My mouth twists at the last word, and I attempt to stalk off on shaky legs to grab my dress from the bathroom floor. Disgusted with myself, and having to wear the dirty clothes, I scout around the suite for my other items.
I walk back to the lounge. Tate’s resumed his position on the sofa, the marriage certificate on the floor where he dropped it.
“Lost a shoe?” he asks and holds one up.
Some girls would love the fairy tale of a crazy, romantic marriage to Tate Daniels, worthy of the tabloids.
Not me.
I woke yesterday, expecting to wake the next day in the warm arms of the man I loved.
Instead, I woke on a cold bathroom floor not knowing where the hell I was, or who I was with.
Shoes on, belongings gathered, I point at the certificate. “You keep that. Your lawyers will need it.” As I head out the door, his comment about the expense of marrying me grates. “You didn’t even buy me a ring!” I call.
“It was three o’clock in the fucking morning!” he calls back.
I pause and turn. “By the way, I wouldn’t mention this to Dylan if you see him again. Just ask my fiancé and his broken nose why.”
Tate’s eyes capture mine. “You don’t have a fiancé, Myf. You have a husband.”
I glower at him. “Not for long.”
7
I spend the flight back to LA with my head buried beneath a blanket, carrying my embarrassment and shame on board, in my hand luggage. Audrey grilled me about my behaviour. I’ve never seen her as pissed off with me. I deserve her anger; I cannot believe that I a) left her and b) never returned to our hotel room. Audrey’s still sour faced now as she sits across from me, drinking coffee and staring out the window.
Dylan approaches her, and I peek from beneath the blanket, ready to close my eyes and pretend to sleep if he addresses me. Audrey saved my ass by not calling Dylan this morning, although my time limit was almost up in the minutes before she received my text. My story: I hooked up with a random guy who neglected to rape and murder me, and I crawled back to the hotel with my tail between my legs.
They begin a quiet conversation, and Dylan lowers himself into the seat next to her. We’re all worse for wear this morning, including Dylan whose bright blue eyes are lined with dark circles. Less than twenty-four hours in Vegas, and this party is well and truly over, and tidying up the aftermath may take longer than usual. I strain to hear the conversation and fail.
“Morning, sunshine! How’re you feeling?” Somebody drags the blanket from my head, and Bryn’s grinning face appears in front of me.
“Like shit.” I pull the blanket to my nose and scowl at him.
“Ah, Myfanwy,” he says, voice lilting to the tune of the Welsh song until I kick him. “Where did you go last night?”
“How can you be so bright?” I mutter.
“My natural, glowing personality.” He tugs at the blanket again, his large frame blocking everything from view. “Seriously, are you okay?” he says in a whisper.
“Fine.”
“Did Tate stay with you? I saw him follow you.”
My mouth dries, no mean feat considering it’s already parched, and I reach for my bottle of water. “Tate was with me for a while.”
“And he looked after you? Man, Dylan was pissed off when you disappeared and wouldn’t answer his messages. We were worried.”
My phone contains a barrage of messages from Dylan, joined by the ones from Audrey this morning. I side glance her. Did she tell them I failed to find my way back to the hotel room?
“I apologised to Dylan.”
Bryn studies me from beneath his curls as I drink. “And you’re not hurt?”
“I’m fine!” I snap. “I had a shit day yesterday. Leave me alone.”
“Whoa.” Bryn straightens.
“Sorry, I’m just not feeling good. I have to deal with... things when I’m home. Not looking forward to it, you know.” I force a weak smile.
“’Kay. Just looking out for you.”
“I know. Thanks.”
Bryn nods and heads to the front of the plane’s cabin. I look away as he grabs a beer and sits next to Liam. Alcohol. Ugh.
Audrey and Dylan both watch me as if I’m a toddler who might run away. “What?” I ask.
“Good question,” replies Dylan, and I sink back into the seat as he takes one opposite me. “I’d like to know what the hell happened last night, but I doubt you’re going to tell me, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Can you remember what you did?”
“Jesus! Am I under suspicion? You’re like a load of cops.”
“No, we just care about you. I’m worried about you. When you get back to LA and—”
“Deal with the asshole who dumped me on my wedding day?”
And the one who didn’t.
“Yeah, was gonna be a bit more sensitive about that, but...” His face darkens. “Has Miles contacted you?”
“No.”
“Fucker.”
“I know Miles. He hides from shit he can’t deal with. Funny how most men I know do.” I cock a brow.
“Don’t turn this around to me. Listen, I spoke to Sky, and she said it’s okay if you want to stay with us while you take some time out to get your head together.”
“Dylan, your house is the place I don’t want to be right now. Don’t you think it has a few unpleasant reminders?” I put a hand on his when the familiar Dylan pout appears. “I have auditions lined up too. I’m not putting my life on hold.”
“Okay, but promise you’ll come to me if you need anything.”
I nod and cling onto my blanket. We both know I won’t. I’m always there if Dylan needs me, but I don’t like relying on him in return. The few times I asked for help, he splashed money around, and I’m not interested in that. I don’t hide from my problems, but I don’t like to share them either.
“If you need help sorting anything out—”
“Like you sorted Miles’s face out?”
A muscle twitches in Dylan’s jaw. “He was lucky. I wanted to hurt the bastard a lot more than I did.”
My hungover head bangs and the conversation pounds further into my skull. “Can I not talk about this?”
“Sorry.” He takes my head in both hands and kisses my forehead. “But I mean it, ask.”
Yeah, know any good divorce lawyers?
The jet turns, and the LA skyline fills the horizon, growing closer by the minute. An hour on Dylan’s private jet isn’t enough to prepare me for the crap I have to deal with, and I’m exhausted: body, heart, and soul.
What future am I looking at now?
8
Miles doesn’t contact me when I return to LA or the day after that. I refuse to be the one who initiates the meeting and wait. After a week, I come to terms with the fact he’s either a coward as well as a cheating asshole, or Dylan has threatened him with unpleasantness if he comes within several metres of me.
I query Dylan, who denies this. He again asks if I’d like to stay with him and Sky, for some healing and privacy, but I decline. I don’t need healing. I need to get on with my life. I have the aftermath of two weddings to deal with, and I’m currently dealing with them in the only way I can.
By pretending 23rd July never happened. Not one second.
I cave and attempt to contact Miles, but he doesn’t respond. Anger seethes for another week, and I’m disgusted with him. The man’s a coward as well as a pathetic, immature asshole. News reaches me that Miles left LA on our wedding day and is in South America somewhere. Figures. Recently he’s wanted to leave LA for what he calls “a less artificial world.” His version would be a place filled with mason jars and upcycling. Real bare-bones living? I doubt my middle-class English ex will cope without Wi-Fi.
I never wanted to join him, determined to stay in LA and cut a path into my career. Now, for the first time in years, I obsess about a return to Wales away from everything.
Including my new husband.
The worst part—I haven’t heard from Tate’s lawyers. Tate didn’t give me his phone number the morning after, either and I have no way to contact him. Calling up his agent or publicist and asking to speak to him would raise a red flag over my connection to him, so I decide to wait. It’s not as if I’m planning to marry anybody else in a hurry. But each time I consider what happened, my heart speeds. Surely a divorce is underway?
Audrey moves into my apartment temporarily, tells me she’s pissed with her current roommates, but I know she’s doing this to help me out, both emotionally and financially. My bank balance sucks. Why the hell did the network cancel the sitcom I had a minor part in earlier this year? As the main female character’s best friend, I appeared around one in three episodes as her “fall girl.” I played the character whose shoulder she cried on when the on-again-off-again relationship, with the hot guy who lived in the opposite apartment, fell apart.
Ratings dropped early 2016, and the death knell sounded. The hope my role would become more central sank with the show. As did my confidence and financial situation.
My agent assures me that my mastered American accent, and my name attached to a relatively popular show, will help in this year’s casting calls season. I’m not confident; this time of year sees the toughest competition as new hopefuls arrive in LA in droves ready to try for parts in the new season’s shows.
Right now, any work would do, lucrative or enough for a week’s rent. A few months back, Audrey scored a role in an ad, which paid well and landed her with enough savings to last months. We teased the hell out of her because the ad was for haemorrhoids cream, but there’s nothing amusing about Audrey’s bank balance. Maybe it’s time to switch agents. I’m willing to pimp myself out for any work—outside the adult industry.
So I’m left in limbo in my life and relationships, desperate for one to settle into normality or at least satisfaction.
I stare at the blank space on the fridge, where pictures of Miles and me were once pinned amongst the magnetic ads for local takeaway restaurants. Water runs across my hands as I fill the sink to wash dishes, and I fight my irritation at the two men involved in my messed up life and their inability to use communication devices.
Figuring out both guys’ motivation causes headaches as large as the hangover that fateful morning. I’m running out of patience with Tate; for somebody wanting to extract himself from an embarrassing situation, he isn’t trying hard.
“I’m not stupid, Myf,” says Audrey, turning the tap off. “Something more happened in Vegas than you’re telling me.”
I blink out of my thoughts and look up at my friend. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I mutter. “Can we cut the topic? July 23rd is, was, and will always be, the worst day of my life. End of.” I push a mug under the water, splashing myself with the force.
Audrey taps a pink-painted nail against her perfect teeth, and I tense, waiting for the ‘M’ word to come from her mouth. “The only thing worrying me is whether anything criminal happened to you in Vegas.”
“For the hundredth time, no.”
“Good.” Audrey pulls a chair out at the small table crammed into our kitchen area and sits. My open notepad rests on the table beside my phone, and she tips her head to read. “Some new auditions?”
“A couple. To be honest, if I don’t find something soon, I’m headed back to Wales for a while.”
Her troubled blue eyes meet mine. “Don’t give up.”
“I’m not. I just want some space. My life turned upside down recently; it might help to step away and make some decisions about the direction to take now.”
“Not yet, Myf. Let’s see what you have lined up.” Mouthing the words, Audrey runs her finger down the list, stopping at one time and date. “How’d you manage that?”
“What?”
“Audition for the lead actress in a pilot.”
I shake water from my hands and grab a tea towel. “We all know network pilots can go nowhere.”
“Don’t be so negative! Or it could run for six seasons. This looks like a good one.”
“You think?” I peer over her shoulder.
“Ah, everybody likes detective shows, but this one has a twist and is based on that bestseller from last year. He’s an angel, and she has no clue. Bad boy, supernatural hot guys —they’re popular.” She flicks my nose. “You need to research before you audition! Read the book the show’s based on. Haven’t you heard of it? Angel City.” She holds the pad out. “Huge opportunity, girl.”
“There’s a book?” She tuts at me. “Okay, okay.”
“This isn’t like you, Myf. You’re usually clued up on everything.”
“Other things on my mind, Audrey.”
“I don’t care. Just don’t let the bastard ruin your chance at a big break.”
I smile, but my confidence levels don’t match hers. The last couple of weeks I’ve stayed in bed longer than I should and refused to meet up with friends, sure they’re all laughing at me. They wouldn’t; they’d side with me over Miles. The problem is, a lot are mutual friends, and I’d spend the evening paranoid about their unspoken thoughts and opinions.
Three years with Miles. When did everything change? The man who could treat somebody the way he did two weeks ago isn’t the man I met. You can genuinely believe you know everything about somebody, share their hopes and dreams, believe you’re following the same path and then... crash and burn.
Or you can meet a guy from the past you once refused to date and decide in a drunken state what an awesome idea it would be to marry him.
Either way, love doesn’t enter the equation. Only stupidity.
I resolve that if I don’t hear from Tate by the end of the week, I’ll contact him. And Miles? If he doesn’t have the guts even to text me an apology, I’ll find him myself. Both owe me answers, and I’m running out of patience.
9
Pushing aside the distractions, I attend the Angel City audition along with a waiting room full of hopefuls. I can spot the new arrivals to Hollywood easily, girls with a mixture of false bravado and nervous smiles. They chat to each other, while us hardened players remain fixed on the goal, experts at zoning out our surroundings and focused on the character parts we want to win.
The competition for the role in Angel City narrowed. My first call came thanks to the audition tape my agent touted. This was followed with a callback and audition, which swept everything out of my mind and into total focus for landing the role.
Now, I’m in the last half a dozen actresses recalled for a screen test with the lead actor. I manage to temper my excitement; this isn’t the first time I’ve found myself shortlisted for a potentially career-breaking role. The disappointment when I didn’t land the part last time ate at me for days. Once over, my confidence outweighed the odds I’m up against, and failure crushed me; these days I’ve learned to draw a mental line under let-downs.
Besides, hardening up helps when fiancés throw curveballs on your wedding day.
Half a dozen other girls vie for the part: Brit, the “naive but plucky” detective playing opposite Dev, her new “rogue with a secret” partner. I cringe a little at cliché parts of the storyline I read before the audition, but popular doesn’t always equal originality. I’m hoping the scriptwriters want an actress to add backbone to the role because this woman could easily be a weak, ‘too stupid to live’ character.
I’ve attended this casting studio enough times to know precisely what to expect when I step into the auditorium with the exposed brick walls and a small stage. The people are different each time, seated several rows back on folding seats. They add a bored air to the room because I’m actress number whatever in a long line.
I step through the door, into the stage set for
filming, the camera positioned to face the space. I fight nausea and focus on my well-rehearsed script in my head. Will I ever walk into an audition without worrying the phrase sick with nerves will happen in reality?
A grey-haired, ponytailed guy nods at me. “Hello...” He cranes his neck to look at the woman beside him who’s holding a clipboard. The younger woman with a severe, dark-haired ponytail sits stiffly, attempting a superior look, but I swear she’s as uncomfortable as I am. “Myfanwy, I’m Roger, the director. This is Tim and Galen, the showrunner and casting director.”
I smile through clenched teeth at the inevitable mispronunciation of my name. “Most people call me Myf,” I reply. “If that’s okay.”
I return “hellos” to the others watching with their feet on the back of the seats in front of them. They nod as if I’m not worth wasting too many words on.
“Sure, Myf.”
All the people in the room scrutinise me, and the perspiration on my back increases as they write something down.
I can do this.
My discomfort launches to stratospheric levels when Tate Daniels strolls into the small theatre with a superior, bored air and a loud complaint this is the “third fucking time today” as he flicks through the script in his hands.
Tate’s lost the hungover look, but he’s the image of the man whose hotel bathroom floor I woke up on. Grey tee stretched too tightly across his chest and abs, for most women’s comfort; scruffy jeans hugging his ass; and the perfect symmetry in his face recognisable the world over, whether you know who he is or not.
He steps onto the well-worn spot, marked with grey duct tape, and glances up. The bored expression instantaneously switches to shock. Refusing to be drawn in by those equally famous eyes, I tuck my shaking hands beneath my arms.
Unscripted Page 5
