Once she was safely in her car, she checked her phone, praying for a call from Jason, but the only missed calls were from Anne-Marie. She cringed; she'd been avoiding her agent's calls, but sooner or later, she would have to face that music. She glanced at her watch. Her flight left in four hours. Time to head to the airport. She just hoped she could get to Tofino before the tabloids did.
Chapter Fifty-One
"Jason, it's Allyson, I need to talk to you. Please call me back."
"It's me again. I'm on my way up there. I really need to talk to you. Call me. Please."
"I'm getting on a plane right now. I'll probably be in around nine. Please call me, Jason; I need to talk to you as soon as possible."
Jason rubbed the bridge of his nose as the last of her voice messages wrapped up. He replayed them. Again. Then again. Her voice shook. She sounded on the verge of tears. With each message, the urgency in her voice intensified, and each time he replayed them, the knot in his gut tightened.
He glanced at the clock. Seven thirty. She had long since landed and was on the highway. By now, she was well out of cell phone range, so there was no point in calling her back. With a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his chair.
His eyes went to the photos on his desk and he wondered what she needed to say to him. As far as he could tell, there was nothing left to say.
"A picture says a thousand words, doesn't it, Simone?"
* * * * *
It was a quarter past nine when she pulled into his driveway. Her heart pounded as she saw him through the rain sliding down the windshield. The warm glow inside
the house lit his silhouette on the front steps. She got out of the car, her heart in her throat, and started across the muddy driveway.
He sat on the third step, oblivious to the icy rain that slicked his hair back and dripped down his expressionless face. The soggy magazine rolled up in his hand told her she was too late. Much too late.
"It's not often this town makes the news." The cold fury in his voice sent a chill straight to her core. "Everyone in town made sure I got a copy."
"Jason, I can explain—"
"What is there to explain?" He unfurled the wet magazine. "Another fling?
Another notch in the bedpost? The latest in the adulterous, out-of-control star's downward spiral?" He snorted bitterly and glared at her. "I should have known you were married."
"I'm divorced, Jason. I'm not married, I swear."
"Obviously when you were married, it didn't stop you from having a fling with—
" He paused, glancing at the wet tabloid. "Well, whatever his name is."
"They have it all wrong, Jason."
"Do they?" He looked at the tabloid again. "Which part, Simone?" His voice was venomous with fury as he said her name, sending her heart into her feet. "The part where you cheated on your husband before he was, as you claim he is, your exhusband? Or maybe the part where you've got a daughter you didn't bother mentioning?
Tell me, Simone, are they wrong about the part where you're using me just like you used the last dozen 'boy toys'?"
"Those were their words, not mine."
"Then what are your words?" But he put up a hand. "No, forget it. I don't want to know."
"Jason, please, just hear me out."
"No." His eyes narrowed. "No, you've had plenty of time to say it. Plenty of chances to do something other than lie to me."
"Jason—"
"It's a damned good thing we used condoms, isn't it?" he growled. Stung, she dropped her gaze.
"I thought you were different. I thought I could take a chance with you, but you're no better than her." He pursed his lips as if the words left a bitter taste in his mouth.
She didn't need to ask to know who 'her' was. "I wanted to tell you. Jason, please—"
He shook his head. "No. Time is up, sweetheart. You had more than enough opportunity. I didn't pry, and I knew you had something more to tell me, but this . . . . Not this. " He glanced at the paper again. "You couldn't even tell me your real name." His voice was acrid with disgust.
"I was going to tell you."
"When?"
"Not soon enough. I know."
He stood. "Look, if you wanted this to just be about sex, you could have just said so. I would have been fine just fucking you like everyone else in the world apparently has."
Simone could neither speak nor meet his eyes.
He went on, his voice unsteady, more hurt than angry this time, "But you knew I had feelings for you. I was in love with you, Allyson. Simone. Whatever the hell your name really is. I was in love with you."
She faced him, forcing back the tears that threatened. "I'm sorry, Jason, please. I can never be sorry enough."
He tossed the wet magazine at her feet. "You're right. You can't." He walked into the house, leaving her standing in the rain. The door slammed behind him.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Simone keyed herself into the cold, sparse room of the rundown motel and threw her overnight bag on the decrepit yellow-upholstered armchair. Clutching a brown paper bag for dear life, she sank onto the hard bed.
The bag in her hand held only a couple bottles of Smirnoff. No sense bothering with the orange juice or even a cheap paper cup this time.
* * * * *
Icy rain poured down Jason's face and cascaded down the back of his neck. Water ran off his arms as he dug his fingers into the deck's railing. His teeth would have chattered from the cold, but his jaw was clenched against a deeper chill. He stared up at the dark sky. The stars, which usually gave him a sense of calm, were hidden behind the thick blanket of clouds, but he barely noticed. Even if he could see them, he doubted they would bring him much peace tonight.
More than once, he wondered if he'd been too cold and cruel to her when she came to apologize. He'd been angry, and justifiably so, but had she really deserved everything he'd thrown at her?
Then he thought of the pictures all over the tabloids. All the looks people had given him when he'd gone into town, the way they'd done that behind-the-hand whispering that only happened in small towns. The phone calls from his brother, his parents, and God only knew who else before he'd finally shut off the ringer. For all of that, she'd earned every drop of venom that had been in his voice. He picked his glass up off the railing and drained it, grimacing more out of habit than anything as he swallowed. He was too distracted to taste how much the rain had watered down the Jack Daniels, too numb to feel the half-hearted burn as it went down his throat.
He should have known.
* * * * *
She should have known this would happen. She should have just been honest with everyone from day one. Better yet, she should have tossed Jason's number out the window while she still had some sanity left in her idiot brain. She should have just focused on fixing all the bullshit in her life, not adding something else to the mix. She knew this would bite her in the ass. She knew from the beginning. Now her career was toast. She'd been warned. The director and producer took her on with the understanding that she wouldn't bring any bad press on herself and, with it, the film.
She'd promised Gregory she would be a responsible parent to Cecily. She'd promised Anne-Marie she'd get her head out of her ass.
And she'd taken Jason's love, trust, and patience for granted just a little bit too long.
All that was left was damage control, but it was really too little too late.
* * * * *
He relived their earlier conversation over and over in his mind. Of course she was just about to tell him the truth. Of course this wasn't what she wanted to happen. And the tears in her eyes were a nice touch. They probably helped her win that fucking Oscar.
"Good show, Simone," he said through his teeth, flinching at the sound of her real name.
He'd wondered if their relationship—their fling—would end badly, but he never saw this coming. Now she'd come all this way to talk to him, to grovel and apologize, but how could he believe a word of it after everything sh
e'd lied to him about all along?
Then again, he told himself, she had come all this way. Maybe she was sincere. After all, she'd only cheated on her ex-husband and her past several boyfriends. Clearly she'd turned over a new leaf.
He rolled his eyes and muttered a string of profanity into the night. Simone wasn't here to apologize to him. She only wanted to do damage control and minimize the destruction of her damned career. Never mind what this could do to his career. The consumers of her work were more than accustomed to actors making asses of themselves. His clientele was not quite so forgiving of this kind of scandal. While he would still be able to sell his work, this was going to follow him for a long, long time. Maybe I should start signing my work, ‘ Jason Connor, that guy who fucked Simone Farrell on a beach'.
"Right," he said into his glass. "That would narrow it down to about ten people." He finished his drink, realizing then that it was nothing but rainwater. He went back inside to find something a bit stronger.
* * * * *
She pulled one of the bottles out of the bag and held it for a while, just staring at the crystalline liquid inside. This wasn't going to help with damage control. No matter. Damage control would come tomorrow. Tonight, she just didn't want to feel. She unscrewed the bottle cap and took a long drink. Then more.
It had been months since she'd touched more than a few glasses of wine—the few sweet glasses of wine she'd shared with Jason, god damn it why did she do this to herself?—and her stomach wasn't ready for the vodka. She barely made it to the bathroom—bottle still in hand—before it all came back up. But that didn't stop her; she kept right on drinking. The numbness she needed was deep in that bottle, or maybe the second one, and she needed to get there fast.
* * * * *
Jason wandered from room to room, cursing in between swallows of Jack Daniels. He couldn't find a moment's peace in the house. Every room reeked of
Allyson's—no, Simone's—memory. All the times he couldn't wait to get her into bed and took her right there on the couch. Or the table. Out on the deck. Out in the goddamned driveway, for crying out loud.
Even his office wasn't safe. All he could think of was that afternoon when she'd mercilessly teased him in the chair while he was on the phone with Sean. And there was the damned computer that was full of photos of her out on the island—his island, his refuge from the rest of the world, his sacred place that now graced the cover of every fucking tabloid on the planet.
He threw the empty glass at the wall. Leaning against the doorway, he rubbed the bridge of his nose as his shoulders slumped. "Fuck," he whispered, the sound of his own voice startling him more than the shattering glass had a second ago. He wasn't going to find any peace from her memory, not tonight. Not without some serious help from his good friend, Jack, at least. Running his hand through his still wet hair, he headed back into the kitchen to find that bottle.
* * * * *
She took another swig while she slumped on the floor between the water-stained wallpaper and the toilet with the crack in the lid. By the time she'd drunk enough to know it wasn't coming back up, her legs weren't about to hold her upright, so she just stayed where she was.
* * * * *
He rested his elbow on the couch armrest and closed his eyes as he pressed the bottle against his forehead. His mind was hazy and the room spun around him, but his eyes still stung more than his throat burned, so he hadn't had nearly enough to drink.
"Take me away, Jack," he said, raising the bottle to his lips again. "Get me the fuck out of here." He took another long swallow and kept drinking until he couldn't remember why.
* * * * *
She drank until she was sick again, she was sick until she cried, and then she drank until she couldn't cry anymore. She threw up again, and she cried again, but she couldn't remember why. All she knew was how badly she hurt. And the more she drank, the more she hurt, until she couldn't remember where she'd left the bottle, even when it was still in her hand. She couldn't remember why she was drinking, but couldn't think of a reason not to.
So she drank.
Chapter Fifty-Three
The next morning, Simone heard herself groaning before she was even aware of the pain slicing through her skull. Opening her eyes to the blinding light of day, she realized she'd passed out on the retina-searing orange carpet with the empty bottle still in her hand.
The room spun around her, but she managed to pull herself to her knees and slump against the wall. For a long time, she just sat there, waiting for the nausea and the headache to recede.
It was no surprise when reality sliced its way into her consciousness and rattled through her skull. She should have known by then, should have known long ago, that she couldn't drink away her sorrows: she could just drink enough to ensure she faced her sorrows with a bitch of a headache.
"So this is what rock bottom feels like," she muttered. Her voice snapped painfully against the insides of her head.
She looked at the phone on the night table. Swallowing a wave of nausea, she pushed herself to her feet—a herculean effort—and stumbled toward the bed. She stared at the phone a while longer, waiting for the numbers to stop blurring. When at last she could focus, she picked up the receiver. She hesitated, trying to decide who to call first.
She dialed.
Ring.
Ring.
"Hello?"
"Gregory, it's Simone." Silence. "Please, I need to talk to you." Her voice cracked. There was a lengthy pause. Finally, he said. "Okay. Talk."
"I just wanted you to know I'm sorry."
"For which part?"
I deserved that. "For everything." She took a deep breath. "Everything during our marriage, the way I've treated you and Cecily, the way I've behaved in the public eye."
"You've been drinking, haven't you?"
She winced. "Last night. I'm sober now."
He laughed, but there was no humor in his voice. "Funny. You usually only grovel when you're drunk."
"I'm not groveling, Gregory." She closed her eyes and ran an unsteady hand through her hair. "Listen, about Cecily—"
"If you think for a minute—"
"I'm not going to fight you this time."
"You—what?"
She forced back the emotion that rose in her throat. Her voice quivered in spite of her best efforts. "I think it would be best if you had full custody. At least for a while. While I get myself straightened out."
She heard him exhale. When he spoke, his voice was still hard. "This isn't so you can spend more time with your ‘boy toy', is it?"
She flinched. She deserved that, too. It wouldn't have been the first time. "No. Not this time."
"What are you going to do, then?"
"I'm not sure yet."
"Rehab?"
She rubbed her aching neck. "The press would have a field day with that, wouldn't they?"
"It might be the best thing for you."
She looked at the unopened bottle of Smirnoff on the night table. "I don't know," she said quietly. "I think this morning is enough to get me off that shit forever."
"You've said that before."
"My head didn't hurt this bad before."
Gregory sighed. "I'm worried about you, Simone."
Simone choked back the emotions that tightened her throat. "I know."
"Are you sure you're going to be all right?"
No. My God, how could I be sure? I'm a long way from 'all right', Gregory, a long, long way. She took a breath. "I'll be fine."
"Just, at least consider getting some help. Even if it's just a therapist. Something."
"I will."
There was a heavy pause on the line. "I want to hear it from you. What's really going on with this guy?"
Simone let the tears fall then. "Nothing, now. He wants nothing to do with me." She wiped the tears and tried to pull herself together. "I don't blame him, I guess. But . .
. ." She put her hand over her mouth as the sobs overtook her.
"What was going on with him?"
"More than what the press said." The words were bitter on her tongue. " Way more. I swear to you, I was trying to get myself put back together. When I went to Canada the first time, I didn't expect to meet anyone." She paused, what was left of her composure dangerously close to breaking. "And after I met him, I, I was happy for once.
I was going to tell Cecily. I just needed to talk to him again first, and then I was going to tell her. I swear to God, Gregory."
Gregory said nothing for a moment. Then, "Are you serious about Cecily? About giving up custody?"
"Yes," Simone said without hesitation. "I'd still like to see her."
"I know," Gregory said. "I won't keep her from you." Guilt flared up in Simone's chest. He had every right to keep Cecily away from her, but he still had faith in her. Somehow, after all she'd done, he still had some faith in her. "Thank you," was all she could say.
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