by C. J. Duggan
Derek’s lips pressed together in a grim line; his expression told me everything I needed to know.
I scoffed. ‘Of course, nobody drops the golden boy.’
‘Believe me, Abby, we do not make these decisions lightly,’ Sal countered.
‘Sure, but hey, just think of my death ratings, right? I bet it made it a little less difficult.’
Sal’s grey eyes sliced straight through me. I could tell he was trying his best to remain professional, when all he really wanted was to slam the door behind me. I was obviously not doing myself any favours, but I didn’t care. My world as I knew it was falling apart and there was nothing that I could do about it.
Then, bless her, Cyclone Ziggy rose to her feet. ‘Naturally Abby’s financial contract will be honoured in light of the “situation”. We wouldn’t want there to be any further news stories about discrimination or workplace bullying.’
‘Now listen here, Zig – ’ Sal’s words were cut off by Ziggy raising her hand.
‘Save it, Sal; full entitlements will be paid, and a statement will be given by Abby, not you, about her decision to leave the show to pursue a career outside of Australia.’
My head snapped around. What was she doing? Had she lost her mind?
Sal grinned, and it was cold. ‘Oh, pursuing other avenues already? Sounds like I’m doing you both a favour, then.’
Ziggy matched his smile. ‘More than you realise.’ It was a smile that said, ‘Don’t fuck with me.’ As much as Sal could be frightening, Ziggy in business mode was downright terrifying.
We walked out of the office together, me feeling nothing but hopelessness, while Ziggy seemed energised, a fiery spark in her eyes.
‘What am I going to do, Zig?’ I tried to keep tears from welling in my eyes.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry. By the time I’m through with him you’ll have your entire trip funded.’
‘Trip?’
Ziggy smiled, and she was terrifying again. ‘Time for a change, Abby Taylor!’
Chapter Three
‘We’re going to die!’
The man in front of me turned in his chair and gave me a filthy, twisted look.
Oh shit, did I say that out loud?
I smiled weakly; okay, so he wasn’t overly worried about take-off. Turning in my own seat, I looked around, desperately seeking out another terrified soul, but there was no one. Everyone seemed unfazed, save for one young Korean couple who were trying to shove an oversized carry-on into the overhead compartment. Yeah, that’s not going to fit.
‘Excuse me, ma’am, can you please pull your blind up? We’re preparing for take-off.’
I blinked, looking up at the Amazonian flight attendant with the high-wattage smile. Make no mistake, if I didn’t comply she would not hesitate to have me tasered and escorted off the plane in a heartbeat – I read it in her eyes. My eyes shifted to the window, then I slowly slid the blind upwards to reveal my worst nightmare: the plane’s wing.
Why was it that I always got sat on the wing, ensuring I would be the first to see it burst into flames and snap off? At least I wasn’t in the emergency aisle – truth be known, in the event of an evacuation I would be throwing women and children over my shoulder and hurdling over seats like an Olympic champion.
How had I let Ziggy talk me into this?
I knew it was all too good to be true: escape the tabloids, the drama, start afresh, expand my career in a way I never could at home, especially since Danielle Kendall had become Australia’s latest darling. And now I was going to die in a blaze of twisting metal and melted flesh. I didn’t know which was worse: thinking about what I was leaving behind, or the very real terror I was suffering in the present moment.
I studied the emergency-landing guide intently, while simultaneously watching every single gesture and instruction from the flight attendants. My attention only wavered when I craned my neck to see if the people in the emergency aisles were paying attention.
A woman was switching off her phone, a man in his mid-twenties had his headphones on – headphones! – and a solid, bald man gave the hostess a glance or two; still, come crash-time I was sure he’d be able to pry open the door like the jaws of life. Follow the lights on the floor, and follow the bald man – good plan.
Now, don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t my first flight. I had been on planes lots of times, but it never got easier. In fact, as Cassie, I had almost perished in a simulated plane crash on Ship to Sea, which, as you can imagine, only heightened my fear, though my acting was superb. The thought of being in the air for thirteen hours had me looking for the sick bag.
‘It’s going to be alright,’ the lady next to me said comfortingly; apparently my nervous energy was rather obvious. I wondered if placing the sick bag in reach was the giveaway. ‘There’s nothing worse than a phobia of flying,’ she said.
‘Yeah, it’s not fun,’ I admitted, hoping that she might confess that she too suffered, that we could bond over it. But looking at her serene disposition, I realised this would not be the case, and I kind of hated her, as well as everyone else on this plane who wasn’t paralysed by fear. Damn them all, lazily flipping through their inflight magazines, yawning, and adjusting their seat belts without a care in the world.
Oh. So. Smug.
‘Look, this might help.’ The lady next to me looked over her glasses and tapped on her screen. She looked just like my mum did when I was showing her how to log in to her Facebook account. Luckily there were no passwords this time. After a few mistakes and a lot of backtracking, the lady seemed rather pleased with herself. ‘There, this will tell you exactly where the plane is, and how long until we reach our destination.’
My brows lowered at the flight path, a tiny little plane over a vast, expansive ocean to LAX.
‘Oh, hell, no, I cannot look at that,’ I said, recoiling in my seat and wishing to God I could erase the image from my brain.
The woman looked taken aback. ‘Oh, my dear, is it really that bad?’
I simply nodded, not daring to look left to the wing, right to the flight path, or straight ahead to where the sick bag poked out of the pocket. There was no place to go and no way to fight this feeling. I could feel the tears well in my eyes, as my shaky hands tightened my seatbelt for the hundredth time.
The woman patted me on the shoulder; at first, I thought it was a means to comfort the basket case she had been lumped next to, but as she handed me a foil packet I realised she’d been trying to gain my attention. My brows lowered as she placed it in my hand.
Were we doing a drug deal?
‘W-what’s that?’
‘Valium; the doctor prescribed them to me when my husband passed away at Christmas; they take the edge off your worries. I’m afraid there’s only one foil sheet left, but that should help you get to where you’re going.’
I read the back of the packet: Diazepam. I had seen it often enough in Caroline Quinn’s dressing room to know that it would do the trick. I had a moment of hesitation: could this sweet old lady be planning to drug me and sell me as a sex-slave? But LAX had insane security and, even if the woman was successful in spiriting me away, I had no doubt that Ziggy would hunt me down and rescue me, singlehandedly. Besides, I didn’t know how I’d survive the flight without medication. I pierced the foil packet and popped two tiny pills into my palm.
‘Now you might only want to take one …’
Her words fell away as I flicked the tablets into my mouth and slammed them down with a gulp of water. Oops.
‘Okay, well, they’re only 5 mg, so they won’t put you in a coma or anything.’
I almost spat my next mouthful of water into the back of the cranky man in front.
‘I hope not; been there, done that,’ I laughed.
The lady looked worried, possibly concerned that she had just aided a drug addict. I took in a deep breath and sat back in my chair, clasping my hands over my belly and closing my eyes as I willed the drugs to kick in.
Come on, you lit
tle white beasties swimming around in my belly, get to work.
And as the plane lifted off and no oxygen masks dropped from above, I smiled to myself, feeling quite at peace with the world. Long forgotten was the anxiety of leaving everything I had ever known. My family, my friends, my so-called dream job working with Scott-no-brains. I drifted off, my last murmured words slurred into my inflatable neck pillow.
‘Hooray for Hollywood.’
Chapter Four
For a brief moment, as the laser scanned my drugged, bloodshot eyeball, I wondered if the steely-faced man at customs would have me escorted to a tiny room. At least I had two pills left, not that I planned to use them anytime soon. If all went well, my next flight would be on a private jet to a remote Siberian landscape to play the love interest in the next Bond movie; hey, you have to have a dream.
I hadn’t even realised I was still wearing my neck pillow until I came to the counter to hand over my passport. I had simply followed the sea of people snaking its way through to the customs checkpoint, with, I can only assume, a serious case of bed hair and raccoon eyes; thank God nobody knew me here.
When arriving in Australian airports I made sure I looked fresh and sun-kissed, and wearing a light shift dress from a local designer, but there was no point here. Besides, if I had been at home the paparazzi would be dissecting me mercilessly, no matter how good I looked. Fortunately, customs let me through and I was once again swept up in the zig-zagging line of weary travellers on the way to claim their luggage; which, in my case, contained as much of my life as I could stuff into a suitcase.
I scanned the baggage carousel for my belongings, keeping an eye out for the red ribbon I had tied onto the handle. When I saw the same suitcase on its tenth rotation, the paranoia started to sink in.
They’ve lost my bag. They’ve lost my bloody bag.
Then, just to prove me wrong, my bag appeared, rolling around out of reach. I cursed under my breath, then ran after it, edging past bystanders, tripping, and dodging luggage until I lost sight of it completely. I stopped my scrambling and decided instead to move to a clear space right in front of the carousel, waiting for my bag to make its way around again.
Finally, it came into view; I was ready this time. Nothing was going to stop me from grabbing it, even if it meant I was dragged onto the belt and taken around for a joy ride. I yanked the fifty-kilo suitcase to the ground with a loud crack.
As I considered the potential damage, the support belt of my suitcase unclasped, snapping open like a broken rubber band. I clawed at it, desperately trying to edge myself away from the crowd. My suitcase felt like it was crumbling with each desperate drag. The zipper bulged and a corner piece of my case was left somewhere behind me. This was bad, really bad.
I finally made it to the ladies’ toilets, breathless, then rummaged around in my carry-on for my mini make-up bag. I planned to emerge from arrivals fresh-faced and lovely-smelling, with the fine people of LA none the wiser.
But as I stared at my smudged mascara and shaggy, blonde mop I had never been so glad to be anonymous. Back home, public toilet situations were a nightmare. If I never heard ‘Aren’t you Cassie Carmichael?’ again, I would be completely fine with that. It was why I had chosen LA as the city where I would further my career and escape the ghost of Cassie. The UK wasn’t really an option, with Ship to Sea having a cult-like following there. If I was going to reinvent myself, what better place than the city of angels in the land of opportunity.
I couldn’t wait to reunite with one of my dearest friends, Billie Martin. We had met on the set of Ship to Sea where she was the apprentice make-up artist. Now, after two years in Hollywood, she was living the dream, working for some big television network. She had made a good life for herself here, and now thought of LA as home – she’d even developed a slight American twang, which I relentlessly teased her about.
Now after a whirlwind two weeks of planning I was going to be able to tease her in person. I popped the top of my compact and checked my reflection, decidedly more at ease with my appearance now, and positively giddy knowing that my next destination was Billie’s arms, a reunion I sorely needed. Billie had not only offered me a bed, but inauguration into LA life that would no doubt have me wondering why I hadn’t taken the leap sooner.
The friends and acquaintances that had come and gone through the show seemed to take one of two main paths: LA or London. Thus, I had friends in both parts of the world, but more in the US, a group of people living the dream and hashtagging themselves as #LAfamily. I had watched on from the social media sidelines, envious of their sun-kissed skin, mirrored glasses and carefree lifestyles; an existence where the biggest concern seemed to be which club to hit next. Now I was here, and soon my two-hundred-thousand-odd Instagram followers would know it. I had already planned the first pic: it would involve a palm tree, it just had to. With a final after-travel facial spritz and one last hair scrunch I was on my way, rolling my beast of a suitcase to my new life.
Walking through international arrivals I knew I’d soon spot Billie’s bright auburn hair shining through the crowd, better than any beacon. Friends, lovers and business associates greeted each other, lingering in awkward spaces and causing me no small amount of difficulty as I shifted around them with my faulty roller bag. Despite the noise and the threat of my arm getting dislodged from my socket, I smiled widely, so happy that I was here. I continued to search the sea of faces, wondering where she could be. Was she late? Finding a park? Was there more than one arrivals gate?
I was about to approach airport security for assistance when something caused me to pause, my smile falling slowly from my face. I blinked, sure that I was hallucinating. Was this some weird Valium side-effect? There before me was a sign scrawled in black sharpie:
Cassie Carmichael
Was this a joke? Attached to the makeshift sign was a very hot, tall, dark stranger. Most definitely not Billie. I had envisioned my welcome to be filled with squeals and tears – that I’d be jumping around with Billie like a loon. But, all things considered, this guy was quite the welcoming party.
I took a moment to stare at the unsuspecting hottie, taking in his well-cut denim, white tee and shades. He casually chewed gum, which somehow made him look even more gorgeous. I usually hated the act, after years of waiting for Scott to park his gum before every kissing scene we had. But he made it look cool; a suave effortlessness radiated from him, even as he checked his watch.
It was that small action that snapped me out of my trance, just in time to save me from tripping over a small child in front of me. With every step towards him, my nerves increased.
He can’t be waiting for me.
Could he be a driver? Was this what taxi drivers looked like in LA? Christ. Oh God, what if he was actually waiting for a girl called Cassie Carmichael, and this was just some cruel joke that Fate was playing on me. The universe had pulled its fair share of pranks on me lately, and using a sex god to taunt me, bearing a sign with my character’s name, no less, was certainly a clever way to do it.
I lingered awkwardly in front of him, smiling nervously.
‘Hey, um, I’m Cassie Carmichael,’ I said, waving like a total dork.
His attention shifted to me, his dark sunglasses masking his eyes; was he glaring, surprised, cross-eyed? It was impossible to tell, but the set of his mouth made him seem so serious. He looked at me for a long moment, giving me the strangest urge to apologise, though I wasn’t sure what I should apologise for; I just felt so incredibly small under his inspection.
‘I mean, I’m not really Cassie, like, in the literal sense, but she’s kind of like a part of me in a way, like an alter ego, I guess, you know, having spent so long pretending to be someone, they’re like kind of a part of you, especially after so many years, it just feels natural to say, yep, I’m Cassie.’
Oh God. Stop. Talking.
I cleared my throat. ‘Hi, I’m Abby!’ I said, thrusting my hand out to him so forcefully that he reeled back a litt
le, his brows rising in surprise.
I had a moment of panic wondering if ‘shaking hands’ was not the go in America; had I been seriously uncool? Well, obviously, but was my attempt at a handshake making it worse?
Where was that sick bag? I suddenly felt very ill.
After another beat, the man lifted his shades, propping them on his shortly cropped hair to reveal intense, dark eyes, making me forget my name, real or fictional.
I would have stopped breathing in that moment, if an impossibly bright smile hadn’t formed across his face.
‘I’m Jay,’ he said, and I could tell he was laughing at me, not with me, as he took my hand and shook it. If I had felt small before, I felt completely tiny now, his hand engulfing mine in a firm handshake that I could still feel long after he let go.
A silence fell between us, and he flipped his shades back into place; apparently he was a man of few words.
‘Um, so Billie isn’t here?’ I asked, looking past him, half-expecting her to leap from behind a concrete pylon and yell, ‘Surprise!’ I wouldn’t have put it past her. Examining the scrawled black handwriting on the sign ‘Jay’ held, I knew that it was Billie’s handwriting; oh, she was sooooo funny.
Jay handed me the sign and reached for my bag. ‘No,’ he said, stating the obvious as he extended the handle of my suitcase, then paused to examine my baggage.
Oh fuck!
A giant pair of undies was spilling out of my busted suitcase – the bright yellow ones with ‘Bootylicious’ embossed on the back of them. This comfy weekend pair was not meant to be seen by anyone but me.
Oh, sweet Jesus, of all the pairs, why them?
I yanked, then yanked some more, literally tearing them free before dropping them at his feet, then stooping to pick them up. My cheeks burning, I shoved them into the deep, dark recess of my bag.
Yep, nothing to see here, folks.
‘Lead the way,’ I croaked, making an effort to not look up at the smirk I got a glance of before.
