by Gigi Blume
“Yes. I always thought you were shy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, no. Don’t apologise. It’s what makes you… endearing.”
She lifted her head, eyes brightening as she dared to look at me. “Endearing? Really?”
“Yeah. In a kind of innocent, girl-next-door sort of way.”
That put a wry curve to her lips, and she turned her gaze away again.
“But you’re so different in front of the cameras. Like you put on someone else’s skin. It’s rather fascinating.”
She shrugged. “I guess I got carried away.”
“Nothing wrong with it. I’m just surprised, that’s all.” I offered her my arm again, thinking how the evening took a pleasant turn. I was glad I brought her. “Shall we?”
We’d gone through most of the queue, steps away from the portico when a chilling breeze swept over us. Harriet instinctively shuddered and rubbed a palm over her bare shoulders. I didn’t think anything of it to drape my arm around her for warmth. But a thousand flashes went off in response, just as her wide hazel eyes rose to meet mine with an expression of complete gratitude. I dropped my hands to my side, wondering briefly if the images I’d seen on the internet of Emma and Frank were taken in a similar way. How the press, their response deafeningly loud, could misconstrue something as benign as a civil gesture.
All I could hear was my name, over and over again. Jaxson, Jaxson, over here Jaxson. Click, click, click. It wasn’t until Harriet tugged my sleeve did I realize one of those voices was Emma’s—her bright smile effervescent and lovely. She weaved through the line of actors, executives, and creatives waiting to enter the Dolby Theatre to get to me. Neither one of us was nominated this year, nor were we presenting, which was a first in a very long time, so it felt a little strange, but when her gaze locked onto mine, dazzling and shining, I forgot we’d come separately, and for one heart-stopping moment, Harriet and Frank ceased to exist. Emma’s arms wrapped around my shoulders, and she offered me a polite air kiss on the side of my face, careful not to smudge her hot-red lipstick. She was a study in classic Hollywood, enough to rival Audrey Hepburn. Her long, black gown was simple yet elegant, and her hair was pulled up and topped with a crown of something sparkly. To complete the ensemble, she wore a pair of long white gloves, reaching her upper arms and cuffed with diamond bracelets. But what struck me most was the diamond choker adorning her elegant neck. That was new—not that I memorized Emma’s jewellery collection or anything. But if I knew anything about Emma, I knew she wouldn’t have bought something like that for herself. Was that a gift from Frank?
“You look radiant as always, Emma.”
She laughed, the kind that brightened the room and all the surrounding zip codes. “You clean up well yourself, Jax.”
“Oh, this old thing?” It wasn’t much of an exaggeration. It was my lucky tux, the one I wore to all the award shows. I didn’t think anyone noticed my tux when all eyes were on the ladies. You’ve seen one tux you’ve seen them all. Nobody ever asked me who I was wearing. The Who was always the gorgeous woman on my arm as far as I was concerned. Unfortunately, my favourite companion was currently accompanying a guy who’d never appreciate her—never realize the privilege of her company. Presently, that guy caught up with her after tearing himself away from a particularly clingy vlogger and placed a possessive hand at the small of Emma’s back. My gut clenched into such an incredibly painful knot I almost excused myself to the gentlemen’s, hoping whatever it was would come out one end or another.
Frank clapped my shoulder and tugged me in for a selfie.
“Hey, Jax. Look at us. A couple of ladies’ men.”
“Speak for yourself,” I snapped as the flash went off.
The press went wild when Emma and Harriet jumped in the photo, making it a cosy foursome. Frank tweeted the pictures immediately. This year, the trending hashtag was #We’reAllWinners or some bloody thing like that to discourage hard feelings among the nominees. I felt ridiculous posing for it. Nevertheless, I wanted a copy of that photo just so I could crop Frank out of it.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” said Emma.
“I changed my mind.”
“Why didn’t you tell me so?”
I inclined my head toward Frank who had broken away from our group to interact with fans behind the stanchions. “You had other plans.”
“We could have all come together. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
Yeah, a real blast. I noticed Harriet slide next to Frank which he didn’t seem to mind. That guy was nothing but a player.
“Which after party are you going to?” she asked.
“I rather prefer our tradition of taking hamburgers to Griffith Park.”
Emma glowed with mischief. “Let’s go right now.”
“Go where right now?” The weight of an arm pressed on my shoulder, and the other belonging to the same man rested on Emma’s. Henry Crawford slipped into my moment with Emma and squeezed us into him. “We’re quite the trio, aren’t we?”
More cameras flashed.
“We should probably get inside,” I suggested, using the movement to slug his arm from my shoulder. He took that as an invitation to shake hands.
“How the heck are ya, Jaxson? I haven’t seen you since we finished shooting that steampunk picture. Are you done with postproduction?”
“Just about,” I answered, returning the handshake with equal force. He only let go of his grip to turn his attention to Emma, raking his eyeballs up and down her body.
“You look super hot.”
She flinched, but only for a nanosecond. She knew well his meaning but was quick with her response. “I do? It’s actually a little chilly out here.”
He snorted. “Funny. Allow me to escort you inside. You don’t mind, do you Jaxson?”
Mind? Why no. I’ll just add my name to her already full dance card.
“You might want to ask her date,” I replied curtly.
As if on cue, Frank appeared next to us, followed closely by Harriet. A glint of amusement played over Henry’s features right before shaking Frank’s hand. Introductions were made although they were both recognizable celebrities. Henry kissed Harriet’s hand, lingering his lips there a little longer than appropriate. She ate up the attention, allowing him to escort her into the theatre lobby.
Emma slipped a hand under my arm and the other one around Frank’s. She was going for that Madonna Material Girl vibe. The press went wild over it.
“Shall we?” she chirped.
Did I have a choice? Frank didn’t seem to mind. Publicity for Field of Hearts, I reminded myself. This is good.
Except I didn’t feel good. I felt the opposite of good.
25
Goodbye, Hello
Emma
I would have infinitely preferred to attend the Oscars with Jax. Frank spent half the time hamming it up for the cameras and the other half checking his notifications. Plus, I couldn’t make my usual comments and predictions about the nominees in the playful game Jax and I invented. His theory was that the most likely winners were given seats closer to the aisles. Then we’d make bets on how many seconds their speech would be. He’d time it on his stopwatch app. If a winner got ‘played off’ by the orchestra, it was extra points to whomever made the prediction. We also liked to laugh about some of the outrageous gowns attendees would wear. I’d never forget the year Erika Silver’s neckline dipped all the way down to her navel, and Jax dared me to throw quarters down her dress like a carnival game. I succeeded at the Governor’s Ball after-party by substituting cocktail olives instead of quarters. He brought me a goldfish the next day. I named her Olive, deciding it was a female fish. How can one even tell those things?
Tonight, Lana D’vario had on so many feathers, I wouldn’t be surprised if she took flight right in the middle of the Best Supporting Actress presentation. Since Jax was quite a few rows behind me, I leaned in and whispered to Frank, “How much air do you think she’ll get? Twen
ty quid says she’ll graze Warren Beatty’s head.”
Frank stared at me blankly and gave me a placating smile. I spent the rest of the night itching to see if Jaxson noticed the same things I did. I glanced over my shoulder as often as I could without scaring the lady behind me (some accountant’s wife—they always had good seats), but Jax had his attention elsewhere. One time, Harriet was whispering to him and another time he was in the loo or something because a seat filler had taken his place. I did find Annie and Randall, though. They were seated far back, but I caught up with her on a commercial break. She made me promise to go to the Governor’s Ball after the show. So much for hamburgers with Jax. It was especially important for her to go because Randall won in his category. It was for a film he worked on before Jaxson’s steampunk picture, but with Field of Hearts on the horizon, I had a feeling Randall would be making another acceptance speech in a couple of years.
Most of my predictions for the evening were spot on. The Oscar favourite won Best Picture, Frances McDonald won Best Actress, but the Best Supporting Actor award went to a virtually unknown Guatemalan actor for his gripping performance in the Frerrars Brothers breakout film.
Later at the Governor’s Ball, Jaxson reminded me where I’d heard that name before.
“The Frerrars Brothers are those independent filmmakers Beth Bennet is working with,” he explained. “They have virtually no budget, do mostly ‘found footage’ films that go straight to streaming, and had no idea their last picture would be so well received. They took the Oscars by storm. It’s incredible.”
Come to think of it, I did remember hearing about those guys. “They should have won Best Picture.”
Jax responded with a wry smile. “That’s Hollywood for ya.”
“Maybe next year.”
Jaxson nodded wearily. He didn’t look so good. He was rather pale and had intense dark circles under his eyes, probably from burning the midnight oil.
“Are you okay? You look like Voldemort’s disinterested twin.”
“I’m just tired. Meetings, final edits for last year’s film, the karaoke club…”
“Why don’t you go home, then?”
He shook his head vehemently. “I promised Harriet she’d have the time of her life. Look at her chatting it up with J Law.”
“You’re not showing anybody a good time looking like that. Seriously, the only reason you’re able to stand upright is because that tux is so old, it has a life of its own. Harriet can catch a ride with me. Get outta here.”
Jaxson gazed at me, too exhausted to blink. “You are on fire with those compliments tonight.”
I shrugged casually. “I’m saucier after midnight.”
The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. “All right. I’ll go tell Harriet. Say my goodbyes to Randall and Annie.” He squeezed my hand and placed a safe kiss on my cheek. Despite his sallow appearance his lips were warm and sweet, and the scruff of his whiskers tickled my skin. I almost offered to go with him. But he needed rest. I made him promise to text me to let me know he made it home okay, unceremoniously shoving him in the direction of the exit. It didn’t take long after I watched him disappear through the crowd for Henry Crawford to find me.
“You look like you need some company,” Henry drawled, smelling of gin. I squeezed my eyes shut and made a silent wish.
I wish the Goblin King would take you away right now.
When I opened my eyes, he was gone, flirting with a pretty blonde.
Wow, that really worked. Sort of. I mean, she was no David Bowie…
For the rest of the night, I watched Harriet flitter from one group of A-listers to another. I could hardly believe how well she came out of her shell. Who was this girl and what did she do with my shy, timid Harriet?
Into the wee hours of the morning, I danced, ate too much caviar, and took a bucket load of selfies with Frank, Randall, Annie, and Harriet. It was Randall’s first win, and he was so chuffed, he carried his statue around for an hour after he left the engraving room.
It was a fine time although through all the smiles and laughter, my thoughts constantly turned to Jaxson, how I longed to share it with him. I was just imagining his voice in my head telling me to head home before the sun came up when I caught sight of Harriet fall in the corner of my eye. She was properly trolleyed, walking down a carpeted staircase when her heel caught on the hem of her dress. She was two steps away from the bottom and tumbled spectacularly, catching air a ski jumper would envy. Two seconds before hitting the floor, Frank swooped in and caught her. I’d never seen anything like it. Those who witnessed the rescue gasped then applauded, whooping and hollering with awe. Harriet gazed up into Frank’s face, completely transfixed as he cradled her in his arms like an Antonio Canova sculpture. Ha! That was sure to trend on Twitter over the next twenty-four hours. Eat your heart out, Elton Wardlow.
Could there possibly be something there? I dared not hope—especially after swearing off matchmaking forever. Still, I couldn’t help but notice how charmingly paired Harriet and Frank were.
When Harriet and I were having lunch a few days later, I was more than delighted when she brought up the fun time she had with Frank. I didn’t even have to drop subtle hints or anything. After the server delivered our strawberry field greens salads, Harriet took a sip of her iced tea as if she were drinking in some courage and sat perfectly straight in her chair. The spring breeze on the patio of La Vie En Rose Bistro swept through her auburn locks, sending wispy tendrils to dance around her shoulders. She reminded me of the Little Mermaid in her moment of epiphany.
“Emma,” she began on a sigh. “I’m ready.”
“Ready for what?” I asked through a mouthful of salad.
“Ready to let go.” She tapped on her mobile phone screen and slid it across the table. A photo of Elton appeared, barely visible in the glare of the sunlight. “I want you to help me erase him from my life.”
“You mean… symbolically?”
“I had fifty-eight pictures of Elton on my phone—”
“Fifty-eight? Dang, girl.”
“I deleted most of them, but I couldn’t bring myself to let go of the best five… until now.”
I took the phone in my hand and scrolled through to find blurry snapshots of Elton covertly taken from behind objects and people.
“These are the best five?”
Harriet bit her bottom lip and responded with a sorrowful nod. “Will you delete them for me?”
I slid the phone back across the table. “I can’t do that for you. You have to do this yourself, or you’ll never truly let go.”
Harriet’s lip twitched. “I don’t know if I have the strength.”
“Then we’ll do it together. Okay? I’ll press the trash icon and you press the OK button.”
Her eyes welled up with the beginning of tears, but she bent her head in agreement. We went through the photos one by one. I tapped the trash icon, and the device responded with a pop up:
Are you sure you want to delete this photo? CANCEL or OK.
Harriet tapped OK, gaining more courage after each time until all the evidence of Elton was forever erased from her phone.
After a minute, I asked, “Feel better?”
She shrugged, a guilty expression awash on her features.
“Harriet?”
She didn’t say anything for a long interval, ripping a piece of pumpernickel breadstick from the basket in the centre of the table. We resumed our meals, the silence more of an exclamation point than any words she could muster. I let her feelings percolate, deciding she just needed time.
At length, she reached for her purse and dug through it until she found what she was looking for.
“There’s also this. It’s the pencil he used to mark on his sheet music. See his teeth marks? I took it when he wasn’t looking.” She stared at it for a few seconds before setting it on the table.
“And then I kept this, too,” she added, producing a folded tissue from her purse. “I was sneezi
ng, and he was kind enough to give me this tissue from one of those little travel packs he carried in his pocket.”
She held onto it with a sentimental expression and set it down, meticulously lining it up next to the pencil.
“Are you sure you want to put that there right now?” I asked, beginning to lose my appetite.
“And finally, there’s this,” she continued as though she didn’t hear me. I guess she didn’t think twice about chewed-up pencils and used tissue next to the breadsticks. Oh, well.
She dipped into her purse once more, holding a Band Aid between her forefinger and thumb.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harriet. We’re eating.”
“It’s not dirty. Elton had a paper cut, but he played his guitar through the pain. He said he didn’t need the Band Aid, so I kept it to remind me of his bravery.” She set the offending object in its place to complete her odd collection. “It’s lost its stick, now. Just like Elton isn’t stuck on my heart anymore.”
I sighed and set my fork on my salad dish, pushing my plate aside so I could cover Harriet’s hand to console her. The least I could do was tamp down my squeamish tendencies while my friend confided in me. I wasn’t kidding anybody by eating a salad anyway. What I really wanted was pizza.
There we were, looking upon her most precious treasures in silence, bidding them farewell.
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the memory of Harriet’s crush on Elton Wardlow. It had a very short life, but it burned brightly. And now, a sad rendition of Amazing Grace in which I don’t remember the lyrics.
Poor Harriet. My heart broke for her just then.
“I’m so sorry,” I managed to say. “You deserve so much better than a guy like Elton.”
“You really think so?”
“I know so.”
“Really? Because I kind of like someone, but part of me wonders if he’s too good for me.”
“Honey, don’t you even go there. You are gorgeous and funny and generous. Any guy would be lucky to go out with you.”
