Chapter 25
Two letters
On Sunday, at the family lunch held for her birthday, Nana pronounces herself delighted with my gift — a coffee-table book on the history of London’s West End — and regales us with long anecdotes about her life in the footlights.
When the family’s attention is on the massive lamb roast Mom brings to the dining table, Nana turns to me and whispers, “And how’s it going with your prince?”
I smile and give her the thumbs-up. She crows with glee and pats my hand with her knobbly one, but there’s no chance to give her any details — which is probably a good thing. Logan and I have agreed to keep our relationship private.
“So, how’s the new job, Romy?” Meriel asks, dropping a spoonful of mint sauce onto her plate.
“It’s good. You know, fine.”
“They certainly keep her hopping — we’ve hardly seen hide nor hair of her lately,” Mom says. “She’s been as elusive as a coelacanth.”
“Have you learned anything about the world of business?” my father asks.
“Loads.”
I describe life on the set, being careful to keep my voice casual and my face neutral whenever I mention Logan. I tell them about my duties and all about the shark dive, but none of what happened afterwards in the changing room.
“Fancy making you go down with him into the tank — where you might have been in danger,” my father says, frowning.
“She was never in any danger from the Carcharias Taurus, Rex,” Mom says. “I’m glad you got to see an Argyrosomus japonicas, though, and some Dasyatis chrysonota, Romy. Aren’t they impressive creatures?”
“Oh yeah, I was dead impressed by the creatures in the tank. Great specimens!” Especially one of the homo sapiens.
“And running around for food and coffee and scripts,” Dad continues. “It sounds like you’re nothing but a dogsbody.”
“I’d be that wherever I worked my vac. Interns always start at the bottom.”
“I must say, the world of moviemaking sounds like a whole other world — utterly foreign and very strange,” Mom says. “More potatoes, Rex?”
“It sounds self-indulgent and crazy,” Marina says, her lips tight with disapproval.
“I can’t help thinking all that money would be better spent on helping uplift children from impoverished communities.” Genna declines the second helping of roast potatoes Mom offers her, as if to underscore her belief that no one should have too much while others have too little.
“It’s a business, not a charity. And it injects a lot of money into the local economy, and employs loads of people,” Cordelia says. “Plus, it has better profit margins than you get in the seafood industry. Sorry, Dad, but it’s true.”
“Life is not all about profit, Cordelia,” he replies.
“I’m glad to hear you admit that, Dad, really glad.” I’m tired of everyone giving me a go about this. “Is no one happy for me?”
“Darling, of course we are. It’s just such an odd job. Are you sure you enjoy it? A bright girl like you — what do you actually like about it?”
There’s no way to answer my mother’s question honestly without declaring my big secret. What I like about the job begins and ends with Logan. I’ve been in the position for long enough to know that my mom and dad aren’t wrong about a personal assistant being a glorified dogsbody. Fetching and carrying don’t make for much mental stimulation or job satisfaction. Even my sisters have a point — the movie industry might appear to be glamorous and magical, but in reality it’s mostly a superficial, self-obsessed and self-indulgent moneymaking machine.
I don’t know what to say, but thankfully Nana comes to my rescue.
“Well, I think it all sounds fabulous and magnificent! So enchanting and” — she gives me a big wink — “romantic. Follow your passion, Romy!”
After lunch, I finally get a chance to relax and catch up on the emails that have been piling up in my inbox since I took the Beast job. Among the solicitations from Nigerian princes, urgings to buy products guaranteed to enlarge my manhood to splendid proportions, and mail from friends, there are increasingly tetchy notes from Zeb, who takes exception to not receiving daily updates on my life and reminds me that he’s moving to his new digs in December.
I type a quick reply, promising to help him decorate — he may know shoes, but he’s completely ignorant about curtains and bedding — and ask him about his plans for New Year’s Eve. I hit Send, trying not to think about how Logan will be back in the States by then. And I’ll still be here.
My phone beeps an incoming message. It’s from Logan.
Meet up tonight? Xo
My spirits rising, I reply at once.
Where and when? xo
While I sit in textpectation, my email inbox pings the arrival of a new message — one that immediately catches my eye. I read it three times to make sure I’m not misunderstanding anything.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Vacancy on voyage to Southern Ocean
Dear Romy
One of our crew has unfortunately had to return home to the US due to a death in the family. This leaves us with an open position on the Syrenka’s December voyage to the Southern Oceans to disrupt Japanese whaling operations there. Since you live in Cape Town, and since we’ll be stopping there on our journey south, I wondered if you would like to join our crew? You’d be signing on for a four-month term, and your duties would include working mostly in the galley, preparing meals, and washing dishes, but as you know, it’s all hands on deck when it comes to taking on the whalers. My cautions and warnings (as set out in my initial information email), still apply, as do the terms of being a crew member, as set out in our original correspondence and your signed application.
Please let me know as soon as possible whether you would still like to join our mission. We are due to dock in Cape Town on December 14th to restock our supplies, and plan to leave Dec 16th.
Awaiting your response,
Kind regards
Keith Murphy
(Captain)
“We know that when we protect our oceans we’re protecting our future.” - Bill Clinton
P.S. Attached please find a Volunteer Waiver of Liability Form for you to sign.
Now they accept my application? Now?
Just as things with my other passion are taking off, I get the letter offering me a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity on the other end of the world, the one thing I’ve wanted to do since forever? If I spend the last few weeks the film production is in town with Logan, I’ll have to turn down this berth. If I take up the Syrenka opportunity, I’ll have to cut short my time with Logan. I’m screwed. I have to choose between my two loves. How can a letter with such good news leave me feeling so bad?
Then I remember the other letter, the one I rescued from the bin and shoved into my bag on Friday. I retrieve it and place it on the desk in front of me, fitting the edges of the torn halves together. Should I, or shouldn’t I? I’m burning with curiosity to know who it’s from and what it’s about, especially after Cilla’s cryptic comment about mail for Levi. But it’s Logan’s private business — I have no right to read it. Sighing, I toss the torn letter into the rubbish bin and send Captain Murphy a reply asking him for the latest I can give him my answer by. I’m playing for time. Really, what could possibly change by then?
My phone beeps again.
Sorry, won’t be able to make it — Britney wants to do a read-through of scene 68 with me. L.
And what Miss Vaux wants, Miss Vaux gets, right? My mood takes a nosedive.
Without consciously deciding to, I fetch the letter. I extract the two pieces of paper from the torn envelope, smooth them out, lay them side-by-side, and begin reading. When I finish, I feel, if anything, worse.
Dear Levi,
I hope your well. I’m well as I can be in this place. Which is hell on earth for a just man falsely accused and railroaded by the system. You and Wynette have forgot all about me. Its shameful how I bin treated. Not even to speak of that bitch who turned me in, then divorced me. A woman should stand by her man.
I know your doing well and rolling in cash like a hog in mud. Probly think your too good for me now. Im sure you still don’t want anyone to know bout me so best you send some more funds for another appeal, and to make my life better in here the screws wont do nothing for you unless you can give them cigrettes.
Best you write me soon boy.
Jonas Peabody