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Scene 45

The reviews were polarized. Half the critics hailed the second film as revolutionary, the other half were scathing.

Elliott, like always, took a sick satisfaction in homing in on the condemnatory.

“The New York Timescalled it ‘Cinema Suicide.’ Oh,” he cooed, his voice trailing one beat behind on the transatlantic phone call to where I sat in Jacqueline Sinclair’s living room, “but here’s my favorite! The cover ofEmpire Magazine,” he cleared his throat, “Sand Seekers Sinks: No Bulkheads High Enough to Keep this Billion Dollar Barge Afloat.Jesus. Who writes this shit?”

I tapped out an impatient rhythm on the arm of the couch. “It also broke the opening weekend record as the highest-grossing film in box office history, so I somehow doubt we’ll find our heads underwater any time soon.”

Elliott scoffed. “Why you gotta be such a little ray of sunshine? Let me sulk.”

“Well, you’re going to have to sulk alone. We’re about to make toffee.” I was anxious to get on with Christmas Eve. Dillon would be home soon from physical therapy and Seren would be back from the barn. I was ready to drink wassail and forget about life in Hollywood as I soaked in the serenity of the nineteenth-century stone home. I’d been on the road for sevenweeks, transversing five continents, more countries than I could remember, and four premieres—the last of which had taken place five days earlier in Japan. I’d drank too much. Slept too little. Existed on a diet of caffeine pills, airplane snacks, whiskey, and Gatorade.

I’d begun to forget what it felt like to exist in a world where you weren’t on exhibit every waking second of the day. How it felt to live the sort of life where you could stop in at the Farmer’s Market to pick up asparagus on sale or hit a WeHo nightclub without having to call ahead, arrange security, and devise an entrance and exit plan. To not have every angle of your life scrutinized, criticized, or glamorized by strangers across the globe.

A life devoid of fan accounts. Fan fiction. Shipping. Stanning. Stalking.

Two weeks earlier, I’d ended the farce with Carter. He’d met a girl I could tell he really liked. A set designer who’d been at our wrap party. I would have liked her, too, if I hadn’t known she was sleeping with him thinking it was behind my back. It provided me the motive I needed, however, to call things off. I wanted him to be able to pursue a relationship out in the open, and it got me out of staging holiday photos that made me feel like a schmuck.

I called him, thanked him eternally, and then deleted all our photos together from my Instagram.

Celebrity code forTrouble in Paradise.

Hollywood gossip was still obsessing over it, with entire articles speculating on what went wrong, who I might be dating, if I was or wasn’t a slut. For months, rumor had circulated that I’d been carrying on an affair with Elliott, stemming from the inconceivable notion that a man and a woman couldn’t possibly be friends without fucking. A scandal that likely would have petered out the next time Elliott showed up at an event with one of his blonde armpieces sporting stilettos longer than myinseam, but instead, the idiot decided to fling fuel on the fire, choosing to kiss me on the red carpet at the European premiere.

“That’s for the billing,” he’d whispered in my ear, referring to my name that appeared on the marquis above his. I’d pinched the inside of his arm hard enough to leave a bruise, and he’d strolled away, offering me a wink as he disappeared into the theatre. The next day every entertainment news site ran with the photo.

But despite his endless impertinence, I’d come to consider him one of my best friends. He’d proven to be a pillar of support as I navigated the unknown territory of turning into an overnight celebrity, and the rocky waters of life on the A-list. He’d become my ally. My confidant. We understood each other. We had the same secrets to protect.

He talked me through the hype of being nominated for a dozen different awards following the first film release—MTV Movie Awards, BAFTA, Empire, EDA, SAG—and the disappointment of losing the majority of them. He reminded me my worth wasn’t tallied by Roger Ebert’s great-great-granddaughter’s opinion or the sweatpant-wearing, forty-year-old keyboard warrior still living in his mother’s basement with his hands down his pants.

He consoled me through Dillon’s accident. It was his networking that got the consultation with Dr. Monaghan. Every day he’d checked in to inquire about her progress, and how I was holding up.

And the thing with him was—he meant it. Beneath his cocky veneer, his arrogant playboy exterior, he was kind. He was generous. And I loved him for that.

It still didn’t change the fact that I was glad when he got another phone call and was forced to hang up.

I texted my parents, sent Sophie a requested toffee recipe, and then helped Jacqueline in the kitchen until I heard Dilloncome through the front door. Her gait was unmistakable, the click of her crutches and pad of her single tennis shoe soft as she moved across the tile.

She’d been in good spirits over the seventy-two hours that I’d been there. Her mood had been generally optimistic, Seren told me, since she’d come home from surgery, but her fixation with recovery seemed to double by the day.

I’d hoped my presence might alleviate her blinkered obsession with speeding up Mother Nature’sLaws of Healing, but it hadn’t made much difference. She was still up before dawn, but instead of us going to the bay for her morning swim, she left for the Swansea Aquatic Center, where she pushed the limits of Dr. Monaghan’s instructions for non-weight-bearing activities. In the afternoons she attended physical therapy, and at night, as she reviewed race results across the various federations, she stretched the painful muscles that threatened to constrict.

There were three more weeks before she was permitted to cycle. Two months before she could test out jogging. And an undetermined length of time before Dr. Monaghan would entertain anything more aggressive.

Dillon ignored this last part.

“I can do Bermuda,” I’d heard her tell Seren the previous morning.

“Science says you can’t.” Seren had not sounded thrilled about her sister’s eagerness to fast-track her return to competition.

“It’s fifteen weeks away. The run is mostly flat.”

“You won’t even be at five months!”

“Seren, I can do it—”

“You promised me!”