“A comedy of errors, as I understood it,” Ian said, taking the damp washcloth from Amelia and instructing her to bring a bottle of scotch, three glasses of ice, and a sandwich for Sara.
“Comedy would not be my choice of the word, but I suppose it will do as well as any,” Alex responded, lowering himself stiffly into the chair, and placing his hands on his knees.
“Yes, we all know that part of the story,” Sara said, hurrying him along. The days following Alex’s departure for Frankfurt were a sad and dark memory and she wasn’t certain that she wished to revisit them.
“I had been rushed to Frankfort to attend meetings and once I arrived, I was bombarded day and night by the press, agents, producers, all with their own agendas and emergencies. I know now that this sounds like a poor excuse for my lack of communication, but I was literally pressed to the wall,” he continued.
To his credit, Ian nodded in sympathy. “Actors who are able to sustain a handsome box office become no more than a product to those people - a very profitable product. Not much else matters to them, I’ve discovered.”
“When I was at last able to tear myself away, board a plane and return to London, I wasn’t aware of the time that had passed. I only looked forward to being with you.” His eyes bore into Sara’s, pleading for her to believe his words.
“Go on,” Ian said, encouraging him with a gentler tone.
Alex nodded in appreciation.
“When I discovered that you had left, I was in shock. I just wouldn’t believe it.” His face showed the strain of the memory. “Days later when I had to leave for Switzerland to continue filming Beekeeper, the realization was dawning on me that perhaps I had lost you. Until then, I was quite convinced that it would be sorted - The agency would locate you, or I would discover an address or phone number, or you would simply walk through the door with a bag full of groceries or a box of muffins from the bakery, as you had in the past, with that daft smile on your face, and another cheerful tale to tell of a conversation you had struck up with some crazy person as you were waiting in the queue at the market.”
The corner of Sara’s mouth turned up at his description of her past shopping forays. Seeing this, the tension in his face relaxed a tiny bit.
“But of course that didn’t happen, and I found myself once again on the set in Switzerland, as if some cosmic force was trying to convince me that our six weeks together had never even happened.” He rubbed his face with both hands, as though trying to block out the memory.
“I had terrible nightmares for weeks; I dreamt I was looking for you under water, my legs tangled in seaweed. No matter how hard I churned my arms, I couldn’t go forward. I’d hold my breath for as long as possible, and then awaken with my chest aching from the strain.”
“Yes, I recognize that dream.” She rubbed her arm where goose bumps prickled her skin.
“It was bloody awful,” he nodded, accepting the glass of scotch that Ian handed him with a grateful expression, and taking a large swallow of the amber liquid. He paused, allowing the alcohol to flow through his veins and calm his nerves a bit.
“When I first arrived at the shoot,” he continued, “I noticed the new jumpers and shirts that you had purchased for me and packed into my suitcase. I clung to them with an obsession. I wouldn’t wear anything else whenever I was out of costume.” He pulled at the sleeve of the shirt he wore under his jacket, as though wanting to present further proof.
Sara closed her eyes as her memory drifted back to the blue, and burgundy sweaters and shirts she had painstakingly folded and placed in his luggage, thinking that he might need a few more warm items while on location in the icy mountains of Switzerland.
“I think that is what started my friendship with Sophia,” he sighed.
“What? The clothes I bought for you?” Sara opened her eyes as she felt a sharp stab in her heart at the sound of the woman’s name.
“Yes. I hadn’t socialized with anyone on the set since our return to Switzerland. I was much too occupied with my dilemma, gnawing on it every waking minute, like a dog on a bone. My fellow actors were concerned, and had all probed and prodded, but I wasn’t the least bit interested.” He swirled the ice in his glass, staring meditatively into the golden liquid, as if wanting to forestall the rest of the story.
“A couple of months into the shoot, one of the producers brought his daughter onto the set and I was, how shall I put it… politically obligated to join them for dinner. Apparently she was fresh out of a rather painful divorce, and the old man was eager to distract her.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve been to a few of those myself,” Ian interjected. “Keep the money men happy.”
“I was wearing the blue sweater under my jacket, and she commented on it - said that it was ‘very attractive’,” he said with some question in his voice. “Wait, no. ‘Very becoming’, were her exact words.”
Sara folded her arms over her chest and avoided his eyes, sincerely wishing to dodge this part of his story, dreading what might come next.
“And,” he went on, “because I had swilled several glasses of wine at that point in the evening, I told her about you. Not a great deal, but enough. I told her that the sweater was a gift from the woman I loved who was now no longer in my life. As I remember it, I was quite drunk and maudlin, so heaven’s knows why she took an interest in me, but apparently she did.”
“Like a bee to a flower, I imagine,” Ian said with a quick, small grin. “Women can’t resist a man who appears to be broken.”
“Very funny,” Sara said, shooting him a withering look. “But you’re right. Some women are drawn to that.”
Or just looking for a vulnerable target, she thought to herself, deciding at once that it was the latter that had appealed to the faceless Sophia.
“She came to the set often after that, and always stopped to inquire how I was getting on. She asked me a great deal about you, and since you were the only thing in the world that I wanted to talk or think about, I suppose I looked forward to our conversations.”
“Let me guess,” Ian looked up at the ceiling, blinking his eyes. “She was very understanding and sympathetic.”
“Yes,” he nodded. “Over the months I found myself spending more and more time with her because she never tired of my stories of Sara and our time together.”
Sara pinched herself hard to avoid the overwhelming desire to roll her eyes.
“And that’s when the affair started?” Ian asked, now eyeing him with the intent stare of a prosecuting attorney.
“Not then, no, and it was never an affair. I thought that we were just meeting as friends for a lunch or a dinner. Usually it would start out with a group of people, but somehow toward the end of the evening, we would end up alone together. I didn’t see her for several months after we had finished that production, but last month when we started the final film in the Beekeeper series, she returned to the set as an assistant producer.” He took another swig of the scotch. “And we resumed a friendly and pleasant relationship.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a romance, least not one that would lead to an engagement.” Ian spoke the words that Sara herself was thinking.
“It never was. I think the misunderstanding was due to Sophia’s Italian heritage. There is always a great deal of hugging and kissing amongst her entire family, her father included. I sometimes duck around a corner when I see him coming onto the set because I know the moment he spots me, he will plant a big wet kiss on my cheek, and frankly… “
“Yes. Despite your Irish background, you were raised and schooled in England. You would rather wear a treacle pudding on your head than be seen snogging in public,” Ian snickered.
“Quite,” Alex said smiling at the joke, even though it was at his expense.
“So let me get this right,” Sara said, finding little humor herself in the gist of this conversation. “She complimented you on your sweater, shared a few meals with you, kissed you on the cheek coming and going, and now you’re eng
aged?”
“To be honest, that’s quite close to the truth.” Alex shrugged miserably, realizing how farfetched his explanation must sound to his jury of two.
“But to be fair to her,” he added sheepishly, “there was some kissing involved, but it was always after a great deal of wine. In my drunken state, I would imagine that I was kissing you, and I would wake up in the morning and feel terrible for using her that way.”
Sara’s face blanched white as a monstrous wave of jealousy rose in her stomach, threatening to kick out the bite of the sandwich she had just swallowed.
Ian raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Didn’t she realize that she had been used when she saw your face in the morning? Women are pretty savvy when it comes to that. I’m ashamed to admit that I know this from experience, although I was much younger in those days.”
“Saw my face?” Alex had a perplexed look. “Oh, no, wait, we didn’t… “ he sputtered, his neck reddening. “No, I didn’t use her in that way.”
“What, no sex? Oh, pull the other one, man.” Ian crunched his ice cube, his eyes narrowed.
“No, it’s the truth, I swear!” Alex brought his hand down on his knee with a resounding slap. “That is why I’m inclined to think that it must be a misunderstanding that can easily be sorted as soon as I speak with her.”
“Just exactly how did this ‘engagement’ come about then?” Sara asked, still curious despite the immense feeling of relief that flooded her belly and flushed her cheeks.
“Yes, well, right before I left for the SIM awards, she insisted on lunch, wanting to tell me about a wedding she had attended over the weekend. The wedding meal had included lobster and she asked me whether I thought it appropriate to serve a crayfish at such an occasion. I said that I quite liked lobster and that I thought I would have no qualms about serving it at a wedding.”
He held out his hands, as if trying to hold the problem in his palms to better manage it.
Sara and Ian glanced at each other, sharing twin expressions of confusion.
“I’m absolutely certain that is the way I worded it, because for days following, I went over and over that moment in my mind.”
“You’ve lost me,” Ian frowned.
“Just wait,” he continued. “After I gave my opinion on the lobster, Sophia threw her arms around my neck and started to sob. I was gob smacked. I didn’t know what I had done.” He stood up to pace the floor, the consummate actor, anxious to express his story.
“I asked her why she was crying, and she told me that her tears were of joy - that she was in love with me and had been hoping that I felt the same way, but never dreaming that I would propose marriage.”
His jury eyed him with duel incredulous expressions.
“Apparently, when I said I had no qualms about serving lobster at a wedding, she took me to mean at our wedding. And suddenly she was crying and kissing me and telling me how very happy she was.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his flushed face. “Then before I could explain, a few friends came in the restaurant and joined us.”
“And let me guess; she immediately shared her wonderful news with them.” Ian stood and raised his glass to Alex. “Congratulations, old man. I think you had better order the bibs.”
“Bibs?”
“For the lobster,” he grinned. “You’ve been hoodwinked.”
“No, I don’t believe so,” Alex said, shaking his head. “She’s very sincere, a lovely person. Her English isn’t the greatest and neither is my Italian, but slightly better. So perhaps in the translation of my sentence to her native tongue, it truly did sound like a proposal. But I’m certain that once I explain it to her, she will see that it was just a misunderstanding. I was going to call her the following night to do just that, but it was the night of the SIM awards, and I just haven’t been able to concentrate on anything else but speaking to Sara.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Fleming.” Amelia said in a voice barely above a whisper, just having entered the room. “I think maybe Mr. Ian is right.” She flushed a bright, red shade over her already dark skin tone.
Alex looked at her, confusion in his face.
“Thank you for your vote of confidence, Amelia,” Ian reprimanded her gently, “but this is really a private matter.”
“Oh, no. Not anymore. I show you,” she spoke confidently, disappearing around the corner and returning in seconds with a magazine in her hand. She licked her thumb and ruffled through the pages, stopping with a knowing nod. “Oh, yes. Look, Mr. Ian.”
Ian’s nose wrinkled in disgust as he reached for the rumpled tabloid, then gave a low whistle.
“What?” Sara and Alex spoke at the same time.
Ian coughed and read: “Sources tell us that there will soon be wedding bells for one of London’s major stage and screen stars. Alex Fleming and Sophia Scala have announced their engagement to close friends. No date has yet been set for the nuptials.”
Holding up the article for all to see, a rather large and somewhat dated photo of Alex filled a quarter of the page. A small insert showed a smiling Sophia, hair brushed back into a ponytail and sporting white sunglasses.
“Fuck,” Alex groaned and dropped his head.
“Bibs, old man,” Ian repeated, but this time even he didn’t smile at the joke.
“Sara, I’d like you to come to London,” He took her hands in his. “I have to return to the set in Switzerland tonight – I’m already a day overdue, but I really want you to go home… to our home.”
“I don’t know, Alex. I do believe you. Who could make up a story like that?” Her dimples twinkled in her cheeks. “But until it is cleared up between you and your… between you and Sophia, I just don’t feel right about moving in.”
“Of course, you know that you can stay here, Sara,” Ian interrupted. “Might be the best idea, all things considered.”
“No offense intended, Donnelly, but I would rather be eaten by wolves,” Alex said with a dark glare.
“Well, so much for brotherhood,” Ian answered, his expression droll, “but I think Sara should be the one to decide.”
She clenched her fists and glared at them both.“Either way, you two will have to call a truce. I love you both, but more importantly, I need you both right now, and I refuse to choose one of you over the other. Alex, you saved my life and became my life. Ian, you’ve been my closest friend this entire year. If you really want to tear me apart, just try and make me choose.”
Alex’s shoulders sagged. “You’re right.” He swallowed hard, a look of pleading on his face. “If and when you are ready, Sara, come back to me.” His voice broke as he turned to the door.
Her eyes met Ian’s.
“Go, go,” he smiled, holding up his hands. “He’s not acting. No actor worth his salt would give such a schmaltzy performance. Even Fleming.”
Sara aired out the guest bedroom and put away her things, remembering the night of the power outages that had started their rather unconventional relationship. The weather was springtime gorgeous, and she had no fears of freezing, but she felt that it was a better idea to have her own room, at least until matters were settled.
Myrtle had greeted her with relief and happiness, having agonized over her inability to give her boss any clues or answers about Sara’s whereabouts. She had watched him grieving in silence and depression for an entire year, and the guilt had never left her. Sara’s return had brought lightness back to her step, and they had formed an easy and pleasant friendship.
“Myrtle, would you teach me the recipe for your steak and kidney pie? It’s the one thing that I was unable to make for Alex, and I think that it would make him very happy.” Sara smiled at the busty woman, as they shared their coffee in the warm and cozy kitchen.
Myrtle blinked, confusion written on her face. “Steak and kidney pie? Oh, miss, I don’t think so. The mister hates it. Won’t touch it. Doesn’t even like the smell of it cooking, as I discovered when I first came to work for him. In fact, on his gr
umpier days, I have threatened to bake one and make him eat it, just to coax a smile onto his face.”
“Why, that old fibber.” Sara laughed, thinking of all the times that Alex had fooled her, claiming that she would be nearly perfect, if only she could produce that particular dish.
“But I’ll tell you one thing that he is very fond of,” Myrtle chortled, tapping her finger on the kitchen table. “Cornish pasties. If you’d like, we can make up a batch of them today. Mr. Stuart likes them as well, and Bridget just doesn’t have the knack of baking them. We could surprise him with a tin full when he comes by for his daily biscuits.”
The rivalry between Myrtle and Bridget had been going on for some time, and Sara had to smile to herself on those days when Stuart popped in for tea and she noticed Myrtle’s glowing face whenever he reached for another one of her freshly baked goods.
“Pasties, it is, then. I have no idea what they are, let alone how to make one; but I’m game.”
Soon they were both elbow deep in flour and dough, so absorbed in talking and laughing over the wide kitchen counter that they barely heard the doorbell ring.
“I left the gate unlocked for Stuart, but he never rings the doorbell.” Sara shrugged, wondering who would be calling, as everyone knew that Alex was out of the country.
“I’ll get it,” Myrtle said, her fingers covered with the gooey paste.
“No, my turn. You keep kneading. At least my face can still be recognized.” She laughed, looking at Myrtle’s cheeks, covered with white powder. She hastily wiped off her hands, and skipped down the hallway, curious to greet the unknown visitor.
“Hello?” she said, opening the door, a faint cloud of flour landing onto her nose as a gust of breeze lifted her hair.
The woman standing in the doorway was elegantly dressed and a far cry from the girl who stood before her, covered in white dust, a large denim apron strapped to her waist.
“May I help you?” Sara asked, wiping her cheek, managing only to create a starchy streak on her chin with her efforts.
“I am looking for… Sara,” the cultivated voice spoke with a musical lilt.
Don't Tell the Moon Page 14
