Happy Endings (4 page)

‘So, what do you do?’ said Rhys, looking at me.

What did I do? I wanted to be a writer, but as much as I wanted to say it, I couldn’t, because their first question would be the same question I always got. Oh, what have you had published? And the answer would be nothing. The difference between being a writer and a published writer was the same as between being Rhys Connelly now or Rhys Connelly two years ago, before the fame. I hated moments like these.

‘I . . . umm . . . manage a coffee shop,’ I said.

Both Rhys and Matt tried to look vaguely interested or impressed, probably not impressed, but I could see what they were thinking. Emma’s getting married to a coffee shop manager? That isn’t going to last.

‘Which one? Maybe I know it,’ said Matt.

‘To Bean or Not to Bean?’

‘That is the question,’ said Rhys, laughing.

‘It’s just around the corner from the Globe,’ I added quietly.

‘Always packed with tourists,’ said Matt. ‘I prefer somewhere a bit quieter.’

I nodded and smiled because I didn’t know what else to say.

A waitress suddenly appeared, took our drinks order with a nervous smile, before returning quickly with a tray of drinks and a plate of starters. I took a quick sip of beer, picked up a small tart and shoved it in my mouth.

‘You must be so proud of her,’ said Matt.

‘Of course, yeah, over the moon.’

‘I’m really looking forward to working with her,’ said Rhys in his sexy Welsh accent.

Everything about the man screamed sexy bastard: the perfect amount of stubble, the messy long hair that somehow didn’t look too messy, the casual jeans, the piercing blue eyes and the impossibly square jaw.

‘And you’re OK with the nudity?’ said Matt suddenly.

The nudity? Emma hadn’t mentioned any nudity. The idea of millions of people seeing her naked made me sick to my stomach, but what could I say? I knew being an actress brought with it a whole smorgasbord of unappetising side dishes I had to pretend I liked, whether I did or not, but she’d never done nude before. I guess it was part of the deal and there was nothing I could do about it.

‘No worries.’

‘It can be a bit daunting for partners who aren’t in the business,’ said Matt.

‘Sure,’ I replied, taking another sip of my beer and grabbing another tart, needing something to settle my churning stomach.

‘And I’ll do my best to be professional with the sex scenes,’ said Rhys, with a humble smile.

His best? Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Was his best his best or his worst? I smiled, but my stomach was turning and twisting with an uneasy jealousy. It wasn’t a feeling or emotion I was used to. I wasn’t the jealous sort, the typical over-bearing bloke who tried to control every single thing his girlfriend did in the hope she wouldn’t leave me. It wasn’t me and I didn’t want those feelings drilling their way down into the bottom of my stomach and setting up camp. But this was Rhys Connelly, Britain’s best-looking bloke – what else was I supposed to feel?

It reminded me of the time I went to the fairground with Dad when I was twelve. I’d asked him a dozen times if I could go on this one particular ride. It looked terrifying, but thrilling at the same time. Finally, just before we left, he said we could go on it. We sat together in the small metal pod and as the man buckled us in the adrenalin and anticipation pumped through my body. I really thought I wanted to go on that ride. But once it got started, spinning around and around, going faster and faster, I closed my eyes and just wanted it to be over. I held on to Dad’s arm and cried until it stopped. It had seemed so exciting, but once it started, I couldn’t wait to get off and put my feet back on solid ground again.

Emma came back and sat down. I looked at her and something inside of me felt numb. She had a twinkle in her eye. She’d finally found her place in the world. She was going to be a film star and there was nothing I could do about it. She’d do the film and fall in love with Rhys, while I’d be the bloke she used to go out with before she became famous. Every celebrity has one of us. A year from now I’d be doing interviews with Sunday tabloids to pay the rent on my studio flat in Hackney.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, wiping the corner of my mouth with my napkin before getting up and walking off towards the toilet.

As I crossed the room, zigzagging my way between the maze of tables full to the brim with successful, happy people, all laughing and enjoying themselves, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of fear. I briefly looked back towards Emma and she was popping the cork of a champagne bottle. She squealed with delight as its frothy, expensive foam exploded and then slid down the sides of the bottle like lava and onto her hands. I looked away and kept on walking towards the toilet. Despite being in a room full of people in the centre of London, I’d never felt so completely and utterly alone.

Emma

Something was definitely wrong with Jack. Ever since our dinner in Soho, he’d been super quiet, wrapped up in his own thoughts and even more engrossed in his writing than usual. It’s not hard to tell when something’s on his mind because he shuts down – a typical bloody man I suppose. I asked him several times if he was all right and he gave the bog-standard reply with the mandatory furrowed brow, ‘Fine, Em.’ But he wasn’t. He wasn’t fine.

I would have been more concerned, but I just didn’t have the time. Matt had sent over the full script for
The Hen Weekend
and I’d been at Starbucks ever since. God, it was so bloody brilliant. There I was, drinking my café lattes, cracking up and feeling for the first time in my life like a proper actress. I’m absolutely in love with it. It’s funny, touching, thought-provoking and just a great romantic comedy. And I was going to be in it!

I also got to work with Matt and Rhys, who were both so generous with their time and ridiculously talented. It was surreal at first, calling Rhys with a question. Rhys Connelly, a world-famous film star, on the front pages of national newspapers, and I had his phone number. We were mates, sort of, and soon we’d be naked and kissing. I hadn’t told Jack yet, for obvious reasons, and also because I wasn’t sure how I felt about it myself. It was Rhys Connelly for God’s sake! Britain’s sexiest man and I was going to be canoodling with him. Millions of girls throughout the land would no doubt swap places with me in an instant, but it just made me uncomfortable and I felt awful for Jack. It was just another part of the job and it meant nothing, but it was hard to wedge into a conversation that, oh, by the way, in the middle of the film Rhys was going to be kissing my breasts and, shortly after that, most of the English-speaking world was going to see me completely naked, but it’s nothing, really . . . more tea?

I was at Starbucks having another read through, but I couldn’t focus. Outside, thick black clouds made everything gloomy and dark. I was annoyed Jack had to work like he did every bloody Saturday. It was better when Kate was here because we’d often go shopping, get a drink or just wander around London, but she was gone and I was at a loose end. I’d never thought of myself as a loose end sort of person before. I was the end people generally hung on to. So, with nothing better to do, I decided to pop in and see Jack at work. Perhaps we could have lunch and maybe, away from the confines of our cramped Notting Hill flat, he’d tell me why he was acting so un-Jack-like.

To Bean or Not to Bean was a shoddy place a few streets away from the Globe theatre. It was decorated like an old Shakespearean set and filled exclusively with tourists. When I walked in the café was in the middle of an influx of Japanese tourists, all shouting their orders in broken English and pointing at the menu. I looked around until I saw Jack, hastily trying to get his apron on and take orders. He looked tired, miserable and irate, but still bloody gorgeous: short blond hair, slightly sad blue eyes, cheek bones to die for and those arms, so big and safe. The sexiest thing about Jack though, and one of the things that had attracted me to him in the first place, was that he didn’t know it.

I waited for the queue to die down before I found him behind the counter.

‘Bit busy now, love,’ he said as soon as he saw me.

‘Time for a quick Taming of the Brew?’

I smiled. He looked annoyed.

‘I’m rushed off my feet. We have two staff members out and we’re expecting half of Texas any time soon.’

‘Five minutes and I’ll even buy you a coffee. What’s the special of the day?’

‘Our famous Bard Blend.’

‘Famous where exactly?’

‘I don’t know. Five minutes,’ he said tersely.

He poured us two cups of the Bard Blend and we sat outside. The streets were buzzing with people as we sat in the small area on the pavement where if you craned your neck and looked really hard you could just make out the top-left-hand corner of the Globe theatre. Inside, the horde of Japanese tourists were busy drinking their coffees, eating their traditional English scones and reading their Shakespearean literature diligently, while outside Jack was giving off a distinctly cold and unloving air.

‘Are you going to tell me?’

‘Tell you what?’

‘What’s on your mind and why you’re acting like you hate me.’

‘I don’t hate you, Em.’

‘Then why are you being all weird and quiet? Is this to do with the film?’

Jack did this thing when he was nervous. He would chew on his lip and his right eye would twitch ever so slightly.

‘Of course not,’ he said, but I could tell he was lying.

‘Then what is it, Jack? I need something,’ I said, reaching across and placing my hand over his.

‘It’s . . .’ He looked at me for a moment and it seemed like he was going to say something, but then he stopped himself. ‘It’s nothing, love, just tired.’

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to push him, but I knew something was wrong and it annoyed me that he couldn’t tell me. It was the one thing about Jack that really pissed me off. I wouldn’t have cared if it was about the film or whatever it was, I just couldn’t handle the pent-up silence, the mawkish refusal to talk it out. To me feelings were like rubbish in a bin. If they weren’t emptied routinely they would start to overflow and make an awful stench. Jack would keep stuffing them in, pushing them down deeper and deeper, never giving them the chance to clear out and start over fresh and clean.

I was deciding how far to push him, but before I could say anything else, a stream of loud, brash Americans flooded around the corner and swamped us. My moment had come and gone.

‘I really need to get back,’ he said, giving me a quick kiss before disappearing back inside.

I was left alone, still no wiser as to why Jack was behaving like a spoilt child and with half a cup of famous but foul-tasting coffee. I cursed Kate for being gone, but then my phone buzzed and when I looked down it was Matt.

I was four when I decided to become an actress. According to my mother, I ran into her bedroom dressed up in a wonderful jumble of costumes and said, ‘Mummy, I’m putting on a play, five minutes please,’ and then I acted for the first time. It probably wasn’t very good. I was four and I had made the whole thing up, but after that day I was always playing dress-up and acting out scenes from television. I was quite a precocious child, probably very annoying, but I always knew what I wanted. I wanted to act, to perform, to have hundreds, thousands and, maybe one day, millions of pairs of eyes just on me.

As a child I just needed my mother, but as I got older and began acting in school plays, I craved it more and more. I studied drama at university in Bristol and when I left I thought it was only a matter of time before I got my big break. That’s the thing about dreams, you think because you’ve wanted it for such a long time that it will just happen. It has to. You forget, of course, that a million other people are thinking exactly the same thing. I got a couple of jobs here and there, but eight years later I was still scratching around the dregs of the acting world.

When I was offered the lead role in
The Hen Weekend
, it was like every moment of my life, every second of doubt, regret and uncertainty, was justified. It all meant something. My biggest fear had always been that I was so focused on acting that if I didn’t make it my whole life would have been a waste. However, getting that role vindicated every single thing I’d ever done.

So why when I was so deliriously happy about it was Jack so miserable? Was it something I did? Said? Didn’t say? Could he be jealous that I’d finally achieved my dream and he hadn’t? We met as struggling artists, both intent on making it in our chosen fields and somehow one of us achieving it broke the balance and sank the ship. Our joint failure had been the glue that kept us together, but maybe now it was tearing us apart.

‘A whole week?’

‘I do it for all my projects. It’s fun. We stay at this incredibly old mansion in Berkshire. We get to bond as a group and start working on the connections between the characters. It’s a good chance to have a few beers and relax before the hard slog really begins,’ said Matt.

‘I understand. It’s just, Jack, I . . .’

‘We need you there, Emma. We can’t do it without you.’

‘Of course I’ll be there.’

‘Great, fantastic. I’ll email you the details and travel arrangements. We’ll send a car to pick you up on the day. It’s going to be wonderful. Trust me, yeah.’