He must have had so many meetings, and chemistry reads, and screen tests since then. He sent the tape before Christmas. Why the hell wouldn’t he tell me? How the hell didn’t I notice?
I realize I haven’t responded to Cynthia yet. “Yes! Sorry. Yes, I know, right! He’s a…he’s a bloody genius.”
“I couldn’t believe it when I heard. My client Zula’s in it too. She’s only got a small part but she started rehearsals last week, said she met him yesterday at the cast read-through. Said he looked great. God, he must be so relieved. It was all looking a bit desolate there for a bit, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, no, I know. So great!” The words are coming out of my mouth but all I can think is: Why? Why didn’t he tell me he got the part?
And then a thought solidifies, and the answer is suddenly very clear, the solution as ludicrously obvious now as it was impossible to imagine seconds ago. “I forget, Cynth, who else is in it again?” I ask as casually as I can. “George told me but I completely…”
“Yes, the love interest is—God!—I’m so terrible with names. Naomi Fairn, yes. Chris Fairn’s daughter. She’s twenty-one, I think, first job since modeling. Seems good, but even if she’s not, she’ll look amazing in it. Tell George not to worry at all, she’ll hold up on camera.”
And there we go. I take a slug of champagne and try not to look like my entire life is crumbling.
“Filming starts in, what, a week?” she asks, oblivious to what is happening to me. “I bet they’re putting him up somewhere gorgeous in New York, aren’t they?” And with that I gently push back from the table, make my excuses, and head to the ladies’ room. Somehow managing to keep a smile on my face while I do it.
* * *
—
Locked in a marble-lined bathroom stall, I google: Catcher in the Rye casting news. Nothing announced yet. Yet. My stomach rolls.
I think of George quietly watching the TV next to me last night, the same as ever. Texting. Now I wonder who.
I google her face.
Holy shit.
Things start to fall into place.
I tap on the least glamorous shot Google Images offers me in an attempt to work out what Naomi Fairn actually looks like. It’s a makeup-free shot from an impossibly cool magazine. I study the beautiful wrinkle-free planes of her face, and I want to die.
None of those things ever seemed to matter until now.
I read on. Even her parents are cool. Both gorgeous, both actors. Her dad basically was the 1990s. I think of my dad, Trevor, bicycling around the Bedfordshire countryside in an anorak.
With trembling hands, I tap out a message to George, hit send, and unlock the cubicle door. Standing in front of the vast washroom mirror I look at myself, checking my eyes to see if it’s possible to tell that my heart is cracking open just by looking.
You can’t.
I guess I am a good actress after all. I straighten up my hair, reapply some lipstick, and take in my twenty-eight-year-old reflection. And the face of Jane Eyre stares back at me.
I know what she’s thinking, because it’s what I’m thinking.
We’re so fucked.
2
Stranger at the Door
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 5
I’m home alone, hours later, staring at my text to George.
Why didn’t you tell me about the job? x
I could have said a million things but I didn’t, I said that. And he hasn’t replied. So when I hear a knock on the front door—even though he obviously has his own key—I’m convinced it will be him: rain-soaked, sad, and contrite, prepared to explain everything away.