But Marla didn’t kill Emily. Moon Finch killed Emily. It’s odd being able to see things from the other side. I watched with interest as a few weeks after Cortez’s phone call Moon Finch was quietly bought out by another company. Ben Cohan and his business partner, Mike, moved on who knows where. Did they cut their losses or were they pushed? I don’t know if without that recording, or a witness, any of it could even be traced back to them. The most I can hope for is that what happened with Emily and then Marla scared them enough that they’d think twice before doing anything again.
I start on Galatea in two weeks. I got it. After everything. I’m excited to do it, of course, but I’d be lying if I said the sheen hadn’t rubbed off the role to an extent. It caused too many people too much heartbreak to still feel like an entirely good thing. I’m not so sure about the actor’s life anymore either. But things have a habit of changing quickly, don’t they? For now, I’m happy pootling along. Happier than I’ve ever been.
Nick moved over to London a couple of weeks ago. We did long distance for a couple of months but we hated it. Now he’s renting a warehouse flat in Dalston, just down the road from me, and I’m basically living there with him. He’s got plenty of productions to keep him busy over here and though he moans about the weather, I can tell he loves it.
There’s a knock at the hotel suite door, the bleep of a keycard, and Nick’s head appears around the door.
“Mia?” he asks, coming in tentatively. He hoicks the sleeve of his immaculate evening suit and checks his watch. “It’s time. You ready to go?” He looks perfectly handsome in every way, my American man, my plus-one.
“Yeah,” I whisper and clear my throat, tucking my cue cards carefully into my clutch.
I told him everything that happened after I saw Emily on the news. I told him about Emily, Marla, the sign, my stupidity, and the craziness. The aftermath and the crash. The only part of the tale I skipped was the part where I brought my fists down hard on hers and watched her grip loosen.
In Nick’s story she slips. In Nick’s story I am innocent. I prefer Nick’s version. He only told me things I already knew. Not to get involved unless I’m asked to, not to offer anything that might incriminate me. To protect myself. To protect us.
Nick holds the door wide and I gather my things. If I don’t win tonight that’s okay. If I don’t ever act again then that’s okay, because I’m alive and free and no longer alone. I count myself lucky, even with all my flaws, with all my failings and sorrows and hopes and dreams. Whatever happens tonight, it’s going to be okay.
* * *
—
Snapshots of memories. Nick’s warm hand in mine leading me down the red carpet then setting me free. Microphones, questions, camera flashes, and umbrellas. Crowds of faces. The fizz of champagne and the pinch of sequins on skin. An auditorium of people I recognize but do not actually know, jokes and the sound of a thousand people’s laugher, the swell of music and then some words I can’t quite make out. Nick looks to me, his eyes alive with meaning, he stands and I find myself standing too.
A camera races up the aisle toward us and I lean into him, terrified, to whisper, “Did they say me, Nick?”
He laughs, his eyes full of love. “Yeah, yeah, they did, Mi.” He kisses my cheek. “Now get up there.”
The walk is long, a blinding tunnel of nerves and unbridled happiness. The warm imprint of Nick’s kiss still on my cheek.
And finally, I am standing before them all, and I am speaking and they are laughing and I know I will never forget this moment and yet I realize I am forgetting it even as it happens. I lift the heavy statue and it feels so real, just like I knew it would.
A photo shoot backstage. I pose with my prize, eyes aflame, then retrieve my phone from an assistant to get my own shot. There’s a message on screen. The code Californian. My blood freezes in my veins but I do not let my smile crack. I’m a good actor; I have a statue to prove it.
But as I’m led into the press interview room, I carefully read the message once more.
36
Coming Soon
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 11 (18 MONTHS LATER)
We’re sitting in the darkness of the cinema; the lights have dipped and Nick is squeezing my hand. The diamond ring he gave me on bended knee in the middle of a blustery Millennium Bridge gleams in the half-light. Life is good.
I got no more messages after that night. The number was disconnected. I’ve since tried to push its words from my mind.
The cinema screen curtains widen for the theatrical trailers to begin. Galatea premiered in London and New York last week to fantastic reviews, but I wanted to sneak into a real cinema tonight, to see it in an everyday setting, surrounded by the public, and see if it can pass their test. If real audiences actually like it.
The chatter thins around us as the trailers before the main feature start to play.
I give Nick’s hand a squeeze and take in his handsome face in the flickering screen light, and then a voice I recognize fills the cinema. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. Instinctively I turn to the screen and it’s there that I see her face.
Marla Butler.
She stares back at me in celluloid. Alive. Not just alive but resplendent. Her smile beaming across the forty-eight-foot-wide screen as one of the pre-film trailers plays. She’s in a period costume drama, a drawing room comedy of matters, her ringleted hair bouncing above her extravagant Edwardian costume, as she dances. An American heiress, a literary adaptation. My breath is caught in my throat. She looks beautiful, every inch a movie star. My mind races to the text message I received that night months ago.
Sun May 16, 9:48pm
Congratulations. And thank you for keeping your promise.
At the time I’d racked my brain for other explanations, of who it could be, what it could mean but of course my mind had always snagged on Marla. Because I made her a promise at the top of that ladder. I had half-forgotten. In the heat of the moment I had promised her that if she went away, I wouldn’t ever go to the police. If she left me alone then I wouldn’t ruin things for her.
I watch the cinema screen mute. Spellbound as she laughs, dancing and scheming her way frenetically through the trailer, electropunk Vivaldi pulsating over it all. Oh my God. She did it, I realize with a shiver fluttering up my spine. She made it. She got what she wanted. She got her deal. And I kept my promise, whether I meant to keep it or not. I didn’t ruin things for her. My story has always ended without her name being mentioned.
The music crescendos as Marla grins straight down the barrel of the lens at me, at the audience, and winks. Then the screen flashes to black. I clock the old Moon Finch logo. One of their last productions before they folded.
I pushed her that night but she survived. She must have watched me win that award on another screen somewhere. And she sent her message. As a warning, I suppose, or as a thank-you. Either way a reminder to keep my promise. A reminder of how much skin I have in the game. How much skin we both have in the game.
The trailer’s credits burst up with the promise that the film will be COMING SOON.
God help us all.
And then I spot it, in black and white—above-the-title billing—INTRODUCING ANNA SANDERSON.
She changed her name.
My eyes travel to Nick in the darkness. He is watching the screen oblivious, and I realize he never actually met Marla. He has no idea.
I take in the rest of the mesmerized faces around us and realize I am the only person here who recognizes this woman. Who knows what she’s done.
And I have promised to spare her if she spares me.
For Clementine—and the hours we spent together in the British Library’s First Floor Reading Room.
Acknowledgments