Part Two
Seven Years After London
And then he looked me up . . .
28
Pretending to Be Wicked
Jude
I can’t possibly keep all these books in my little flat in Bloomsbury. But I can damn well try.
My brother has other plans. Heath hunts through my shelves, grabbing friend after friend. “Seriously, do you truly need this copy of a Rhys Locke book you’ve read fifty times and also own in e-book?” He grabs the delicious mystery of the stolen sapphires.
“That’s my comfort read. I do too need it,” I point out, then grab the pristine paperback, wrench it away from him. I hold it close, precious thing that it is.
Heath shakes his head and grumbles. “I’m gifting these to the library. Rhys Locke is popular, and you’re obsessed with keeping his books in perfect condition. Ergo, they’ll make a lovely donation. So will most of these.”
I sink onto the couch, flinging a hand over my eyes. “Just take all my darlings. I can’t even look.”
“Excellent.” He chuckles without remorse, then riffles through some of my absolute favorites.
“You can’t possibly need three copies of The Importance of Being Earnest. Plus, don’t you have it memorized? You played Jack Worthing once.”
True, but that’s not why I love that play. “I like Oscar Wilde. A lot.”
“Understandable. But you don’t need this in triplicate.” Heath crooks his finger on another copy, the one with a man in a suit on the cover.
“That one is fine to donate,” I say, watching his every move.
He reaches for the edition with the two men in top hats. I shake my head vehemently. “Take the red and white one instead.”
I grab the book with the top hats. “I’m keeping this one.”
Forever.
If someone wanted to take it, they’d have to pry it from me in my grave, and I’d fucking haunt them for the rest of time.
Heath lifts a very brotherly eyebrow. In that arch, he asks a silent question. Why is this one so special? Then he makes a guess. “Did Arlo give this to you?”
I shudder, like a wave of nausea rolls through me. “No. Arlo did not give me books.”
“Reason number seventy-eight why he’s an ex,” Heath says drily.
“Please. There are easily more than one hundred reasons why he’s history,” I say.
But really, a few big ones. The bastard of an ex-boyfriend used me to get my agent and then slept with him.
Harry was very nearly headless when I found out. Arlo too. But that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it was how I handled the two years that followed.
I don’t even like to think about what went down then.
Heath waves the book at me. “Then is this edition the one you used when you performed it in uni?”
“No. Someone gave that to me,” I say quickly, darting up to reach for the copy I’ve kept with me for seven years. TJ gave it to me on his last night, told me to read it now and then, that he’d underlined his favorite passages just for me. That book had lived on my shelves in that Waterloo flat for two years with Sir Boring, then a place in Bankside when I roomed with William and Olivia since she finally moved into the city when she became the queen of voiceover work. And now, the book has its home here with me.
When I flop back onto the sofa, I flip to the page my long-ago American lover read to me in bed years ago. I hope you have not been leading a double life, pretending to be wicked and being good all the time. That would be hypocrisy.
Then, the words he whispered to me next. Always be wicked, Jude.
Running my finger over the line, questions race through my head as they have many times before.
What is he up to now? The occasional glance at his social media reveals only the basics—he still worships at the altar of caffeine and seeks out new music like it’s a religion. But does he still despise rubber ducks on shower curtains and write his romances mostly in coffee shops, like he did when he was here?
Then comes the question that always jostles its way to the front of my mind.
Is he single? Or has he met someone new to whisper Oscar Wilde to? I asked Google about TJ a year ago, and the tight-lipped search engine didn’t say a word about his relationship status.
Heath breaks my trip back in time with an amused glance. “What’s that smirk for? A line you loved saying under the spotlight?”
Good thing I’m trained at feigning emotions. “Just thinking of all things wicked,” I say since that’s true enough. Then I tuck the copy safely back on the shelf and nod to the door. “I need to take off for curtain. And you need to drop my darlings at the library. Give them a good home. I insist.”
He smiles. “I will.”
We leave, and after I say goodbye to my brother out in front of my building, I head to the Garrick Theatre, an intimate West End playhouse. For the next two and a half hours, I perform Pillow Talk to a packed house, bow at the end, then search for a familiar face in the crowd and blow a kiss when I spot her.
After I change out of costume, I meet up with Helen outside the theater.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, then kiss her on the cheek.
“As if I’d miss it,” she says, then swats my shoulder. “I can’t believe you made me cry.”
I give a devilish smile. “Nothing makes me happier than audience tears or cheers.”
“Well, you earned both. Thank you for inviting me.”
“Thank you for coming. It means so much.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “You’ve always been so good to my store over the years. Before it was my store,” she says, since Helen bought the shop when Angie retired several months ago. “I mean, you sent that scrummy American to me all those years ago. Did you know he still shops here? He’s one of my best customers.”
I startle, my spine straightening. What in the bloody hell? “He’s in London?” TJ’s in my city, and he didn’t look me up? The rat bastard. “Does he have a boyfriend now?”
Helen chuckles, shaking her head. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. He shops online. I sent him button-ups to New York, including a shirt with dinosaurs he wanted for a recent press appearance. And God no, he doesn’t have a boyfriend. You didn’t hear?”
This I have to know. “Hear what?”
When she tells me, I race home, curiosity fueling my every step.
It’s one thing to delete someone’s number. It’s another thing to resist the impulse to follow his career.
After my initial year-long TJ detox, I gave in to my natural curiosity. Looked him up online from time to time. Smiled at his pen name, then filed away a memory.
But now this nugget from Helen?
And on the very same day I re-read one of his notes to me? I’ve always believed in signs, and this feels like a big one.
My skin prickles with possibility as I head up the steps to my flat, unlock my door, toss the keys on the table.
The second the door closes, I plug the American’s name into Google, and the search engine serves me the Wikipedia details I already know. As a bestselling romance novelist, he’s written ten books published in the last five years, including Yes Man, Mister Benefits, Happy Trail, and The Size Principle.
Ah, but this next detail is news to me—both the book and the reception.
With a falling-for-his-best-friend’s-brother storyline, the author’s newest release, Top-Notch Boyfriend, became an instant bestseller.
I click on the second search result—a YouTube video from Trish’s Morning News Show. It’s a segment from last week titled New York Power Couples.
A pang of jealousy zips through me, but I quash it because the subtitle is Ouch, that’s gotta hurt.
I brace myself as I hit play.
The camera pans in on my one-time roommate-turned lover. TJ’s lounging on a red couch under studio lights, looking incredible in trim burgundy trousers, and a black shirt with a tiny dinosaur design on it.
Too bad he’s seated next to a fellow with a man bun, who looks like he’s swallowed an egg. I hate him on principle.
The camera swings to the host, a woman with a blonde bob, of course, since that’s the required haircut for hosts. “I’m here with one of the city’s newest power couples—the bestselling novelist and the rising star chef. Flynn, your new pop-up rotisserie chicken café boasts lines around the block. And your beau’s breakout book is the toast of the book world, having become a number-one bestseller in the first week of its release. Now, let’s be honest. Did Flynn inspire this new romance, TJ?”
TJ dips his face, a little embarrassed, but smiling too as he reaches for Flynn’s hand. I burn a little seeing that, even though I know what’s coming.
“I never kiss and tell,” TJ says, and my God, that’s such a TJ answer. Then he winks at the host and whispers, “the good parts.”
Cheeky fucker.
Trish turns to the long haired man. “Flynn, how does it feel to know that you’re the muse behind the book that’s been dubbed the it love story of the year? Bet you gained a few thousand new follows from that. Am I right?” she asks with a knowing nod and a smile to the audience.
“Well, I thought it was great,” Flynn says, but he pulls his hand away from TJ to adjust his own shirt, but his shirt didn’t need adjusting.
Oh hell. It’s like watching a car crash in slow-motion.
But Trish doesn’t seem to pick up on the hand cues. She simply waggles the red paperback around. “Personally, my favorite part in the story is when the hero says, ‘After all these years, do you have any idea what it’s like to fall madly in love with the one guy you thought you couldn’t have? It’s awful and wonderful at the same time. But that’s what love is—awful and wonderful.’” She clutches her chest. “Flynn, did you love that part when you first read it?”
“When I first read it, I did think it was great,” Flynn begins, then pauses, his brow knitting. He’s quiet, and there’s nothing worse on live TV than silence.
“And now it must be incredible. What with the book topping bestseller lists and helping bring those huge new crowds to your café?” Trish prompts.
More silence.
TJ sits up straighter, fear flickering in his brown eyes, awareness registering.
Oh, shit.
Flynn looks down, grabs the mic from his shirt, tugs at it, irritated. “Now, it’s just awful. I’ve been turned into a laughingstock—a circus sideshow. I only want to make the chicken, cook for people, and get great reviews. But that hardly matters anymore. I’m just some novelist’s trophy boyfriend.” He turns to TJ. “It’s all been about you—your coffee shop writing and your punny titles that you ask my advice on. But you can’t do that anymore—because we are over.”
Flynn storms off the set on live TV, but the camera doesn’t leave TJ. His gorgeous eyes are etched with utter shock. He mouths what, and I fill in the rest—what the hell just happened to me? I feel his pain in the way my chest clutches, my stomach curls, and I wish I could kiss it away.
Dumped on TV by a wanker who’s trying to get press for a chicken café?
And I thought the shit Arlo did was bad.
This is infinitely worse.
During the performance of Pillow Talk the next night, I pour those heartbreaking emotions TJ must have felt into my performance. The audience gives me a standing ovation.
I relish every second of their cheers. Especially since I know what it’s like to hear silence. To wander past theaters and wish I were part of the cast. To flip through channels and long for opportunities to leave it all on stage.
A few days later, the director gathers us backstage. “Good news. We had some American producers at our Sunday night show. Later this month, they’re taking Pillow Talk to Los Angeles for a limited run with the original London cast.”
I freeze, letting the enormity of the news sink in. That’s almost too good to be true. “Are you serious?” I ask.
“Completely,” the director says, filling me with the hope of breaking out of this plateau where I’ve been the past few years. This is my chance to finally reach the next level.
My castmates and I cheer, then indulge in a long group hug. I’m the last to let go. As the director shares more details, I feel all fizzy inside.
I’ve never been to the States. I haven’t had the chance to court the star-makers in Hollywood yet, having only now and then nabbed small parts in American flicks shot in England.
Something else appeals to me about America. Sure, Los Angeles isn’t close to New York, but it’s a whole lot closer than London is, especially when you’re both single and made a deal on a bridge seven years ago.