all of it, being alone, that life I was left with, like if I could just keep busy enough everything would be okay. I think I kept myself a little too busy. And now I just need to go home, you know. To cry, to settle, to get over him and heal properly—I really like you, Nick. I’m sorry it happened this way. I’m sorry this situation got so fucked up. I’m sorry I’m so fucked up.”
“Hey. Listen. This is Hollywood,” he counters, a slow smile building, “you’re going to have to trust me when I say you’re not the craziest person I’ve ever met, Mia. Hell, you’re not even the craziest person I’ve kissed.”
I laugh in spite of myself, my face pinching tight.
Emboldened he continues, “When you’re ready. When you’re back home and you’re thriving and happy and healed. When you want. Can I see you again? Back in London?”
My already haywire emotions reel off in every direction. It takes all of my willpower to hold it together. To hide my surprise, my happiness, my relief that I haven’t ruined whatever this is. He still likes me. Trusts me. Wants to see me. Even though he knows something very strange has happened, and he knows I’m weird and a bit broken, and that there are certain things about me that I can’t tell him just yet—somehow, somehow, he still likes me.
He mistakes my silence for something else and keeps talking.
“However stupid it sounds, I’ve genuinely never met anyone like you, Mia. You’ve got this rock-solid core, this strength inside you. People can see it. You know yourself. Do you know how rare that is? It’s something special.” He shakes his head, trying to find the words. “And whatever’s been going on. I know you’d tell me if telling me was important. Maybe I’m naive, or delusional, maybe, but I trust you that you know what you’re doing. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. It’s funny, with you I always feel like we’re working toward something together, does that make sense? Like we’re always just picking up the same long conversation we’ve been having since we met—” He breaks off, suddenly self-conscious.
I take a slow, calm breath before speaking—a movement in the mirror beside me catches my eye and my attention flicks to the figure reflected in the glass beside me, her bruised face, my bruised face, Jane Eyre’s bruised face, our eyes wild and lost but still just about holding it together—and then, reader, I answered him.
35
Everyone’s a Winner
SUNDAY, MAY 16 (THREE MONTHS LATER)
The hotel suite is empty now and the comforting rumble of metropolitan London seeps in through the hotel windows. Faint horns honk in the distance, and building work burrs on with the roll and shudder of traffic in the city streets below.
I stand and assess the woman before me. In the hotel’s floor-length mirror, finally alone, I take in what hours of preparation and hard work have created.
I turn, the sparkles of my Tom Ford gown catching and refracting the light up into twinkling shimmers on the hotel’s high ceiling. The delicate fabric clinging tight and then falling loose over the contours of my frame made six inches higher with towering Aquazzura heels. I wobble slightly as the sharp stilettos sink too deep into the thick pile of the suite’s carpet.
It’s almost exactly three months since I left LA, three months since I watched Marla tip back into the darkness and disappear.
I inspect my face for evidence of that night but my bruises are long gone. No traces of the trauma inflicted that night remain—except maybe the look behind my eyes, but then no one would know to look for that except me.