Call him. Call him now.
Right, right! Of course! Call him—where the hell is my phone?
I frantically felt myself up, trying to find my phone. Dammit, I’d left it at home. Probably sitting next to my iPod.
Well then run your ass home, woman!
I smiled at the family I’d been watching. They must have wondered about the strange lady in the park having an argument with herself. But hell, it was New York.
I ran like my ass was on fire. I ran out of the park and across town, my heart pounding in my ears. I must have looked like a lunatic. I was crying and smiling at the same time. The image of Harry running to find Sally on New Year’s Eve flashed through my head. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, and he didn’t want to wait another second. I could relate.
I wanted my Jack. I wanted my family. I wanted my home. I just had to think of the right things to say to convince him I would never, ever, ever walk away from him again.
I made it to my building, yelled a quick hi to Lou as I sprinted past, and hit the elevator. It took what felt like ten hours, during which I tried to compose what I’d say when I called him. I also spent most of the time bent over at the waist, trying to catch my breath after running so fast and furiously.
When the door finally pinged open, I fell out into the hallway. Sweaty yet exhilarated, I picked myself off the floor and raced toward my door, anxious to get to my phone. I barreled through the door and ran through the apartment, frantically searching for my phone. I finally found it where I had left it, on the stack of mail in the kitchen. As I grabbed the phone, I slowed myself down just enough to take a breath and think again about what I was going to say. I couldn’t just blurt it out over the phone, could I?
As I composed myself, I flipped idly through the mail, which included quite a stack of gossip magazines. They remained my guilty pleasure.
OK, you’ve breathed enough. Now get him on the phone and do whatever you need to do.
Yeah.
Gripping my phone for courage, I began to dial when my gaze fell on the magazine on top, which featured a familiar face. It was Jack, falling out of a cab with a blonde draped on his arm. He was clearly drunk, and she was clearly victorious in the way she held on to him. He seemed to be turning his face from the camera, while she posed triumphantly. The caption?
WHERE’S THE REDHEAD?
Chapter 16
I stared at the magazine, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. Was he dating this blonde? Were they sleeping together? Did I even have the right to be asking these questions?
Whether or not I did, my mind whirled in a thousand directions, my eyes riveted to the picture. When I finally worked up the nerve, I read the article inside.
After the premiere of Time in Los Angeles, Jack Hamilton went on world tour, stopping at Time’s opening in his hometown of London, quickly followed by the premiere in Paris. He just recently popped back up on the scene in L.A. and was seen at local nightclubs every night last week. Our cameras caught him exiting a taxi outside the Chateau Marmont hotel in Hollywood with a stunning blonde. When asked where his redhead was—older woman and rumored girlfriend Grace Sheridan—Jack’s words were mumbled and undecipherable. He stumbled into the hotel and was not seen again until the following morning, when he beat a hasty retreat into the Hills. Does this mean Jack is back on the market?
Stunning blonde. Hmpf. And speaking of not stunning, the usually beauteous Jack looked like crap. He was always such a polished pro in public. What the hell was going on?
Maybe he misses you.
More like maybe his fame is going to his head. He seems to have plenty of company.
I read the article three more times before I finally picked up the phone again. I dreaded making this call.
“Hi,” a voice answered.
“Is it true?” I asked, my lower lip beginning to tremble.
“You saw the article?”
“I did. Is it true?” I heard Holly sigh.
“Grace, I love you, but I have a PR nightmare on my hands here, and I have to tell you, you gave up your rights to ask questions about Jack when you broke it off,” she snapped.
“I know, I know. But you have to tell me!” I begged, my lower lip quivering as tears ran rampant down my face.
“I don’t know, Grace. He’s been so hard to get a hold of lately. After Paris, he just kind of checked out. No more press, no more interviews, and he stopped answering my calls. I don’t know what’s going on,” she admitted, her tone softening.
“Oh, Holly. I messed up. I messed up big time,” I wailed.
“Tell me something I don’t know, fruitcake,” she said, and I laughed a little in spite of myself.
She put her PR nightmare on hold, and we spent a long time on the phone. I told her what had happened between me and Michael, and she wasn’t all that surprised. Despite my determination mere minutes ago, we agreed that perhaps now was not the best time to reach out to Jack. I needed to concentrate on the upcoming show. She promised to come out for the opening, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t need some girl time. I needed to focus one-hundred-percent on the show and turn my attention back to my career. I’d been so focused on my personal life—and on Jack’s career—that I’d mostly neglected to realize how wonderfully my own work was going at the moment. Michael had invited a few reporters in to watch rehearsal a few days ago, and the early feedback was good—quite good. Particularly for the leading lady.
“Just hold on, m’dear, and Holly will be there soon,” she said. “We’ll toast your success, have a few cocktails, and, if necessary, I’ll sleep with you,” she quipped, once again making me laugh.
“Well, if there’s anyone who needs to get a little, it’s you. That’s for sure. How long has it been anyway?” I asked.
“Hey, Grace, I need to scoot. Call me later if you need to, okay?”
“Okay. Will do, asshead.”
“Things will work out exactly as they should, I promise,” she said.
“I trust you,” I said, then hung up the phone.
I looked at the magazine once more, then threw it in the trash. I would figure this out, but looking at those pictures was not going to help me.
~ ~ ~
In the final days of rehearsal, I threw myself into my work. It was my saving grace. I found strength in the connection I shared with Mabel, and I spent more time at the theater than ever. After rehearsal sometimes I would steal onto the stage, when the crew had left and it was almost deserted. Standing center, with an empty house, I felt the energy flow through me. In this space I felt more at home than anywhere else on earth. How privileged I was to have a shot at this life, and I was taking full advantage of it. I was proud of myself and what I’d accomplished, and whether the show was picked up or not almost didn’t matter.
Pffft…
Well, yes, of course I wanted the show to do well. Oh hell, I wanted to see my name in lights. I wasn’t too proud to admit it. I could own that, but I was also thrilled to be involved in this industry in any way. Even if I couldn’t be on a stage, or in front of a camera, I now knew I’d need to look into a new career path that kept me in this industry, as this was clearly where I was meant to be.
The days and nights of final rehearsals sped by, and soon I found myself collecting Holly and Nick from the airport. They’d flown in for my big night, and it felt wonderful to have them with me again. I focused on them and just tried not to think about what Jack might be up to right now. But I did wonder if he remembered when my show was to open.
On the way into the city, we sat in the back of the town car, staring like complete tourists as the driver took us down Broadway. Although Nick had been a screenwriter for years and Holly by now was a grizzled old Hollywood veteran, they were just as taken aback by the lights and the built-in energy of the Great White Way as I was—each and every time I passed by Forty-Second Street. As the three of us stared at passing marquees outside the landmark theaters, we were mesmerized.
r /> “Can you believe I’m here, Holls? Actually here?” I breathed, squeezing her hand.
She looked at me, no doubt ready with one of her patented remarks, but she simply smiled and squeezed my hand back.
“Yes, I can totally believe it.” She grinned, and we shared a moment in the back of the car. A moment that was somewhat dimmed by the half-naked guitar player on the street corner, but a moment nonetheless.
Between rehearsals I spent the next few days showing them my favorite haunts around the city, and in a flash it was opening night. That evening, in a tizzy of nerves and panic, my stomach once again reminded me who was in charge, and I vomited my lunch all over the floor of my dressing room. Michael, being a trooper and anticipating my stage fright (perhaps also fearing for his shoes), had a mop standing by.
Just before the music began, Michael found me. He was as nervous as I was, and we clung to each other for a moment before he headed out to watch from the house.
“Grace, you’ll be amazing. I know it. I’m so glad you’re in this show,” he whispered. “Knock ‘em dead.” He kissed me on the cheek and went out to pace.
I gathered myself, centered myself, and when I heard my cue, I walked onstage. And I was home once more.
I saw the lights and the set and the other actors, but I floated about three feet above the floor all night. I let myself go, gave myself over completely to the character, and just…was. I gave it everything: my excitement over my move back to Los Angeles, the thrill of being a part of this industry again, the pain from my recent breakup with Jack, the confusion of my almost-something with Michael—all of it. Everything about this exact second of my life and all the experiences that had brought me here came out onto that stage with me and helped me create a performance I could do again and again and never grow tired of. I’d never stop finding something new. I felt alive, exhilarated, and scared to death, and I loved every second of it.
I felt the audience and the energy they gave me. They laughed when Mabel laughed, cried when Mabel cried, and we went through it together. That’s the thing about live theater. It’s different every night, and when you’re truly there and truly present, it’s magic. Pure and simple.
When the curtain came down and the cast assembled for bows, I let myself feel it, finally. I’d made it to where I’d wanted to be since I was seven singing along to My Fair Lady in front of the mirror, a Ken doll as my scene partner. Since I’d auditioned for my first play at eleven, singing “Memories” like every other damn kid in the country. Since I’d won my first leading role when I was fourteen and played Maria in The Sound of Music (ah, junior high). Since I’d seen Rent and bawled my eyes out at the thought this was no longer within my grasp.
And to have come full circle—to stand in the spotlight, hear the applause, and know the people I loved were onstage with me and in the audience, and that I was making a living doing something I would gladly do for free?
I lost it. I cried and laughed simultaneously as Leslie pushed me out front for my own curtain call. That’s when I saw him. Standing next to Holly and Nick, with a smile as big as I’d ever seen, was my Brit. He clapped harder than anyone else in the audience with a look of such pride—but all three of them probably had bruised hands from the way they carried on.
And if I’m being honest? I fucking killed it!
I was five different kinds of thrilled. He came! He came for me on my big night. My tears flowed as I smiled big.
~ ~ ~
After the curtain call, I paced nervously in my dressing room. The cast was in and out, offering congratulations. Michael was on cloud nine, and the early feedback from investors in the audience was good. I knew Holly and Nick would be coming backstage, but would Jack be with them? I mean, surely he wouldn’t fly all the way out here and then not come see me. Would he?
I continued to eat Tums like they were going out of style, and I heard a soft knock on my door.
“Yeah?” I said through a mouthful of chalky grit and opened the door.
“These are for you, Grace.” One of the stagehands handed me the biggest bunch of peonies I’d ever seen. Where anyone found peonies in December was beyond me, but there they were. As I peered through the blooms, I found a snack pack of Chex Mix buried inside, with a Post-it note attached. I laughed out loud as I read the “card.”
Congratulations, Gracie.
This celebratory Chex Mix
should help settle your tummy.
If you like, save the Melba toasts
and bring them to me tomorrow at lunch???
Jack
P.S. You were radiant.
I looked out into the hallway to see if he was there, but all I saw was a flash of Holly as she, followed closely by Nick, barreled into me.
“Oh, girl, you were fierce!” Nick cried, taking the opportunity to look down my robe and nod approvingly at my boobies.
“Thanks, Nick. I’m glad you enjoyed it. Holly! Hey, Holly?” I tried to dislodge my best friend from her death grip on me.
Finally she released me and attempted clear her throat. “You were great, ya little fruitcake,” she said, her voice gruff and thick.
“Thanks, dear. Wait a minute. Are you crying? Holly, no…” I gasped as she raised her eyes to me.
“Oh, shut up, asshead. You were amazing, okay? I’m allowed to cry once every ten years. Now piss off,” she warned, smacking me lightly on the cheek. She saw me looking over her shoulder toward the hallway, and she smacked me a little harder.
“He went back to his hotel, if that’s who you’re looking for.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me he was coming!” I yelled before sinking into my chair and beginning to remove my makeup. Nick quickly started brushing out my hair, not wanting to miss a word of what was going on. It was amazing how quickly things fell back to normal with us.
“I didn’t know until the last minute. He asked me last week when your opening was, and then the next thing I knew he had a ticket waiting at Will Call next to mine tonight. Go figure,” she said, tossing her hair and looking away too quickly.
“Hmm,” I said, eyeing my face in the mirror. Nick was chuckling behind me.
“And what, may I ask, is so funny, mister?”
“Holly was talking about your opening.” He giggled, and I rolled my eyes.
“So, he mentioned something about lunch?” I added, looking at her sideways to see if she would dish the dirt.
“Yes, I’ve been instructed to provide you the details of where Mr. Hamilton will be dining tomorrow, precisely at noon, if you should be so inclined,” she answered, her eyes dancing.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I would finally be able to talk to my George and ask him if I could be his Gracie again. I’d have to come clean about some things, a lot of things, but it was time. Feeling immensely relieved—and thrilled to have Holly and Nick at my side—I set off for a celebratory dinner with the cast. My two-drink rule was back in full enforcement, and I went to bed that night feeling proud, confident my eyes would be cabbage-free in the morning, and a teeny bit hopeful.
~ ~ ~
The next day, a few minutes before noon, I walked into the Four Seasons. After finding the concierge, I let him know I was a guest of Jack Hamilton, as I’d been instructed to do, and he immediately jumped up.
“Ah, yes. Ms. Sheridan? Yes, Mr. Hamilton is expecting you in one of our private dining rooms. Allow me?” he asked, taking my coat and gesturing toward a semi-hidden elevator. We went up a few floors, then he took me to an ornate door at the end of a darkly paneled hallway. As he prepared to open the door, I took a moment to smooth my skirt. I had nixed several outfits for a variety of reasons before settling finally on this one: a trim black skirt with a soft pink angora sweater. Fabulous tits (my strong point in this scenario) and black boots completed the look, and the nervous smile on my face hopefully didn’t show everything. I took a breath, and he opened the door.
Jack sat at a table for two, facing the door. He rose when I ca
me in, and I was struck stupid once again at how beautiful he was. The face, the curls, the eyes were the same, but the smile was sad. I was the cause of that sadness, and shame gripped me once more.
Suck it up, lady. It’s time to sing for your supper.
As much as I wanted to run to him and throw my arms around him—and my legs for that matter—protocol and our last encounter precluded this. So I waited for him to make the first move. We both stood, staring, and finally the poor concierge broke the tension by asking us to let him know when we were ready for lunch. Jack nodded, and we were left alone.
“Hi.”
“Hi, yourself,” he said, and just hearing his voice brought tears to my eyes.
“Thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And the Chex Mix—that was a nice touch,” I added.
He grinned. “I thought so.”
We were silent for a few seconds, then we both spoke at the same time.
“The show was great—”
“Thank you for coming last night—”
We laughed, and the tension eased a bit. I stepped a little closer to him, and he moved toward me as well. I set my bag down and admired the room. Wood paneling, gilded mirrors—it was beautiful. When I turned back toward him, he was right behind me. Having him so close affected me as it always did, and before I could stop myself, I reached for him.
We fell into each other’s arms, instantly molding into what was once so familiar, and was now so desperately missed. My skin remembered his. His touch and his scent filled my head. Once again tears sprang to my eyes as I clutched him to me. I felt his lips graze the top of my head, and I melted. I absolutely melted. I lifted my face up, my lips seeking his.
But then, his arms straightened, and I found myself back where I was when I’d first walked in: alone.
“I can’t do this, Grace. I can’t just see you and hold you and have everything go back to the way it was,” he said, his eyes roaming over my face and body.