Swearing Off Stars

by Danielle Wong

“Do you ever see her?” I asked hesitantly.

  “No.” He shook his head. “An old mutual friend updates me sometimes.”

  I nodded.

  “She’s remarried with kids now,” he said quietly. “A completely different person, I imagine.”

  “I’m sorry, Robbie.”

  “Don’t be . . . I’ve moved on the best I could. Not sure you have, though. From Scarlett, I mean.”

  We sat still, finally on the same page after so many years.

  “You have to go after her,” he urged.

  “You sound exactly like my father,” I said, laughing.

  “I’m serious. Even after Beck and everything else, it was always Scarlett.”

  “I don’t even know where she is, Robbie.”

  He looked at me and grinned.

  “What?”

  “I do.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “Robbie.”

  He smiled and took a long sip of his coffee. “My friend John Miller knows her publicist. And he sort of bribed her to reveal Scarlett’s next movie location.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “He did.”

  “I don’t believe that . . .”

  “Believe it, Lia. And they’re shooting in Hong Kong, of all places.”

  “Hong Kong?”

  “Yep. Asian city with expensive silk and spicy food. Ever heard of it?” He winked.

  “You’re funny,” I said sarcastically.

  “Well,” he put his finger to his lips. “I guess it’s technically a British colony again . . .”

  “Isn’t it both?”

  “Probably,” Robbie sighed. “I don’t know.”

  He shrugged casually.

  “Here, John wrote down the set location,” he said, handing me a paper café napkin.

  I stared at the numbers scribbled on the napkin then looked back at Robbie.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he smiled.

  I grinned back as an intriguing thought crossed my mind.

  “We didn’t just accidentally bump into each other this morning, did we?”

  Robbie just smiled harder.

  We both stood up on my matted wool rug, still damp from our wet shoes. I stretched out my arms and gave him a giant hug. As we held each other, I savored the fact that I didn’t blame him for anything or feel guilty about what happened. It was just nice to have my friend back.

  Chapter 29

  Hong Kong, November 1949

  SCARLETT

  “Come to bed,” he begs.

  “Soon,” I say as I pat lotus blossom cream onto my décolletage.

  “Please.”

  “I will, James.”

  He’s propped up on our luxury hotel bed, shirtless and staring at me. I rearrange lotions and perfume bottles on the vanity, struggling to come up with yet another excuse to stay where I am.

  “Baby,” he says, standing up. “I haven’t had you in months.” I watch him through the mirror, sauntering over until he’s standing behind me. “You really know how to torture a man.” He grins.

  I force a laugh and turn back to the vanity.

  “I want you,” he whispers into my right ear.

  I feel him harden as he circles my waist, gently tugging on my silk chemise.

  “Please.”

  I let him draw me up and lead me to the bed. Sex with a man isn’t bad once you know what to expect. I’ve done it before and I’m sure I’ll do it again. Compulsory maintenance, I guess. I sort of shut off and go somewhere else for a bit. I used to think of Lia, but that’s impossible now.

  “That was great,” he murmurs afterward.

  I sit up and he lays his heavy head on my left thigh. Unsatisfied, I light a cigarette—a rare treat for me—and pass one to James. We each inhale simultaneously and blow out clouds of gray smoke.

  I think about how he’s basically been exploiting me for my fame. Our engagement resulted in a faux-marriage years ago— though we didn’t actually love each other. While we’re man and wife on paper, my heart will never belong to James. I’m sure he realizes by now that the attraction is far from mutual, but I do my best to stroke his ego every now and then. Despite my indifference, James knows that he’s still a catch to the rest of the world . . . he’s younger than me, good-looking, and well-established. He’s all of those things and more, which is beneficial to both of our careers. The world still thinks of us as film industry sweethearts, but our reality is much different. James is using me. That’s the truth. Then again, I’m using him too.

  Chapter 30

  LIA

  Trunk in tow, I hailed a cab in the East Coast darkness.

  “Airport, please,” I said as the knot in my stomach tightened.

  The ride felt longer than it probably was. I tried to suppress my hesitation and resist the urge to shout, Turn around! Doubts multiplied inside my head as we approached the airport. What will Scarlett say? What if she’s happily married with children? Will she reject me again? The taxi pulled up to a large terminal, and the driver waited patiently as I fiddled with my wallet to locate the fare.

  “Good luck,” he said as he handed me my oversized trunk.

  We hadn’t spoken at all during the ride, but I’m sure he could tell that I was nervous about something.

  “Thanks,” I called back as I dragged my trunk over the curb.

  It was my first time in an airport. I’d never had a reason to fly, especially since my fear of heights pretty much ruled it out. Sailing from New York to England had been bad enough, with the seasickness and sleepless nights. But this was a new challenge altogether.

  Walking through the large terminal only amplified my fear. Anxious travelers buzzed around me as they talked about the thrills of flight. “I’ve done it twice before,” one woman bragged. “Your first trip is always the hardest.” I kept telling myself that I had to do this, that there was no other way. I could continue to live without Scarlett, or I could be brave and go to Hong Kong. In my mind, the latter was my only option.

  I rummaged through my purse and pulled out the express visa Robbie had helped me acquire just days earlier—I still couldn’t wrap my head around all the strings he’d pulled. I clutched it tightly while making my way to the security checkpoint. Most people were walking straight through without any problems or a show of ID—I let out a quick sigh of relief. I went to put my unnecessary visa away when the middle-aged man in front of me turned around.

  “Where are you headed?” he asked behind a pair of smudged lenses.

  “Hong Kong,” I answered, surprised.

  He nodded as I put my visa away.

  “And you?”

  “Los Angeles. I’m going to visit a friend there.”

  “Great,” I smiled and closed my purse.

  “Why are you flying to Hong Kong?”

  He sounded suspicious to me, though it may have just been my paranoia.

  “Just out of curiosity,” I shrugged. The lie left my mouth before I could answer truthfully.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I’ve always wanted to see Hong Kong.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s supposed to be quite interesting,” I answered, wondering why he was asking so many questions.

  He cocked his head.

  “Are you travelling alone?”

  “I am,” I said bluntly.

  “No husband with you?”

  I shook my head.

  “No . . . son to accompany you?”

  “Nope. Just me,” I said proudly.

  “What do you do?”

  “Um—” I glanced past him to see why the line wasn’t moving.

  “I’m a journalist.”

  “A journalist?” He looked me up and down. “Not a lot of . . .”

  “Female journalists?” I gave him a blank stare.

  “Well, I mean . . .”

  “Yes, Mr.—?”

  �
��Crowley. Thomas Crowley,” he clarified quickly.

  “Yes, Mr. Crowley. The field is quite oversaturated with men, just as most fields are. Don’t you think?”

  “Women are—I mean, they should probably, you know . . .” He swallowed hard, unable to compose a decent response.

  “The line is moving, Mr. Crowley.”

  He looked confused as I gestured ahead.

  “Oh, right.” He turned around quickly.

  “Good luck in Los Angeles,” I said under my breath.

  For the first time in a while, I missed Will. Besides Robbie and my father, he was one of the few men I knew who supported women’s rights. I knew there were more of them out there, but it seemed like my life revolved around traditionalists—even men at the paper were still resistant to their female co-workers. It was odd to think about my youthful mindset at Oxford. Back then, I had assumed that things would be different by the time I was older. In a way, they were. But in a different way, there was still so much further to go. I guess that’s how the future always works, though—it’s rarely as bright as you imagine it to be.

  I looked around as I waited to board the aircraft. I was the only single female traveler in sight. There were a few young couples and some large families. A small group of businessmen stood near the window, looking restless. Two of them sipped coffee, while the other one fiddled with his briefcase. I watched as he stuffed a stack of papers inside the black leather case and then snapped it shut. An unmistakable logo covered its exterior—a large, golden “M.” It stood for Mosaic, Scarlett’s film company. These men must be headed to her film set in Hong Kong!

  I stared at the briefcase, unable to believe my luck. I snapped out of it when a short announcement informed us that we would begin boarding the aircraft soon. I gathered up my things with a smile. It was almost too easy. I knew how I was going to find Scarlett now.

  I watched the businessmen hand over their boarding passes and walk towards the plane. Their tailored suits disappeared quickly down the ramp. My anxiety grew as I waited for the line to move. Finally, I approached the aircraft with a slew of remaining passengers trailing behind.

  No sooner had I stepped into the cabin than a chirpy stewardess greeted me with a postcard. “Hello, ma’am. Which row are you seated in?”

  “Row twenty,” I said with a smile and stuck the card into my purse.

  “That’s towards the back of the plane,” she said, gesturing down the aisle.

  “Thanks,” I said under my breath.

  After taking off my coat, I took my seat and fastened the blue lap belt tightly.

  “Are you sure this is safe?” a man with a thick New York accent across the aisle from me asked.

  “It’s perfectly safe, sir,” a younger stewardess said calmly.

  She wore a fitted blue uniform and black patent leather Mary Janes. Her tiny pillbox hat sat atop a head of silky auburn hair. The shiny silver wings pinned to her chest sparkled under the cabin light.

  “I don’t know,” the man said. He was middle-aged and portly, wearing thin-framed metal reading lenses. “My cousin said it’s scary once you’re up there—”

  “We have medicine if you start to feel ill,” the stewardess reassured him. “But I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

  Her pleasant tone seemed to soothe him for the time being. I briefly wondered why this man was flying in the first place, but that thought was quickly chased away by my fears about this trip. The thought of flying to a new country to find Scarlett, who might not even want to see me, was almost too much to stomach. I could hear my own heartbeat as I watched more passengers hurry onto the plane. A nicely-dressed woman and her son sat down a few rows in front of me. They seemed excited about the trip, putting me temporarily at ease. I pulled out the postcard the stewardess had handed me and stared at a black and white picture of a large plane—I wondered if it was the model I was sitting on. I thought about writing to Robbie to distract myself, but my hand was shaking too much to form proper letters. I smiled at the thought of him trying to read my illegible message.

  I shut my eyes tightly; sleeping through the next several hours was my best strategy. Our pilot made a weather announcement as we started to taxi, but I struggled to follow along. My heavy eyelids started to close before we even made it to the runway.

  I hear her blissful laugh. She’s standing next to me, trying on a flamboyant holiday hat. I gaze at her reflection in the mirror in front of us and start to giggle. “You’re too much.”

  “Well. I think I look . . . wonderful,” Scarlett says, trying to keep a straight face. She fails, and collapses into laughter. “You try one on then!”

  I study the array of festive accessories displayed around us. “You pick one for me.”

  “How about . . . this one,” Scarlett mutters as she places a heavy bonnet on my head.

  “I look like one of Santa’s kitschy elves,” I say, curtsying.

  “Harrods’s simply can’t handle us,” she declares with a fake sneer.

  We both burst out laughing as the saleswoman flashes us a threatening look.

  Suddenly I was thrown out of the store and back into the 1940s. I gripped the armrests with clammy palms as the plane jolted from side to side. Loud vibrations left me feeling more unsettled while my tensed fingers turned white. As the cabin came back into focus, I turned slightly and noticed an elderly woman staring in my direction and smiling.

  “You were dreaming of something happy,” she said, just loud enough for me to hear.

  “Yes—yes I was,” I said, taken aback.

  “I could tell,” she beamed.

  I gave her a quick smile and turned back toward the window. As I stared into the morning sky, all I wanted was to keep dreaming about Scarlett Daniels. But more than that, I wanted to go back in time to that idyllic Christmas Day in 1919.

  Chapter 31

  Hong Kong, November 1949

  After a few more days of turbulent flights, I was standing at my final destination. We had been heavily delayed because of “severe weather conditions,” but it was only late afternoon in Hong Kong. All of the passengers walked off the plane slowly, tired from our long trip over.

  As our flight crew guided us to the arrivals terminal, I stole my first glimpses of the British colony. Sunshine crept in through open windows and large doors. The airport felt rough and unfinished, like a construction zone. The building was humid and sweltering hot, and I immediately missed the frigid aircraft cabin. My skin was sticky with sweat, in desperate need of a good hotel shower.

  I walked quickly to catch up with the group of first-class businessmen. The golden “M” was my north star. I couldn’t afford to lose it.

  The airport’s customs area was overwhelming. I was ushered into a line leading to a set of intimidating counters with armed officials. I looked around for the businessmen, but they were being led to a much shorter line. I struggled to come up with a decent plan. They were definitely going to clear customs well before me, so I had no choice but to hope I’d see them outside. If worse came to worst, I would take a taxi to my hotel and figure everything out. I knew I would breathe easier after I made it to the other side.

  “Next,” a loud voice startled me.

  I stepped up to a counter and handed over my passport.

  “Cole?”

  “Yes, Amelia Jane Cole,” I said nervously.

  The man looked down and said something inaudible. He handed back my passport stiffly. “Welcome to Hong Kong.”

  A wave of muggy air enveloped me as I stepped outside. Just as I’d suspected would be the case, the businessmen were nowhere to be seen. My shoulders dropped as I ambled over to the short taxi line.

  THE Eastern Blossom Hotel was a long way from the airport. I dozed off in the backseat before arriving a while later. A hard stop jolted me awake as we pulled into a grand entrance. Lofty and palatial, the building loomed over me as I carried my trunk up to its double doors.

  I’d only stayed in a few hotels befo
re, but the opulent Blossom blew both of them out of the water. A lively doorman greeted me and took my luggage to a nicely dressed bellhop. I was escorted to my room upon check-in and given a pass to the Blossom’s swimming pool. It was Olympic-sized, overflowing with chlorinated aqua water and surrounded by cushy teak lounge chairs. A polished glass ceiling revealed the sun-drenched sky above.

  A Hollywood-style vanity and handmade lavender soaps were just some of the lovely amenities inside my room. I sat on my bed’s fluffy down comforter and sighed, wishing that Scarlett was there with me. What would my college-aged self say if she saw me now?

  I spent the rest of the afternoon sipping tea and reading old books in the hotel library. After a full night’s sleep and another day’s rest, I was ready to explore. I asked the hotel manager for recommendations, and he pointed me in the direction of a popular bazaar.

  I wandered aimlessly through the dusty marketplace, wondering what I was really doing in Hong Kong. Once again, I found myself on the other side of the world without a solid plan. This city couldn’t be farther from home, figuratively and factually. It pulsed with effervescent culture, shady business deals, and suppressed political uprising. If New York was a sophisticated young woman, Hong Kong was her fiery cousin.

  The peppery scent of fresh spices infiltrated my nose as I took in my surroundings. The rows of exotic goods in the bazaar reminded me vaguely of London’s flea markets. From gold watches to woodcarvings, blooming flowers to handmade trinkets, I had never seen so many treasures packed into one place.

  I continued walking and noticed a woman bargaining for silk at a textile stall ahead.

  “Tài guile!” she said firmly.

  “You drive a hard bargain, miss,” the owner replied in accented English.

  The woman laughed and said something else in what I assumed to be Cantonese.

  “Hye,” the owner agreed as he flashed a toothless grin.

  He accepted the coin money and shook her delicate hand. The woman stuffed the smooth silk into her oversized magenta handbag and nodded good-bye. Before she disappeared into the vivid market stalls, I saw her adjust the navy hat on her head and quickly reapply some rouge. I would know those lips anywhere. Scarlett.