CHAPTER FIVE – HAYLEY
I drove home somehow, the world all unreal and distant around me. I reached my cottage and got out of the car, feeling like I was lost in some strange dream.
Inside, I leaned against the door and shut my eyes. I had stopped shaking, but my body felt empty, somehow; a hollowness that was filled with a light, airy wonder.
“I can’t believe it!”
I laughed. I went over to the bathroom, leaned on the sink and just stared at myself, trying to get a grip on what was happening. What was real. Yes, that was me in the mirror. That hadn’t changed. Everything else had.
“How can he really be doing this?”
It seemed crazy. Yet I had to believe it had happened. I really did drive all the way to downtown LA, have an interview and then come back. So it must have happened. Mustn’t it? It just felt so unreal.
I stood there in the bathroom, looking in the mirror but not really looking, for what must have been ages. At some point, a noise in the street broke my reverie.
“Come on, Hayley,” I said to myself. “Let’s do something.”
I went to the kitchen to make coffee. I was still a bit shaky and I needed something to eat. I took some cookies out of the pantry and ate one absently, waiting for the shaking to stop.
I have twenty-one hours to make a decision. A life-changing one.
Because it would be life-changing. The confidence and excitement of the interview had dissipated and I felt cold inside.
Beckett Sand was incredibly sexy, and the thought of jet-setting was appealing, But there were huge problems. I would go from my quiet, private cottage in a quiet, peaceful city into the public eye. The very public, very critical, very judgmental eye. I shivered.
I had left the theater to escape that kind of critiquing process. And now I was putting myself up for all the things that had almost killed me, and for worse. I had no illusions about what my new life would be like.
Everything I did, said or looked like would be minutely discussed and insulted. People loved celebrity and loved even more to tear it down. Like some crazy sculptor, they built it and then enjoyed breaking it to bits. Fodder for the tabloids, grist for the mill of gossip.
I don’t want to be broken like that. Not again.
I sighed. I drained the coffee, made another, and made a plan. I needed a second opinion. There was only one person I trusted to give me one. I decided to call Brianne.
“Hello?”
“Hey! Lu! How is it? Listen, I haven’t got long…there’s an interview I need to make. Ten minutes?”
“Okay,” I agreed. “Thanks,” I added.
“Not at all. What’s up?”
I paused. I couldn’t tell her. Not exactly. The confidentiality agreement I had signed meant that I couldn’t relate anything Beckett had said to me. But if I accepted, she’d find out I’d allegedly been dating a celebrity for months and never told her. I had an idea.
“I need to ask you before I make a life-changing decision.”
“Oh?” she asked. “Sounds hectic. What?”
“Well,” I paused. “I’ll tell you more later. But right now, all I can say is that it involves me being in the public again.”
“Hurray!” Brianne said, surprising me. “I’m really glad.”
“Why?” I frowned. My cousin cared about me. She knew my career almost killed me, because I told her. So why was she so happy to hear I’d be entering that world again?
“Well,” Brianne paused, thinking. “Well, because that’s who you are. You’re outgoing. You like drama—always have, since we were small. You belong in the public, not hidden away somewhere, rotting in the countryside like a forgotten historic house.”
I laughed. “Thank you, Brianne. A good mental image.” She drew a breath and I sighed. “No, really. Thank you,” I continued. “I really do appreciate your honest opinion. I didn’t know that’s how you saw me.”
“Lula, how can you doubt that? You’re a show-stopper. Always have been. How long have I known you?”
I felt myself smile. “Twenty-four years?”
“Hang on, not quite. Only twenty-three. But yes. Precisely.”
I laughed again. “You are really kind, B. I needed to hear that.”
“You can say that again. Oh heck,” she added, sounding worried.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I’d love to chat, but I really, really have to go. Can you talk later? I want to hear all about it.”
“I can try,” I said cautiously. It was perfect that she had to rush off, as I didn’t want to have to be too candid with her. It had to be vague, or she’d guess something.
“Good. Great. See you then! Or, hear you, I guess. Anyway. Tootles!”
“Bye, B,” I said fondly.
When she had gone, I leaned back, thinking.
Had she really always seen me as an outgoing character, someone who loved drama? I was surprised. I’d never seen myself like that. I had a strong opinion and have always given it boldly, sure. I’d never thought about the fact that it made me stand out. I supposed it did.
I always thought I was too controversial, too ready to confront people. I thought it was a bad thing.
But, if I thought about it, that very honesty, that need to always stand up for my convictions, had landed me this job! If I hadn’t been shouting at the PR lady I’d never have met Beckett Sand. And maybe he would have decided to hire someone else.
The one thing I had always criticized about myself—and that my parents had criticized constantly—was seen by two people as something good. Did criticism really mean anything, then? Maybe I could learn to brush it aside.
I leaned back in the chair, feeling at least slightly more decided than I had been before. I had almost completely made up my mind to take this job.
Now, I thought, I just have to choose an outfit for the meeting tomorrow.
The thought was so flippant, so girlish and refreshing, that I laughed loudly. I was about to embark on a job of acting in the most demanding role I could have imagined. And it would need literally be so good it looked real. But I was happier than I could remember being in years.
Well, of course I was.
I had to admit that Mr. Sand was stunning. His reputation as one of the best-looking of the whole jet-set didn’t do him any credit. In that instant, I was convinced he was the best-looking man in the world. Tall, dark, stunning, with a body that looked like he worked out every free moment.
I giggled again.
“Miss Morris,” I said to myself, loudly. “Do try to be more serious.”
I imagined him saying it, which made me giggle more. I was acting as if I was eighteen, not two years off thirty. But I was excited. Who wouldn’t be?
I was about to embark on a crazy, amazing journey. The journey of a just-for-tax-purposes wife.
As the thought crossed my mind, I remembered something. I had meant to ask him if he had been seeing anyone. Not that it was relevant, except that, if the press was full of stories of him and some other woman, it would be difficult to explain how and when I suddenly fitted in.
“I’m sure we could come up with some explanation,” I said aloud. I caught myself mid-thought. It was remarkable how I was already putting us on the same team—he and I united against the press and gossiping public.
It was weird, but it felt right. Somehow we were already a team. I filed the question away in my mind for use tomorrow, and smiled. I would see him in a few hours.