Page 1 of For My Finale

T here was a rumor that a well-known actress had once punched a fellow competitor so hard that teeth had been dislodged, though they’d turned out to be veneers rather than actual teeth. Lilah wasn’t sure how true the rumor was, but she was more than willing to believe it.

All for a statue that weighed eight and a half pounds. Less than four kilos. Less than half of what Lilah’s personal trainer, who preferred to be called a Power Coach, forced her to lift just to warm up.

The theater shimmered with a golden glow, a sort of weird haze that made Lilah’s eyes sting a bit, and made everything look like she was looking through fog. Probably a combination of Botox fumes and diamond sparkle.

And as the presenter, an unremarkable man who’d somehow become one of the top-selling actors of the decade despite only reaching Lilah’s shoulder, fumbled with the envelope, Lilah found herself… bored.

Bored and tired and so, so, so not wanting to be here.

Finally, the envelope was open, which given how long the actor had once struggled to undo Lilah’s bra, she found something of a miracle. The actor grinned for the cameras.

“And the Oscar goes to… Lilah Paxton.”

The crowd predictably erupted, because if there was one thing that actors knew how to do, it was please the public, and Lilah forced her face into the perfect picture of poised surprise.

She placed a delicately manicured hand over her chest, she widened her eyes into a practiced blend of shock and delight and humbleness, she rounded her mouth into an O, and then dabbed non-existent tears from her eyes as she accepted air kisses from those around her.

Then she stood up.

She’d been quite literally sewn into her dress four hours ago and was still wondering what the hell was going to happen when she inevitably had to go to the toilet. She also thought that she’d be far more comfortable in her sweats on her couch.

Not that life had always been that way.

Ten years ago, she’d have given her eye-teeth to be walking up to the stage like she was doing now. Fifteen years ago she’d have given her eye-teeth, an excellent blow job, and a promise of a night of unbridled passion.

These days, she found it hard to stay awake after nine o’clock. As for passion, well, it was heavily bridled at this point. Practically roped, tied, and slaughtered.

The lights blinded her, the applause continued, she took the stupid statue and held it to her chest like it meant more than a first-born child, and the microphone loomed in front of her mouth.

It wasn’t so much a decision.

It was more like an inevitability.

She hadn’t planned on doing it at all. But as the clapping faded out and people started to look at her expectantly, it just sort of… happened.

She leaned in. There was a complete hush.

“I quit.”

Silence.

She stood back, surveying the effect she’d had.

Someone in the front row gasped. Someone dropped a glass. The orchestra conductor, halfway through raising his baton for the next cue, stood frozen with his arms in the air like a man being held at gunpoint .

Lilah, thinking that she owed everyone somewhat of an explanation, leaned back in again. “I haven’t eaten bread in fourteen years,” she said. “Fourteen. Years.”

Confused laughter rippled through the room. She saw the cameras swing around to the audience to catch their bewildered reactions. At home, millions of people would be craning forward in their seats, knowing that they were witnessing something that would soon be called a mental breakdown.

Lilah didn’t think she cared.

She leaned in one last time. “Seriously. I’m done. Thank you, Hollywood. It’s been… an experience.” That was putting it lightly. She cleared her throat, pouted her famous lips, and added, “a chaotic, soul-draining, utterly ridiculous experience.”

More laughter. Nervous. Unsure. Someone in the back clapped, then stopped, realizing they’d misread the room.

Lilah looked down at the statue in her hand. It would be just right for propping open the door to the little guest bathroom, she thought. She grinned.

“I’d like to thank the Academy,” she said.

The audience perked up, this was more like it.

“I’d like to thank my agent, Margot Langley, who’s currently having an aneurysm back stage, and…

” She hoisted the statue. “And my Power Coach, who’s really just a personal trainer.

Jed, just so you know, don’t show up to work in the morning, I’ll be busy eating a croissant. ”

One more look at the horrified, delighted, astonished faces that she knew so well, and she swept off the stage, leaving a stunned silence behind her.

BACKSTAGE, CHAOS HAD already erupted. Producers were scrambling, assistants were whispering frantically into earpieces, and more than one reporter was clawing for a phone. Lilah sighed and stopped walking, freezing in one spot so that the chaos had to spin around her.

“What. The. Actual. Fuck.”

She grinned and tossed her red hair over her shoulder. It was about time .

“What the actual fuck was that, Li?” Margot said, marching over and planting herself in front of Lilah with her hands on her hips. “Are you having a stroke?” she demanded. “Did someone drug you? Blink twice if you need help.”

Lilah gave her a lazy smile, the one that had got her on the cover of People magazine. “Sorry, Mags.”

“Sorry?” Margot said. “Sorry? That… what… no, just no.”

“I meant it,” shrugged Lilah.

“Meant it? Meant what?”

“What I said.”

Margot pinched the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb and took a patient breath. “Lilah. You just announced your retirement during your Oscar speech.” A vein was starting to visibly throb in Margot’s temple.

“Yep,” said Lilah.

“Retirement.”

“That is correct.”

Margot flung her arms in the air. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

“Ended my suffering,” Lilah said. “Have you got any snacks?”

“Suffering?” asked Margot, rooting around in her enormous purse and producing a gluten-free, dairy-free, vegan, non-cereal-containing cereal bar. “You’re at the top of your game. People would kill for your career. You’ve quite literally just won an Oscar. A fucking Oscar, Lilah.”

“I want to make toast,” Lilah cut in serenely. “And a sandwich. Oh, and I want to try one of those croissants that are wrapped around a cookie. What are they called?” She looked at the cereal bar. “No, not that. Something that’s actually food.”

“So this is all about food?” Margot said, reaching back into her back and pulling out a Three Musketeers chocolate bar.

“No,” said Lilah, grabbing the chocolate and ripping it open.

“Then what—”

“I quit,” said Lilah gently. “That’s it, Mags. I quit. I’m done. No more of all this,” she gestured around her and took a bite of the chocolate bar. It tasted like heaven and cardboard. Not quite what she’d expected, but she’d go with it.

The press were already in a frenzy, social media would be exploding with theories. Was she pregnant? Joining a cult? Having a Britney 2007 moment? Was it all a PR stunt?

Only Lilah knew that it was none of those things.

It was an ending. Time to stop. Time to do something other than this.

What, she had no idea. She just knew that she couldn’t do this anymore.

She patted Margot on the shoulder. “I’ll send you a postcard,” she said, handing the rest of the chocolate bar back to her before walking off to walk the press gauntlet.

“Oh. My. God. Quitting is so brave,” said a second-rate actress that Lilah knew but couldn’t name. “Does this mean that the Tarantino role is up for grabs again?”

“Have at it,” said Lilah, still walking.

“What about one last film?” said a director she definitely knew, reaching out an arm to stop her. “A passion project. A swan song. Full nudity, non-simulated sex on screen, a real piece of art. What do you say, Li? Huh?”

Lilah sniffed. “Who’s the co-star?”

He only blushed slightly. “Well, me.”

She snorted a laugh. “Tempting. But no, thanks.”

She strode through the swirl of press, cameras clicking, reporters shouting questions at her. Ignoring it all, blocking it all out.

The thing was, no one cared that she was quitting.

They only cared about what it meant for them, about what it meant for their careers.

Actresses that could take parts ear-marked for her, directors wanting swan songs, journalists wanting scoops and inside stories.

None of this chaos was actually about her at all.

Because, and this was a realization that had been a long time coming, in this world, Lilah Paxton wasn’t a person. She was a commodity. A hot one, to be sure, but a product nevertheless. A thing. An object.

She grabbed herself a bottle of champagne from a stunned-looking waiter, looked around, spotted an escape, and then pushed her way out of a Fire Exit. The alarm bleated behind her. She looked left and right, seeing the tail-end of a limo at the end of the alley, and made a bee-line for it.

“Home,” she said, sliding into the back seat. “You know where that is, right?”

The driver glanced in the back mirror. “Yes, Ms. Paxton,” he said. “But—”

“No buts. The show won’t end for hours yet. You’ve got plenty of time to drop me off and get back here for whoever else you’re supposed to be driving. Step on it.”

And he drove off without another word.

Lilah took a glug of champagne and started to laugh. For the first time in years, she felt free.

THE TERRACE DOORS were open and the night breeze floated in. Lilah sat on her bed, her laptop on one knee, a plate holding a prosciutto and provolone sandwich on the other. Typing with two fingers, she searched for ‘peaceful places.’

She growled at her screen when the obvious answers appeared.

A meditation retreat in Bali? No thanks.

She was likely to meet half of Hollywood there.

Same with anything that had relax and rehabilitate in the name.

She’d never been one for drink and drugs, the one Hollywood problem that had passed her by.

She took a thoughtful bite out of her sandwich and wondered just where the hell she could go. She couldn’t stay here, that was for sure. Yet it felt like Hollywood was the only home she’d ever really known.

Except…

Except it wasn’t, was it? Not technically.

She searched her memory for the name, finally coming up with it and typing it in with two fingers. Bankton, England. Her birthplace, as any rabid fan would know. Her phone rang, Margot again. She declined the call and leaned in to look at pictures of cobbled streets and cows and cottages.

“There we go,” she said to no one in particular. “Decision made. ”

She was going home. And whatever happened next… well, she’d figure it out.