I NEVER THOUGHT I’D BE one of those drinks-on-a-week-night people (I’m more of a go-home-and-get-pyjamas-straight-on kind of gal), but Piper has invited me out for a couple of cocktails at the Sugar Factory in the West Village. It seems wasteful to say no. I’m never not searching for a babysitter and never not on my hands and knees rummaging through a clothes heap at the bottom of my wardrobe, having to do the classic yet undignified crotch-sniff test to see if the jeans are wearable. I said I’d stay out for a couple and, for me, there’s something quite liberating about that. I don’t always have to just stick to my working/mumming/sleeping routine. I’ve still got it. I’m still young. If I want to say yes to cocktails, I can. It feels good to feel so in control and have this extra pep in my step. Even if my peppy step is slightly painful after twelve hours on my feet!
Nipping back to the hotel, there’s just time for a ‘bower’ (at school Lacey and I made up ‘bower’ for when you have a shower without washing your hair, just a body shower. Yes, we were actually geniuses), a change of clothes (skinny black ripped jeans that say, ‘oh hi, I’m so rock chic’ and a black clippy-poppers-under-your-nether-regions top that gives an air of sex appeal but mostly just sucks in my mum-tum) and something to eat (a bag of vegetable crisps from Starbucks almost counts as dinner Stateside, right?). Yes, ready to go. Let’s do this.
Pulling up to the bar and stepping out of my Uber, I think I look good – a bit like a dolled-up ninja, but still good. But this only lasts until Piper strides over from the entrance of the bar where she’s been waiting. Legs like a gazelle, it only takes her about four steps to cross the street and she looks like she’s just stepped off a runway. Her skin is glowy, her hair is gleaming and everything that should, twinkles: eyes, teeth, tiny diamond stud in her belly button. Who knew belly button piercings were still a thing? I don’t think I’ve even properly looked at my belly button for about half a decade. My stomach is so untoned I think if I had a piece of jewellery in it, I’d lose it. Ew. Need to get off this train of thought and focus on Piper.
Jeans were clearly the right choice because Piper is sporting some herself, so that’s a relief. Imagine two straws made of denim and stitched together. Those are Piper’s jeans. I’m not even sure they would fit Lyla, they’re so slim-fitting. Her legs look lean, her bottom pert and just above the waistband there is no bulge, just that twinkle. Not one to shy away from daring fashion, Piper has opted for a crop top made out of a metallic fabric, folded in half to make a triangle, attached by tiny strings and tied like a halter neck. Basically, she’s wearing spray-on jeans and a golden handkerchief, and she looks sensational.
Suddenly I feel a bit meh. Meh ninja, not glamorous ninja.
‘Hiiiiiiiiiii, I’m so glad you came!’ Piper exclaims, four octaves higher than anyone else around us. ‘Welcome to Manhattan!’
‘Heeeeyyy!’ I try to match.
Piper links arms with me and we walk in.
Without wasting any time, we order an Ocean Blue and after one sip from the giant sharer cocktail goblet, I can feel the blueberry vodka slipping down a treat. All the drinks at the Sugar Factory are insane. Served in giant fishbowl-style glasses, garnished with lollipops, jelly sweets, candyfloss or fruit, each drink is a sugar high waiting to happen. Located in the trendy Meatpacking District, it’s become the place to try, and I’m not berating Piper for her choice. I don’t think I could do this every night – I’d have no teeth left, and Diabetes, but for now, sipping a blue cocktail with tiny gummy sharks floating around in it is working for me. It’s just bliss to be sitting on a bar stool and not flitting around the set with brushes in my hand and a million thoughts about liquid latex, blending creases or schedules in my head. I’m ready to zone out, let go and enjoy every moment.
We chat for a while about our days, and then about the weird man on the subway Piper sees each morning (he gets on at her stop and carries a tiny cocker spaniel dressed as a canine astronaut – only in New York!). Piper loves her job as an assistant curator at a small up-and-coming gallery nearby and to my mind, this is amazing. Ever since we were little she was into art; she’d tear the prettiest adverts out of Tina’s magazines, stick them to the walls of her bedroom and make us come in to admire the ‘art’, while me and Lacey played the more classic ‘Mums and Dads’. I admire her for following through on her dream. From small beginnings in the suburbs of Cambridgeshire to assisting in an actual gallery in the Big Apple! I don’t think I could ever just fly out somewhere and start a whole new life with a brand new job. Although, if this week is anything to go by, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I could.
‘Piper, before the cocktails go to my head, I just want to say I’m really proud of you.’
‘What? Don’t be silly. You’ve not even had a drink yet and you’re starting!’ she laughs me off.
‘No, I mean it! You’ve done incredibly, and been so brave. I don’t know how you do it.’
‘Yes you do! You’re doing it too!’
‘No, I’m not; this is temporary. I don’t live here. I’m not making a whole new life here. Look at you, being amazing and totally embracing it all!’ I say, gesturing at her and the bar around us.
‘Robin, you’re just seeing me now, now I’m settled. I was totally and utterly terrified when I first arrived! Was I making the right choice? Would I miss everyone at home? Could I handle the role?’
We carry on talking about how in time she settled, but I’m still mentally on Piper being terrified. I just never thought of her as someone who was scared of anything at all. She’s so suave and vivacious. She’s the girl at the party on the bar doing shots, not the girl by the wall wondering if her shoes are a bit boring. I suddenly feel a whole new wave of love for my little Piper, her secret vulnerabilities and her ‘screw it, I’m doing it anyway’ vibe.
Then we move onto Callum – her latest squeeze – and before I know it, we’re playing virtual Shag, Marry, Avoid with the guys in the bar. I love this game. Zero consequences, zero chances of messing anything up. I wish real life could be like that. Just look at a man, pick ‘marry’ and then dream up the most wonderful life without any of the usual stress of a mediocre relationship. No second-guessing everything he says; no waiting desperately for him to message; no feeling shit when he runs his hand up your maybe-ready-for-a-shave leg and says ‘oo, bit spiky, ha ha’ as a ‘hilarious’ joke.
After a few minutes our eyes land on a group of men in suits by the back wall of the bar.
‘Shag, Marry, Avoid the three closest to us?’ asks Piper, with mischief in her already twinkling eyes and a wry smile on her glossed lips.
I look over and see the three she means clearly. Stood about with beers (why would you buy a beer in a place where the cocktails come with lollipops in them?), they’ve all come from work, in their smart trousers, lace-up shoes, white shirts slightly crumpled from the day with the sleeves rolled up.
So: the task at hand. We’ve got an older, greying guy with a hook nose and a slight back-and-forth rock to his stance: Avoid. A fresh-out-of-college hottie with eager eyes who’s clearly highly enthused to be out with the big boys: Shag, obviously. And lastly, the dish of the group – tall but not so tall people would say ‘wow you’re tall’, as if the recipient didn’t know, with dark brown hair, a decent medium build and a bit of stubble. Not ‘oh my God I need new knickers’ hot, but handsome enough. Someone your mother might like (although not my mother, because she still lives in hope that Simon and I will get back together so she can regale the ladies at the Rotary Club of our most happy ending). Anyway, Mr Handsome: Marry. He looks dependable.
Piper is impressed with my quick choices; this isn’t my first rodeo. But obviously she’d marry the older guy because she reasons he’d have the most money and would be grateful to have her. Then she’d have a fling with the young hottie to keep life exciting. She tells me all of this in the tone of voice someone would use for describing a new washing machine they’d ordered.
We skim the menu for our next choices, and I opt for a bubblegum-pink cocktail in a highball glass with a wand of candyfloss protruding from the top, and think about how Lyla would lose her mind over something like this (minus the alcohol, of course!). Still mid-thought about concocting some kind of candyfloss cocktail for my six-year-old, Piper has popped off her stool, is taking my free hand (the other one isn’t letting go of this drink, that’s for sure) and dragging me up to dance.
Thankfully I’ve been filled with enough sugar, booze and adrenalin from my day to have a ‘fuck it’ attitude, so I go all in, shake what my mother gave me (she’d be so very proud right now, not) and dance away with my beautiful gazelle friend. I can’t remember the last time I felt so free and liberated on a dance floor. This isn’t aunties swaying round the handbags at a wedding; this is arms-above-head, bending-my-knees-sometimes-more-than-ninety-degrees movement here. All too quickly I’m reminded of my somewhat lacking fitness levels (if only I’d taken a leaf out of Natalie’s gym dedication book), so we head back to our stools, take a few sips and I let my heart rate get back into a safe zone.
‘How often do you have fun like this on a weekday?’ asks Piper, breathlessly.
‘Mmm … never. I work, or I do the school run in the mornings, so dancing in a cocktail bar is far less important to me than having a bath or flopping on the sofa before an early night.’
‘Oh, wow. Sounds fun,’ replies Piper in a tone so dry you could set it on fire. ‘Wanna spice things up a bit?’
Not really, I think; the dancing was spicy enough, surely. ‘Er … yeah?’
‘Why don’t you actually go and say hi to Mr Marry? This is New York. It’s what everyone does here!’
‘Because he’s having a night out with his friends. He doesn’t want to be interrupted by me.’
‘I bet you ten dollars he does.’
‘Nooo, he’ll brush me off.’
‘I tell you what, go over and ask him any old question to start a conversation going, and if he doesn’t brush you off, I’ll buy you brunch at Sarabeth’s.’
Well, she’s got me there. If there’s one sure-fire way to my heart, it’s food. And according to Piper, Sarabeth’s breakfasts are apparently the best.
After taking an unreasonably large gulp of my cocktail, I lurch off my bar stool in what I hoped would be an elegant hop but what probably looks more like a baby seal splashing into the sea for the first time, brush my already clammy palms down my jeans and stride over.
I can do this.
I’m Robin Wilde, who flew out to New York with barely any notice. I’m Robin Wilde, who deputised for Natalie and helped to manage the entire make-up department today. I’m going to stride over and say something charming, witty and hilarious.
‘Hello.’
Hmm. Not as amazing as it could have been, but still confident.
‘Oh … hi,’ replies a slightly startled Mr Marry in an accent that’s familiar.
‘Oh! You’re British. What a small world!’ Stop, Robin!
‘Yes! Hi! What a small world indeed. What brings you to this neck of the woods?’ Mr Marry replies confidently and comfortably. Maybe America really is the land of opportunity.
‘I’m just over here for a work thing, and my friend thought she recognised you but maybe she didn’t – I … I’m not sure now.’ Shit, I started strong but should have had more to say or at least some kind of plan. I look over to Piper, hoping she’ll sense my panic and swoop in to rescue me, but she’s occupied. No sooner was my stool next to her free, an indie-band kinda guy has hopped on and is trying to win her affections. Great.
‘Lamest excuse ever, I’m afraid,’ teases Mr Marry with a kind laugh. ‘I’m Edward. Nice to meet you.’
‘Robin. Hello. Again. My friend over there with the gold top, she, well, she dared me to come and say hello. Very grown-up of us, ha ha, er, yes, sorry. It’s these insane cocktails!’ I say, hoping that honesty really is the best policy.
‘Not my good looks and potential charm, then?’ Edward quips back. Oh my God, is he actually flirting with me? I should flirt back! This is my chance. All is not lost! I’m in a bar in New York City, flirting with a hot man. Shit me.
‘Aha ha,’ is what I actually manage. How poetic.
Edward’s face is really very appealing. Dark green eyes with tiny flecks of tawny-owl brown in them, and such long lashes. The sort of lashes I usually glue to people on set. There’s something about his eyes that just feels safe and gentle. He doesn’t strike me as a murderer. These are the things a modern lady out in the world thinks of these days. It’s what I look for on the dating apps. Is he wearing a decent shirt? Yes? Tick. Has he included any photos of him with sedated tigers? No? Tick. Does he have the eyes of a mass lady-murderer? No? Tick. So far with Edward we’ve got two ticks. I’m yet to find out how he feels about the tigers.
Piper’s tap on my shoulder brings me back to the real world. Apparently Callum, the guy she sometimes sees, has buzzed her and she’s going to go to his studio to ‘check out his artwork’. This is what we’re calling it these days, is it? I think we all know she will have her denim-clad legs over his ‘easel’ before you can say ‘draw me like one of your French girls’. Cheeky minx. Good for her.
I consider leaving myself but, feeling brave, I decide to stay for ten more minutes and see what Edward’s all about.
I tell her to be safe and that I’ll text her when I’m home (I feel like that’s the correct thing to say to your gal pal when she’s decided to leave you for some male anatomy). I look back up at Edward once she’s left. ‘Oh great, I’ve been abandoned!’ I tell him, with only moderate annoyance. I’m quite glad. I’m starting to think I might enjoy spending a bit more time with him, and goddess-like Piper is a distraction for any red-blooded man.
Without skipping a beat Edward says, ‘Hang with us. I’m here with some of the chaps from work. Keith’s leaving next week, so we’re starting early on the goodbye drinks! The more the merrier. I’d be glad of a fellow Brit. We can talk about red phone boxes and Marmite!’
Normally I’d say no to such a hideous push into a group I don’t know, but tonight feels different. I’m in New York City! I handled everything on set! I look incredible in these jeans! Why bloody not? I’m a woman of poise and substance, and if I want to stay for a couple of drinks with a decent guy, then so I shall! Look at me go, world, look at me go!
An hour later, and I haven’t regretted my choice. ‘The chaps’ and Keith are an absolute hoot. Either that or they’re not and the cocktails are a lot more potent than I initially thought. So far we’ve fiercely debated whether Hershey’s or Cadbury is better (Edward and I passionately stick to our guns and agree that the Caramel Bunny is way too sexual to be selling chocolate), and gone through a lengthy list of things we name differently over in Blighty. Sounds like the most boring game ever played, but truly, after a few cocktails so sugary you’re facing a coma, screaming ‘BIN AND TRASH! CABS AND TAXIS!’ becomes the absolute height of entertainment.
Before I know it it’s 2 a.m., the Sugar Factory is winding down, Keith and the chaps are looking around for which chairs they slung their suit jackets on and Edward is talking in my ear about walking me home.
SOMETHING I’VE LEARNT QUICKLY in this city, despite its being a thick maze of buildings, roads and constant construction, is that walking is usually the easiest option. Well, the easiest option when you have your bearings, are escorted by your friend and it’s daylight.
‘I think I need a cab. Or I just need to check Google Maps. Or … I … erm.’ I start to look wildly around, over and over, as if by doing this I’m suddenly going to see my hotel.
‘Are you having some kind of fit?’ asks Edward.
‘No! I’m just not sure how close my hotel is to here. I’ve been using Ubers, or I’ve had Piper or Natalie with me. I’ll work it out. My brain just feels foggy from all the drinks. And candyfloss. Ugh, I have so much regret for the sugar.’
‘My place is two blocks away. Fancy coming back for a cup of tea, some Marmite toast and a chat about the merits of Wills and Kate?’ Edwards gently laughs.
There’s something really calming about him. I should be absolutely freaking out that Piper has left me, I’m half-lost and I’m about to go back to a strange man’s flat. But I’m a big girl, and Edward has given me no reason not to feel safe, so I think ‘you only live once!’, nod casually (at least I hope it looked casual and breezy, and not like one of those little toy dogs people used to put in the back of their car) and we start walking.
About fifteen steps down the road, I notice our hands brushing against each other and less than five steps later, they’re intertwined. All of a sudden I’m acutely aware that this isn’t a chat with a new friend. I don’t really know why I thought it would be. We had great chat all night, his attention was focused purely on me and the drinks flowed easily. Usually in those kinds of situations I’d feel self-conscious, but tonight feels so easy. I just let myself go, laugh heartily and actually manage to not worry about anything. I should do that more often.
Edward is handsome. Classically handsome, as in, he could be in a men’s razor advert. He’s taller than me but not crazy tall (six foot, maybe?), and pale with cheeks that would probably flush pink in the winter air. He has I’ve-worked-all-day stubble and sensible hair. He’s no Theo, but right now I don’t want Theo. I want calming, good-looking Edward, not stressful, unobtainable Theo. With his hand in mine, I don’t feel lost. He strides confidently down the street and we dip in and out of the light from the street lamps. Conversation has stopped, but it doesn’t feel awkward. It’s amazing how a few drinks and a bit of chat in a bar can make you feel so all right with someone. It must be New York. I’d never do this at home.
His flat is tiny. I know people always say apartments in New York are small, but this is insanity. It’s almost smaller than my single room at university. It’s effectively a short, wide corridor.
As I go through the front door, I’m instantly in the cream-walled lounge and about thirty centimetres away from the two-man grey sofa (with no cushions or blankets – it’s all very functional). If I swivel 180 degrees, there’s a flat screen on the wall that’s too close for comfort. Next to the sofa on the right is a light fold-up wooden table (I silently wonder if you could actually fully unfold it in here), and then the ‘kitchen’ next to it. The ‘kitchen’ is a clean stove, about nine inches of wooden worktop, a wall-mounted microwave next to a double cupboard and there’s a fridge and some shelving for pots and pans and whatnot. The space in between is minuscule. If I breathed out I would get stuck. Melt an ice cube and we’d both drown. It’s small.
‘Oh, it’s so homey,’ I say in what I think is an encouraging tone, but in reality I sound like a children’s TV presenter pretending to love the colour blue and the triangle shape.
‘It’s a box. It’s smaller than my parents’ shed,’ nice Edward responds in a matter-of-fact tone.
Jolly good.
Realising a guided tour isn’t necessary, Edward sidles past me, deftly grabs two glasses and a bottle of wine out of the fridge and pours. There’s something sexy about his confidence in assuming that I like or even want a glass of wine.
I do want it, though. New-found confidence be damned; I’m sobering up, and the reality of the situation is starting to hit me. I was feeling so calm outside, but very slowly anxiety is creeping in. Hopefully a glug of wine will deal with that.
Edward starts talking, his voice deep and relaxed. He has the slow speech of someone who’s secure in what he’s saying.
‘I like you, Robin. You made me laugh, you’ve got interesting stuff to say. You’re hot. If you want me to walk you to your hotel, that’s fine, but I want you to stay. Will you stay with me?’
I love how easy that was. No confusion, no innuendos, simple. I take a big sip of my (very nice, thank you kindly) white wine and nod, looking straight into his eyes.
He reaches out for my hand, leads me (by which I mean we take four steps to the left of the front door) to his bedroom and kisses me.
His kiss is authoritative. He takes the wine glass out of my hand and puts it and his own on the bedside table. One of his hands moves up my back, stroking my neck and into my hair, while the other lingers, gentlemanly, on the side of my waist.
I tumble down onto his bed with him, clothes are being pulled off (lacy thongs be damned – I’m in soft cotton briefs and feeling all the better for them), bodies are colliding. He gently caresses my thigh. He kisses my neck, moves down to kiss my belly. And … well, it seems Piper isn’t the only one enjoying her evening.
IN THE COLD LIGHT of the next day, things feel very different. Gone is the giddy, liberated feeling of cocktails and sex with a man I don’t know and, unwelcome, into its place rush utter panic and sickness.
I left Edward’s place at 6 a.m. in an Uber he called for me (actually quite gentlemanly of him, I think) and came back to the hotel. I took my time in the shower, enjoying the free smellies and letting thoughts of last night wash over me at the same time as the hot water. That’s when, on a bit of a freedom, first-time-one-night-stand and orgasm-induced high, I stepped out of the bathroom and saw my phone buzz.
Natalie’s called. She’s been up all night, too, but instead of having her head in a man’s lap, like me, she’s had her head in a toilet and is suffering with severe stomach cramps. She’s not coming on set today for fear of infecting everyone, and because of the unpleasantness of not actually being able to leave the bathroom, so she’s asked me to ‘take the reins’. I’m utterly horrified by this, especially in light of this horrible hangover but obviously I’ve lied, said everything will be fine and ‘you just get yourself better, I’ll handle everything’.
My instant reaction – dammit – is to run to Theo. He’d know exactly what to say to calm me down and remind me that everything will be all right. He has a way with words, and his voice is so smooth and strong you can’t not feel good after a call to him. I know he’s not the answer, though. Too many unanswered texts have taught me this. Instead I remind myself of Lacey’s words whenever I’ve felt anxious or like I couldn’t cope. If I can get through childbirth, the first few months of motherhood plus nearly five years of single-mum-dom, then I can do anything. So, though I still feel wobbly, I take a smiley selfie, send it to Kath’s phone (no need for filters) and write, Hey Kath, hope everything’s OK. Can you tell Lyla Mummy is missing her so much and can’t wait for a big squishy cuddle on the sofa when I’m back? xxx. That little bit of contact with my people feels good.
Suddenly last night doesn’t feel so amazing; I just feel tired and overwhelmed by the day ahead, and like I want to be at home with daytime TV and a packet of fig rolls.
Realising there’s nothing I can do about my frustration now – Natalie is depending on me – I get dressed. Black cotton skater dress, old white Converse, my brush belt and hair in a topknot. I’m not in the mood to make much more effort than that.
Our hotel is a short walk to the set, and outside in the blazing sun, I already feel too warm. I take the few minutes to myself to try and find some calm. Langston likes me, praised me, even; I’m good at my job, I’ve had plenty of practice, Natalie assured me on the phone that I can handle this, I can take direction and it’s going to be OK.
On set, everything, thankfully, is OK. Sarah offers some lovely advice: ‘Honey, everything is as it should be; the world longs for what you have to offer,’ and, like a sponge, I absorb her wise (maybe from a fortune cookie or inspiration Insta account) words and give it my all. I set about priming, powdering, blending and contouring, and work up a good rhythm with the rest of the team. I channel my inner Natalie and, where needed, guide, advise and organise people in what they’re doing. Occasionally Langston shouts me on set for touch-ups, and I scurry back and forth trying not to get in the way of his seemingly bad mood. Even his deputy seems tense about it.
By 11 a.m. I feel like I’ve been working all day instead of just a few hours and excuse myself to take a breather, dash across the street and buy myself a portion of deep-fried Oreos. These might be the naughtiest things I’ve ever eaten but my God, they are worth it. I sit myself down on a bench by a tiny patch of fenced grass posing as a city park and let the sun shine down on my face. I’m covered in make-up and smudges, my hair is a sweaty mess and my feet are sore, but I feel good. I take out my phone and, surprisingly, there is a message from Edward.
Hey Robin, it’s Edward! Just checking your limo dropped you off safely this morning and you are enjoying luxuriating on set in your trailer, and then the old school camera emoji and a winky face. How sweetly charming of him. Buoyed by the sugar high from my deep-fried treats, I decide not to play the wait-thirty-minutes-to-reply game and respond.
Hi Edward, my chauffeur was excellent and dropped me right at my door as asked; please pass on five stars from me. Sadly they have misplaced my trailer and so I am being forced to actually work on the set today rather than lounge around and recuperate from my evening. It’s a hard life but I’ve discovered deep-fried Oreos, so will survive. Hope you’re feeling OK, not too hung-over. I really enjoyed last night x. I think this is a good mix of friendly, witty and sincere, so I close my phone and start walking back to work. I don’t feel tight-chested about this man; it’s very novel. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to always be? Who bloody knows?
Things seem oddly tense when I walk back into work. Marnie is in my chair and I can’t ignore the fresh bruises on her shoulders and collarbones.
‘Marnie, what’s happened?’
‘Nothing. I went out and danced a lot and was just having a good time,’ she says, looking at her lap.
‘Marnie,’ I say as softly as I possibly can, ‘I don’t think that’s true. These are bruises from hands and fingers, aren’t they?’
‘Can you just cover them up, please? I’m on set in ten minutes and Langston is so mad at me, and—’
‘Why is Langston upset with you? He shouldn’t be getting you worked up this much, you poor thing,’ I interrupt while she blinks back tears.
‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to make a big deal.’ She lowers her voice. ‘We had a thing. It’s not a thing now. Or maybe it is. I don’t know. I just need you to do my make-up and I can suck it up and do my job. I’ve always wanted to be an actress, I can’t blow it. I’m sorry I told you … If you say anything, I’ll just deny it!’
I can see Marnie flushing red with panic at the thought of losing her chance, and probably for fear of Langston. He’s a intimidating man, looming taller than most and having an air of authority you don’t often see. I’m a bit scared of him myself, to be honest. Still, I know what’s wrong and what’s right, and that overrides any concerns I have for Langston.
‘Did … did Langston do this to you?’
Marnie’s silence confirms my suspicions, and as she looks up at me we meet eyes and she nods. Big, hot tears run down her face and I grab for tissues to blot her mascara.
‘This is not OK … you don’t have to put up with this. You could—’
‘MARNIE! IT’S CALL TIME!’ barks Langston, who’s suddenly filling the entirety of my doorway. He’s so abrasive I almost jump out of my skin. I can feel Marnie shaking.
‘I’m sorry, Langston, we’re not quite ready yet. We shall need five more minutes,’ I deliver, channelling my inner Finola.
Taken aback either by my bravery or my absurdly posh accent, he glares at Marnie and leaves the room.
A moment or two later, Marnie has relaxed enough to start telling me her story. ‘We were dating,’ she says, twiddling her fingers as I fix her face and gently cover her bruises. ‘He told me he worked in movies and would get me a part. Things were great for a while, he called me his little dollface and took me to premieres and parties and gave me roles in his films,’ she continues, looking down at her hands and pausing as though unsure whether to go on. ‘Then I noticed the way he would talk to the other girls in his films, how he’d take them into his trailer and call them dollface too. I knew I wasn’t special to him, that I was just a plaything for him to amuse himself with, and so I tried to break it off.’ Marnie looks up at me for reassurance and I nod encouragingly. ‘I told him I didn’t want this, and that he was welcome to the other girls. He was so angry. “You need me,” he said. “You’re nothing in this business without me.” I said I didn’t care and that I just wanted to go home, and he grabbed me.’ She pauses and stops playing with her hands, looks straight into my eyes. I can see hers are full of tears, and she says quietly, ‘He’s so much stronger than I am. I’m going to leave for good when the shoot is over but for now, I just want this job – I need this job – and then I’m gone.’ Fresh tears fall again and I grab more tissues and sponge pads to soak them up and save the newly applied concealer. I wonder what Natalie would do in this situation. She’d be so much better at this than I am.
‘Oh Marnie, I’m so sorry. He’s a bully. A bastard bully.’
‘Yeah. Well, nothing I can do but leave and feel sorry for the next poor girl he calls dollface.’
Marnie’s called on set, and I don’t know what to do. I have barely any time to think because no sooner has she left my station than someone else is here, and I need to do mine and Natalie’s load today. I wish she was here; she’d handle this so well. She’s unflappable.
The next few hours pass in a blur of work and light chat, and all the while in the back of my mind I’m thinking about Marnie. I believed her when she said she’s seen through him and she’ll leave after this job and be OK, but what about Langston? He’s going to carry on doing this.
My phone buzzes – it’s from Kath. She’s sent a picture of Lyla smiling and holding up a picture she’s drawn of me and her and I could cry. I’m tired and emotional and trying so hard to hold it all together, but I can’t. I take this Lyla-induced moment of bravery, unclip my brush belt and walk on set, where thankfully they are between takes and Langston is sat in his chair, scrolling through his phone.
As I walk over, thinking on my feet, my legs feel like they might lose all structure and buckle beneath me. But I take a deep breath and think about Marnie and how, if someone did that to Lyla, I’d kill them with my bare hands.
I have to be careful about this. I can’t let him know my plan.
‘Hi Anthony – Mr Langston – sorry about earlier. I’ll try to be quicker next time.’ I say as nicely as I can through slightly gritted teeth. How can he be so disgusting to such a sweet girl?
‘Huh?’ Clearly our interaction earlier has meant nothing and I’m just annoying him. I take a deep breath and carry on. I’ve got to get this right.
‘With the actress, Marnie. She was talking and taking up my time. That’s why we were running a bit late, because she distracted me.’ I feel horrible for saying this about her, but hope my plan’s going to work.
If he were a dog, his ears would have pricked up, such was his reaction to the name ‘Marnie’.
‘I was doing her make-up but she just kept talking and talking, very frustrating really. I just wanted to apologise to you.’
‘She was?’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘She’s a fucking nightmare. Needs a bit of sense knocking into her. We’re on a tight schedule!’
‘Ha ha, I know, right? I could have slapped her!’ I say with a fake laugh so convincing even I almost believe it.
And then it happens: the most horrible, wonderful thing.
Langston, obviously feeling at ease with me, his new comrade, leans in and says, ‘You know what, Robbie,’ I’ll pretend he didn’t get my name wrong, ‘Sometimes I do.’ With that, he laughs. And I don’t.
I look him straight in the eye.
‘You disgust me,’ I say.
His eyes narrow.
‘What?’
He speaks quietly. Gone is the charm. He is cold as ice and furious.
‘You heard. You are a violent pig and I think you’re revolting.’
‘You want to watch your mouth, young lady, or you won’t have a job to come back to tomorrow.’
‘No, Mr Langston, you want to watch yours,’ I say, starting to feel light-headed with adrenaline. Before he has a chance to say anything – or worse – to me, I walk briskly back to my station, throw my things in their case, stash it under the table and almost run back to the hotel.
Good grief. I think I am going to lose my job. And on this day, too, when Natalie was depending on me. But I know what I have to do.
Lifting open my laptop so forcefully I almost bend it backward, I plug my phone in to it and write the riskiest email of my life.