Confessions of a Bad Boy(20)

“I’ll bet you do a lot of things you shouldn’t do,” Will says, his eyes still scrolling Jessie’s body like he’s reading small print off it.

“What happened to the English being reserved?” I say, as the bartender takes the bill and replaces our beers.

Will grins. “That was always a myth – much like that of Americans being unfit,” he says, looking at Jessie’s toned waist as he does so.

“Anyway,” Jessie says, turning her head towards me. “I just wanted to say thanks a lot, Nate. I owe you one.”

Then, all of a sudden, it clicks. She does owe me one. I turn to Jessie with determined eyes.

“Come with me to a work retreat this weekend. My boss already thinks you’re Tessa.”

There’s a split-second pause.

“Wait. You’re saying this is the same girl?” Will says, incredulous. I nod.

Will starts laughing so hard he has to stop himself from spitting beer all over the place. I clench my jaw and start preparing arguments in my favor.

But Jessie’s already got her arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head no.

“Hear me out, Jessie. My boss invited me to a big gathering this weekend – Hollywood types, decision-makers, that kind of thing. It’s a big deal. Thing is, he wants you – I mean, my girlfriend – I mean, the fake girlfriend I made up – to come along. I need Tessa to be there, and you’re the only one who can do it, Jessie.”

“This is too good!” Will says, raising his bottle like it’s a cup of tea. “Positively Wildean!”

“You want me to pretend to be Tessa for an entire weekend?”

“Don’t think of it as an ‘entire’ weekend, think of it as ‘just’ a weekend. Two days, and it’ll be over before you know it.”

Jessie looks at me with an expression that says she’s wondering if I’m actually crazy, or just plain pitiful.

“Not a chance in hell, Nate. You’ve got plenty of ‘enablers’ around you already,” she says, glancing sideways at Will. “I’m not going to help you maintain whatever scam you’ve got going.”

“It’s not a scam, Jessie. Come on...”

She shakes her head again as she steps backwards away from the bar. “Here’s an idea: Try being honest, Nate. Tell your boss you made the whole thing up. He’ll respect you more for it, and you won’t have to lie anymore. Maybe you guys will even laugh about it together.”

I feel the blood drain out of my face, imagining just how well that’d go over.

Jessie goes on, “Thank you again for bailing me out, but I’m gonna have to say no on the whole ‘pretending to be your devoted wife while you sweet-talk a bunch of old dudes into promoting you’ thing. Sorry.”

She turns quickly and starts making for the exit.

“Jessie!” I call out.

She waves behind her, and a second later is gone. I slump over the bar in defeat.

“She seemed sparky,” Will says, sympathetically. “Probably could have even pulled it off with her.”

“Yeah,” I say, raising my head and narrowing my eyes.

“Sorry, buddy.”

“Don’t be,” I reply, “I’m not giving up on her that easily.”





6





Jessie




You can tell the pecking order on a set by the order in which people leave. Terry, Dominique, and Pablo – the lead actors on the show – pretty much disappear the second the director yells cut on their final scheduled scene. Soon after that, the director, script supervisor, and camera operators finish up and head home. An hour after that, the grips, sound, and electric departments go. Then it’s down to just the costume department and assistant director trailer full of exhausted PAs collecting the last of the day’s walkie-talkies and time sheets – all of us left behind to hustle for however long it takes to tidy the mess everyone else made and set things up for the next day’s shoot.

It’s dark by the time I hang the last business suit on the rack, pick up my bag and leave the studio lot, waving goodbye to the workmen smoking a joint before they finish up themselves. I pull out my phone as I walk towards the bus station – I gave up taking my car to work when the days got so long that I was half-asleep every time I got behind the wheel. Working too hard might end up killing me, but I’d prefer it didn’t happen when I was driving home.

The second I look at my phone I almost stop walking – it’s packed with missed calls and messages. The ones from my ex-boyfriend I delete without even reading, but there are still plenty left from Nate. I read the texts until I get to the bus stop, then board a bus and occupy myself by listening to his voicemail messages – each plea more desperate than the last.

Even after what feels like thirty minutes’ worth of begging (I can almost hear him falling to his knees) the whole idea still feels like a bad sitcom script. I quickly type back.

You’re deluded. How would that even work? There’s no

The bus pulls in at my stop and I delete the message, get up, and storm down the aisle and out the door. Then I walk the few blocks to my apartment, and as the sheer craziness of Nate’s plan begins to fade, it leaves behind a strange sad feeling in the pit of my stomach.