26
So much for taking the time to get better. The following days proved frantic. There were daily physiotherapist appointments to rehabilitate my shoulder; meetings and phone conferences with my agent and PR team; media interviews to reassure the world at large I was doing fine; discussions with contractors to get the repairs on my house started; and meetings with realtors so I could find a new home.
By the time I set foot on-set two weeks later, Marc’s ranch felt like a distant memory.
A cheer broke out from the crew as I arrived for the morning’s take. I waved a hand at all of them and gestured for everyone to be quiet. It was good to be back, but I didn’t want special attention. I just wanted to do my job.
Chloe, Ben and I waited to one side while the crew finished setting up. One of the make-up artists hovered nearby ready to remove my sling when the time came.
“Are you sure you’re OK without the sling?” Ben asked, his blue eyes full of concern.
He really was sweet. “I’m fine.” Always fine, but it wasn’t a lie this time. The physiotherapist had been great. She was confident periods of time without the sling would be fine, so long as I rested it when I wasn’t filming.
“Well, if you get tired or it hurts, just say something, OK?”
Chloe patted Ben’s shoulder. “Lena’s tougher than she looks. Or are you getting the script mixed up with real life?”
My outfit for this take wasn’t my favorite. I was sporting a hospital gown and was glad I’d been able to wear shorts and a T-shirt underneath to protect me from the breeze where it opened at the back.
Ben blushed. “I know that. It’s the media who are getting it mixed up, not me.”
I crossed my arms—something I’d finally been able to do since last week—and gave him a long look. “What? Don’t you want to carry my baby?” I asked sweetly. I knew he’d been referring to the media’s obsession with my broken collarbone, but Chloe and I made a habit of teasing him.
Ben turned a shade of beetroot red and I immediately felt bad. It had been too good to resist, though. In the story, I had just given birth to a little boy who was meant to be my husband’s but turned out to be Toby’s, Ben’s character in the movie.
“No, I didn’t say that. I mean, of course I’d want to carry your baby,” he stuttered, then coughed, the shade of red intensifying. “Not that it’s appropriate to say that, of course, especially with you being the older woman—”
Chloe tapped Ben on the shoulder and he snapped his mouth shut, obviously glad for the interruption. “Ben? Little hint. Never point out a woman’s age, OK?”
He nodded and kept his mouth closed, so I slung an arm around his shoulders. “Sorry, Ben. We’re not making fun of you, not really. We’re just being silly.”
He shot me a shy look. “I don’t mind.”
Chloe gave me an isn’t-he-so-sweet look behind his back. I left my arm resting on his shoulders until we were told to take our places. He was a great actor and needed reassurance. Offscreen he was a charming mixture of sweet, funny, shy and caring, but when the cameras were on, it was like a switch had been flicked on. He found his confidence and his charm turned to sex appeal.
As I climbed into the hospital bed waiting for me, Ben took his seat beside me, and Chloe waited a few feet away off-set. In the script, she’d walk in and interrupt us just as I told Ben he was the father of Jean’s baby.
He cleared his throat. “Hey, Lena?”
“Yes?”
“Um, is everything OK with your boyfriend?”
I blinked. “My boyfriend?”
“Yeah. Nathan.”
“Oh.” Oh. He meant Marc. Well, that had almost been awkward. “Yes, he’s fine.”
“That’s good. It’s just that I haven’t seen him on-set lately.”
“Oh,” I said again, thinking quickly. “Well, you see, we’re not actually together anymore.”
“No,” Ben said, frowning. “That’s not what I meant. Isn’t he an extra?”
“Um, oh right, sorry, I see what you mean. Well, yes, he was an extra, but he got work on another project, a bigger project. It’s a better opportunity for him so he’d have been crazy not to take it.” And I was sounding crazy, so I had to tread carefully.
“Right. That’s good news for him. I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”
I gave him a bright smile. “I’m OK. It was for the best.”
I tilted my head so the make-up artist could touch up my blusher.
“I’m kind of relieved, actually,” Ben said. “And that came out wrong, sorry. It was just that it seemed like it might have been a rebound thing, that’s all.”
The make-up artist stepped away and I tried not to smile. Ben’s concern really was touching.
“That’s OK, don’t apologize,” I told him. “And you’re probably right. It was a bit of a rebound thing, but it’s over now. I’ll be waiting a while to get involved with anyone else, I think.”
“I get it. You’re waiting for the right person.”
I lay still as the sheet was pulled up to my waist.
“You know something, Ben? I’m not sure everyone has a ‘right person’, but I’m OK with that.”
“Don’t give up, Lena. You might be surprised.”
I bit off a comment about the innocence of youth and was relieved when Manning called out for everyone to take their final places.
The less I thought about Marc, my failed love life and what the future held, the better.
*
It was midnight when I saw the email.
It had been a long day filming and I’d just showered and had my laptop open on the bed.
Edward Lyons update, the email subject read.
It was from Marc.
I stared at the screen for a long moment before I hit ‘open’.
Lena,
At this stage, I have my theories on your father’s sudden reappearance in your life, but I’ll let you make your own conclusions. Take a look at the summary below. Let me know your thoughts.
Marc.
I ignored the formal tone of his email and studied the list of bullet points he’d sent. I raised my eyebrows, impressed. It was a run-down of my father’s life since I’d last seen him at my mother’s funeral over fifteen years ago.
It appeared he’d continued to work for the same firm he’d been employed by when I was a teenager. He’d taken an extended leave of absence after my mother’s death, but upon his return to work stayed another eight years. He was based in New York and then he’d moved to Florida and worked for a smaller firm for the next two years. I tried to imagine my father in Florida. He’d always dressed impeccably in tailored gray suits, which matched his neatly cropped gray hair—even in my teen years he’d been gray.
Then, around the time I’d just started to make it big in Hollywood, he moved to Hawaii. Again, a picture of my uptight father sitting on a beach in Honolulu was a stretch for me. Marc’s information stated he’d lived with a woman, Tina Ponds. She was a divorcee with two grown daughters of her own.
Two years later, Tina had passed away—cancer. Despite the years that had gone by, I felt a cold stab of pain for him. Another woman he loved lost to cancer.
That could have been reason enough to contact me again, except he hadn’t. The date of Tina’s passing was two years earlier. Tears sprang to my eyes when I read the next line:
Nursing staff commented on how doting Edward was throughout Tina’s illness and how he remained at her bedside until her death.
I pushed the laptop away, suddenly angry.
No, that wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. My father had barely set foot in a hospital the entire time my mom had been sick. He didn’t do doting. He wasn’t capable of it.
Tears still stinging in my eyes, I forced myself to read the rest of Marc’s points.
He was currently living in New Orleans, unemployed and single. There were reports of him frequenting a particular bar.
That was it.
I sat back again, my head hurting. It was late, I was tired, and now probably wasn’t the time to be dredging up my dysfunctional family history.
As far as I was concerned, my conclusions were pretty cut and dry.
I hit ‘reply’.
Marc,
I appreciate you taking the time to do this. I’m sure you’ve already read between the lines but just in case:
Edward Lyons is an alcoholic. I would have said recovering alcoholic, but does anyone ever recover from this horrible disease? Because that’s what it is. A disease. It wasn’t the cancer that killed our family, it was my father’s illness. It appears since Tina’s death his habit has worsened again. His addiction nearly cost him his job when my mother was ill. Fortunately, he was able to hold it together until her death to pay for her medical bills, but afterward I was left to survive on a small trust fund from my mother until my modeling gave me financial security. I assume his current situation is similar to fifteen years ago. That is, he is sick and feeling sorry for himself and wants someone to pull him out of his despondency. I tried, more than once. I won’t be trying again. Maybe Tina was successful for a time. I don’t know. I know it sounds heartless, but I can’t have anything to do with him. I’ll be instructing my team not to respond to any news stories and intend to have no further contact with him for the foreseeable future.
I trust you will keep the information revealed above confidential.
Lena.