I Know Who You Are(52)

I don’t know what I’m so upset about or why I’m so surprised. Men fall for women like that all the time; as if they can’t see the bitch behind the beauty. Why should Jack be any different? It isn’t as though I thought there was anything real between us; obviously the sexual tension was just an act for when the cameras were rolling, and any friendship that developed as a result of spending all those months filming together was just the product of time shared, the camaraderie of a common experience.

As for the audition, I think I’m justified in feeling upset about that. Tony made it sound as if the part were already mine. I guess agents, like normal human beings, occasionally tell people what they want to hear. Maybe he was trying to boost my confidence after the online article about the affair I’m not having. Maybe he could see that I was falling apart and was simply trying to stitch me back together, protect his investment.

The drinks are all free, paid for by the film company, so I have another. I feel like I’ve earned it. Anxiety changes my relationship with food and drink; it comes between me and food, forcing me closer to alcohol. I know I need to slow down, but sometimes the advice we give ourselves is the hardest to hear. The barman looks surprised to see me again so soon. I tell him this glass is for my friend, and he nods politely. My acting skills are clearly fooling nobody tonight.

I head down to the floor below, another room, another design. This one is all about black leather sofas and low lighting, with modern art clinging to the walls. There are black blinds hiding the outside world from us, and us from it. And there’s another bar, housing a barman who hasn’t served me yet, one who can’t judge me the way I’m currently judging myself. This will have to be the last glass for now.

Down another flight of steps and I’m back where I started on the ground floor. I won’t make myself stay too much longer, but I can’t leave just yet. Besides, where would I go? I need to be seen to say hello to a few more people for the sake of my future self. So much goes on behind the scenes in this industry that the general public doesn’t know. Perhaps it’s for the best. When magicians reveal how they do their tricks, it’s hard to still believe in the magic.

Beyond the imposing fa?ade of the Georgian architecture, I see a room I’ve yet to explore. This one is purple, with a metallic bar and lighting so low that the faces in the room are more like shadows. I feel a breeze, and I see something beyond the purple room: a garden. I step out into the secluded, yet spacious, hidden gem, such an unusual find in central London. A white tent in the middle of the walled courtyard is decorated in gold stars, with a champagne bar in the far corner. This is where everyone has been hiding—out in the open. I get myself another drink, ignoring the stern voice inside my head strongly advising me not to, then I scan the faces all around me and spot the director and his wife. They’re talking to some people I don’t know, but I join their group anyway, feeling a little safer surrounding myself with at least some familiar faces. I make an effort to listen to their conversation, hoping it might drown out the thoughts inside my head. I think I see the flash of a camera, but when I look up, I can’t see anyone pointing anything in my direction. Besides, there shouldn’t be anyone here from the press tonight, it’s not that sort of party.

The director’s wife takes a packet of cigarettes out of her bag. The smell of cigarette smoke can still transport me back in time, and the memories it invokes are not always good. I watch as she puts one between her gloss-covered lips and notice how unusual it looks—long and thin and completely white, as though there is no filter.

“They’re fancy-looking cigarettes,” I say as she lights up.

She removes it from her mouth with manicured fingers. “Would you like one?”

I haven’t smoked since I was eighteen.

“Yes, please,” I hear a voice say, before realizing it is my own.

She lights it for me, shielding the flame from the wind with her free hand, and I listen to her Hollywood stories without really listening. I inhale deeply, enjoying the temporary high of the nicotine. I’m starting to think there isn’t much I wouldn’t do to be the version of me I could live with. The version of me who could be forgiven for all the terrible things I’ve made myself do to get where I am today.

My attention is easily drawn away from the conversation, choosing instead to focus on the back of a smartly dressed man on the other side of the courtyard. His height, build, and the way his hairline tapers at his neck are all a little too familiar.

It’s him.

I can’t see his face, but every fiber of my being is telling me it’s my husband.

I feel a lot colder than I did before, and my fingers holding the cigarette start to tremble. My eyes are willing him to turn around, to prove to my mind that it’s wrong, but he doesn’t turn to face me; instead he starts to walk away. I follow, as quickly as I dare without drawing attention to myself, but I can’t keep up and soon lose him in the crowd. I retrace my steps, through each of the different-colored rooms, scanning wildly for another glimpse of Ben, before coming back to the courtyard, still unable to see him.

I must have imagined it.

I’m tired, a little drunk, my mind is playing tricks on me again, that’s all.

I return to the group I was standing with before—safety in numbers—then allow myself to get lost inside my own thoughts once more, the alcohol and the tobacco joining forces to coax them out of me. I’m still wondering whether I have just seen a ghost of a man or a memory.