Lost in Scotland

by Hilaria Alexander

  Lost in Scotland

  Copyright © 2017 Hilaria Alexander

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: Hilaria Alexander 2017

  hilaria_alexander@outlook.com

  Editing: Editing by C. Marie

  Proofreading: Author Services by Julie Deaton

  Cover Design: Samantha Leigh Design

  Photo: Adobe Stock

  Formatting: AB Formatting

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PLAYLIST

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY

  I always enjoyed the train wreck that came with Hollywood’s falling-outs, whether it was friendships, love stories, or simply superstars throwing shade at other superstars. I grew up in Los Angeles, so I was used to it; gossip was part of my reality. I loved the public, petty celebrity breakups, and more recently, the Twitter and Instagram bashing.

  As much as they claimed to want privacy, celebrities could never seem to hold back. Things always got ugly, even with the biggest power couples.

  Pretty much every divorce turned nasty, despite the A-listers being oh-so-concerned about “the well-being of the kids.”

  We were never short of drama in Hollywood, on or off the set.

  I happened to be one of those who enjoyed the spectacle—that is, until I found myself in the middle of one and my name became a headline.

  Admittedly, it was partly my own fault. I had decided reckoning day should be a public affair. I refused to take the high road. I had been given lemons, and I was going to serve lemonade.

  Sam

  January

  I had been dreaming of attending the Golden Globes since I was a young girl.

  My parents worked in the industry for decades, and growing up, my sister and I always wanted to work in movies. While I was more of a behind-the-scenes type of girl, my sister enjoyed the spotlight, and she became one of the most beloved young actresses in Hollywood. At twenty-six years old, she was already a Golden Globe winner and an Oscar nominee.

  The Golden Globes were one of my favorite awards shows.

  I loved the atmosphere—it was always funnier and looser than the Oscars. The jokes were sharper, too, and usually included poking fun at the intoxicated attendees. I also loved the after-parties. I had gone to a couple of them in the past, thanks to my sister Amira, but this year I was attending with my boyfriend, Eric Oliveira.

  The show we both worked on, which he co-created and co-wrote, was nominated for best comedy on TV. I was so proud of him. He had worked so hard to get there.

  Hi, My Name is Georgia, was Eric’s lovechild with actress Quinn Levy, and it had quickly become the darling of the critics. Ratings hadn’t been great the first season, but thankfully the network had granted us a second chance.

  Season two had been well reviewed so far, but once again, the declining ratings had brought us close to the brink of paranoia. We feared every day that the network would decide to pull the plug on us. Then, a month ago, we had woken up to the greatest news ever.

  Georgia had not only been nominated for a Golden Globe for Best Comedy, but both the lead actor and actress had scored a nomination in their respective categories. Ratings started picking up, and even though the show was currently on Christmas break, our numbers on Hulu and Netflix were up as well. It seemed Georgia was finally getting the big break it deserved.

  Quinn Levy played the part of the titular Georgia, on top of being the co-creator and co-writer of the show. Quinn was beautiful in that obnoxious typical Hollywood actress way—tall, skinny, blonde—but she had such a fantastic personality that it was basically impossible to hate her. She was funny, and she always had your back, a real team player. On set, she always tried to make everyone’s job easier. In Hollywood, she was outspoken in the fight for women’s equal pay.

  If there was one thing she was awful at, however, it was breaking.

  No matter how many times she rehearsed a scene, there would always be a moment, especially during late-night shoots, when she’d break out of character and start laughing while delivering the lines. She broke more than Jimmy Fallon on Saturday Night Live. One night, we had to shoot a scene almost a hundred and fifty times. Other than that, she was a peach. She was from Georgia, coincidentally, and she had the kindness and manners of a Southern belle.

  She gave the funniest interviews, too—well, almost as funny as my sister’s. No one beat my sister Amira—or Mira Farouk, as the world knew her—when it came to charming the press.

  Quinn finished telling a joke from her early days as a stand-up comedian, and we all laughed. As they announced the beginning of the telecast, we all clinked our glasses and cheered. Eric hugged me and kissed my cheek.

  “You look so damn sexy, Sam. I can’t wait to fuck you out of that dress,” he whispered in my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. Seven years as a couple—including two living together—and he still turned me on like the first day.

  “You’ll have to, since Amira’s stylist sewed me into it,” I replied seductively, looking up to him. His eyes went wide, and he replied with a deep hum as he scanned my body, which was wrapped in a tight red dress that exposed my back all the way down to my ass.

  Eric and I had been together since one hot summer working on the same show seven years earlier. After resisting him for weeks, I had succumbed to his charm. To this day, our passion was incandescent. Everyone knew how fragile relationships were in Hollywood, and this was true for actors as well as people who didn’t have a spotlight pointed at them at all times. Even my parents, after three children and many years of wedded bliss, had called it quits about ten years ago.

  Fortunately, Eric and I were doing just fine. He was even more handsome after recently turning thirty. His hair was jet black, and his eyes were a beautiful emerald green. His skin was tanned, which added even more sex appeal to his whole persona. His parents were from Brazil and had immigrated to the US when he was a kid. When he was younger he was approached by a talent scout to do some modeling, but he turned it down. He could have probably been the male Gisele if he’d wanted to, but instead he decided to work in television. I gazed at his profile and he smirked when he caught me staring. I bit my lip in antici
pation of what would happen later that night.

  What seven-year itch? I was still completely smitten with him, and we were still having as much sex as we had when we started dating. We’d even manage to sneak around on the nights we worked late.

  As a matter of fact, Eric seemed to be even more passionate as of late, maybe because things were going better with the show.

  It was only a matter of time before he’d propose…at least I thought so.

  I wasn’t one of those women whose sole objective in life was to get married, but I loved my man and wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. I knew marriage was in the cards for us because he had been telling me so himself. He was the one to bring it up, explaining that he wanted to get married after he’d hit it big. He was ambitious and determined, and he knew it was just a matter of time before he would get to work on a hit show.

  A win for Georgia would definitely secure his status, and maybe a ring on my finger, too.

  A couple of awards and several drinks later, I waved at my sister from across the room as she walked back to her table after announcing the winner for Best Supporting Actor in a movie. She was sitting with the director and cast of her latest commercial success, No Time Like the Present. Amira and Ross David, the director of the movie, had become quite the dynamic duo in the movie industry. Ross called Mira his muse, purely because she was such a talented chameleon. In fact, Mira seemed to be able to slip into any role, no matter the challenge. I knew a lot of people in Hollywood speculated that Mira and Ross were a couple, but my sister assured me their relationship was purely professional; we didn’t keep secrets between us. She was just three years younger than me and was my best friend. I knew there was nothing going on with the director, because I could always tell when she was lying. I didn’t really have anything against Ross David—he was handsome and successful—but he was also fourteen years older than Mira. I wouldn’t have wanted an old man dating my twenty-six-year-old sister, and our father wouldn’t have either, that was for sure.

  A few awards later, we all damned Gael Garcia-Bernal under our breath when Wilder Simmons, the male lead in Georgia, lost for Best Actor in a Television Series Comedy category—but only after making sure the cameras weren’t pointed at our table. We all knew it was a long shot, and we were aware of how much buzz there was around Mozart in the Jungle. The Hollywood Foreign Press seemed to be completely smitten with it.

  “I’m going to lose to Julia Louis-Dreyfus, I just know it,” Quinn said as Seth Myers and Amy Poehler came out to introduce the Best Actress in a Television Series Comedy category. I saw her breathe nervously, and I wanted to hold her hand, but Eric was sitting by her and I couldn’t reach her. We exchanged a look, and I gave her an encouraging smile. She nodded and smiled back, looking uneasy.

  “And the Golden Globe for Best Actress goes to…” Seth Myers said.

  “Quinn Levy for Hi, My Name is Georgia!” Amy Poehler yelled, and everyone at our table erupted into cheers and hugs, quickly stealing kisses from Quinn as she started making her way toward the stage from our table, which was way in the back.

  We all listened to her speech with tears of joy in our eyes, and suddenly, the excitement in our hearts grew even bigger—maybe we had a chance to win Best Comedy, after all. I looked around at Eric and the cast and the producers sitting at the table; I knew we were all thinking the same thing, but no one wanted to jinx it.

  When the time came, Eric held my hand in one hand and Quinn’s hand in the other. When they announced the name of our show, Eric hugged Quinn first, leaving me dumbfounded for a second. Then he turned around, hugged me, and gave me a passionate, quick kiss before going with the cast and the producers up on stage. It was such an incredible moment, I felt overwhelmed with joy. I was smiling, but tears were coming down my cheeks, my heart drumming so loudly in my chest it almost overpowered the cheers and claps in the room.

  Quinn was hilarious as she tried to thank everyone as fast as she could and then passed the microphone over to the producers of the show. They all tried to talk and give their speeches quickly because they knew the music was going to start any second.

  Eric took over the microphone, and he looked so handsome and happy, it took my breath away. I loved him so much. He was brilliant and funny in his brief speech, thanking his parents and his teachers and everyone at the network that supported the show.

  He didn’t thank you.

  Amira’s text came through as soon as they started to leave the stage. She was right; he hadn’t thanked me. The producers had made sure to say a quick thank you to their wives and children, but Eric said nothing about me. Sure, it stung a little, but it happened all the time.

  Dude, remember when you forgot to thank your director?

  Touché. Still, I don’t see how I could forget my partner of the last SEVEN years.

  Maybe he’ll make it up to me. ;-)

  I decided to forget about Eric’s little mishap considering he didn’t have much time left before the music started playing, and I went to stand outside the press room where they were giving interviews.

  Best Comedy was one of the last awards, so everyone was about ready to get out of there and head to the Vanity Fair after-party.

  I waited, leaning against a column because my shoes were already killing me.

  Soon after, I saw everyone from Georgia walk by, but I couldn’t spot Eric.

  Or Quinn.

  Maybe they were holding them back for another interview.

  I looked around, trying to decide if I should go back to the table or not, and then I heard Quinn’s laughter. I turned around, and that’s when I saw him.

  That’s when I saw them.

  And my whole world came crashing down.

  A bullet to my chest would have hurt less, probably. There was no way to explain how it felt seeing my boyfriend of seven years kiss his coworker, my boss.

  A woman I thought of as a friend.

  I hid behind the column as I spied on them…watched the love of my life capturing Quinn’s mouth in a hungry kiss. He was holding her head just at the nape of her neck, and his other hand was looped around her waist. She raised her arms and wrapped them around his neck. It didn’t even look like a first kiss; there was no hesitation. They looked too comfortable with each other’s mouths for it to be the first time this had happened.

  My eyes welled up with tears. My lips trembled. I was holding on to the column with my hands, feeling like my knees were going to give way at any moment.

  I felt like sobbing, but somehow I managed to keep my mouth shut.

  Don’t move, I told myself. Then I got an idea.

  Quinn caressed Eric’s face, and then they kissed again.

  I pulled out my phone and took as many pictures as I could.

  They stopped kissing, and as Quinn fixed her hair and her dress, I hid behind the column. When I heard footsteps approaching me, I circled the column, trying to stay hidden. They laughed, walking back to the ballroom hand in hand.

  My heart sank, and I finally let out the sob I had been holding in.

  How long? How long had they been sneaking behind my back?

  How long had Eric been cheating on me?

  I started replaying the last few weeks, the last few months in my head, trying to remember a detail, a moment, or a situation when I should have been suspicious, when something strange should have tipped me off.

  The late nights…but those were part of his job, always. Writers always stayed up late writing scripts…and they weren’t alone. But they were together. Always together.

  I clutched my fists, and I ran as fast as I could in my high heels.

  I locked myself in the nearest restroom, needing a moment to clear my head. I didn’t know how I was going to face Eric again, but I couldn’t confront him right then.

  Not here. Not tonight.

  I leaned my forehead against the door and took a deep breath as the tears kept coming down, falling everywhere: my cheeks, my chest, my dress.

>   Where are you?

  The fucker texted me. I scoffed. Even seeing his name on the screen of the phone repulsed me. It’s funny how quickly your perception of people can change. I didn’t want to be anywhere near him, but I couldn’t tell him what I’d seen—not yet.

  Maybe not ever.

  I looked at the photos of him and Quinn on my phone, and I could barely make out who was in the picture. Anyone who knew them could probably identify their silhouettes, but not everyone would recognize them. I exhaled, disappointed and angry. My evidence was crap. Then, an idea popped in my head.

  It sounded dangerous and crazy, but oh so appealing. I could already feel it on the tip of my tongue—the sweet taste of revenge.

  I sniffled and typed a quick text.

  I’m in the restroom. I’ll be right out.

  Hurry. The broadcast is over. We’re about to leave.

  I opened the door of the bathroom stall, looked at my tear-stained face in the mirror, and turned the faucet on to fix my makeup. I had left my clutch behind, like the idiot I was. Just as I finished cleaning up my tears, a crowd of cheerful, intoxicated women swarmed the place, and I headed back to our table. The ballroom was half empty, the remaining people scattered around the space, chatting and catching up.

  Eric stood alone by our table, and as I walked in his direction, he turned around, as if he sensed me coming. He smiled warmly at me, holding up my clutch in his hand, and a bright smile stretched across his face. It felt like a blade cutting through my skin.

  Liar. Liar. Liar.

  I tried to reciprocate his smile, but my facial muscles felt stiff, as if I had just gotten Botox. I had to force myself to smile wider.

  He handed me my clutch, and as I got closer, he placed a small kiss on my lips.

  Judas kiss.

  You’re a pig, Eric. You’re a fucking bastard. You’re a liar. I’m done being your fool.