I didn’t.
And yet…I stare at the overfilled tub, at the soaked bathmat squishing underneath my bare toes. And yet, the tub is full, the bathroom all but flooded.
What the hell is going on?
For the first time, I really regret drinking the better part of that bottle of wine. My head is swimming and nothing makes sense no matter how hard I try to force it.
Eventually, though, I have to do something. I can’t just stand here and let the water continue making its way into my bedroom and onto the wood floor.
With that thought in mind, I grab two big bath sheets off the closest rack, toss them onto the ground at my feet to soak up some of the water—and to make it at least a little less likely that I’ll slip and die in what has become a deathtrap of a bathroom. Then I lean down and twist the tub’s drain plug open.
As I do, my face gets too close to the bubbles—not like I could avoid it considering the things are everywhere—and I get a strong whiff of their scent. It’s familiar, but it’s not the vanilla and black currant bubble bath I usually use in the evenings, nor the bergamot and orange scent I use to energize myself in the mornings.
No, this is the scent of a bubble bath I haven’t used in months.
Belladonna from Alchemic Muse.
I came across it when I was filming the movie, picked it up because the scent made me feel her, helped me get inside her messed up head that much more easily. It also helped me differentiate myself from Celeste when the lines started blurring and I felt like I was being sucked under.
It ended up working pretty well and I haven’t had cause to use the scent since then. The fact that I decided to do so tonight—when I can’t even remember coming into the bathroom let alone turning the bathtub on—makes no sense at all.
A chill works its way down my spine as it occurs to me—really occurs to me—that something is wrong here. That this kind of forgetfulness, this inability to recollect, isn’t normal. Unless I didn’t do it, after all. Unless some stalker followed me home and did this in an attempt to get my attention. Or as some kind of sick joke.
Just the thought that someone was in my house—that they might still be in my house—has fear ripping through me and the wine sloshing unpleasantly around in my stomach. With my heart beating much too fast and panic skating along my nerves, I slip and slide my way back across the bathroom until I reach the entrance. Once there, I snatch my robe from where it’s hanging in its usual spot on the back of the door and pull it on over my nude body. Then I make a mad dash for the phone on my nightstand and dial the guard shack at the front of my very exclusive street.
I feel a little bit like an idiot explaining the situation to Jesse, the night guard, but not enough to hang up. Jesse assures me he’s on the way and then there’s nothing for me to do but wait, ears straining for the sound of an intruder as I pray…for what exactly? That there’s nobody in my house? Or that there is, because the last thing I want to believe is that I’m loopy enough to have done this and have no recollection of it at all.
Jesse shows up in under three minutes, pounding loudly on the front door and announcing his presence through the thick glass. I open the door to him right away and try not to notice how his eyes widen slightly when it registers how little I’m wearing. Even though he’s signed an NDA, I can’t help wondering just how many of his friends he’s going to tell this story to. I think at this point the best I can hope for is that when he does, he’s not also telling them just how paranoid, how bat-shit crazy, Veronica Romero is.
But once he gets over the shock of seeing me in my thin, silk bathrobe, Jesse is nothing but professional. He listens as I tell the story a second time, then has me come with him as he goes through my house one room at a time.
He looks in every closet, under every bed. Checks every window and door for signs of forced entry. Examines the alarm to see if anyone opened any door but the one that leads to my patio and down to the beach. He even goes outside and looks around both my back and front yards for intruders, footprints, something. Anything.
He finds nothing.
It should be a relief—it is a relief—but it’s also upsetting, because it means I did turn that bathwater on. I did choose that scent. And I did, somehow, forget all about doing both of those things.
I apologize to Jesse profusely and give him a substantial tip for going above and beyond. He tries to refuse the money—says he’s just doing his job—but I insist. Dealing with crazy movie stars has to get old quickly.