Page 7 of Let’s Make a Scene

“This is very nice athleisure wear!” I protest.

“… they get a picture of you looking happy with an insanely handsome man,” she continues blithely, ignoring me. “One who has been carrying a torch for you, for thirteen years, because you’re so damn wonderful that he never got over you.”

“Hmmmm,” I murmur. “Yes, I do quite like that part.” I frown. “Except for the fact that it’s Jack. Why does it have to be Jack?” The words come out on a whine.

“Maybe he’s not so bad anymore,” Hannah says diplomatically. “Thirteen years is a long time.”

“Not long enough,” I mutter, staring down once more at the picture of him, at those crinkling blue eyes. My heart beats a little bit harder.

Because of hatred, I tell myself.

“There are some upsides you haven’t considered,” Hannah says.

“Like what?”

“The idea is to get the whole cast and crew back together, so that means working with one jerk you hate, but a lot of people you really, really love.”

I hadn’t even thought of that. Jack’s presence aside, making A Lady of Quality was one of the most fun and important experiences of my life.

“And,” Hannah says, leaning forward, eyes enormous, “the script is absolutely fucking brilliant. You’re going to be thanking your lucky stars they let you out of your Iron Maiden contract.”

“Really?” I sound dubious.

“It’s on there.” Hannah gestures to the tablet in my hand. “Read it and see for yourself. But, honestly, Cyn, Gayle isn’t just blowing smoke… This could be really good for you.”

“Fine, I’ll read it,” I say, “but I’m not making any promises.”

Hannah smirks. “I’ll make you another coffee.”

I curl up in the chair, arranging a cushion behind my back, and take one last, long look at the photo of Jack.

One thing is for certain: if Jack Turner-Jones is going to make a reappearance, my life is about to get even more complicated.

THEN THIRTEEN YEARS EARLIER

Chapter 3 CYNTHIE

I am not, not, not about to be late for my first ever table read. It cannot happen, I will not allow it. I sit, thrumming with anxiety at the top of the bus as it crawls along Piccadilly, stuck in an endless stream of traffic. It’s late summer and approximately a million degrees in central London. I run a clammy hand over the crumpled linen of my skirt. Hannah and I went through every single item in our combined wardrobes before settling on the pretty, floral-patterned skirt and black T-shirt. At the time, I thought the outfit struck a sort-of boho-artist feeling, but after the long, hot journey it looks more like I’m wearing an old dishrag. At least the black T-shirt should hide how sweaty I am.

I can also feel my hair expanding outward, the humidity creating havoc with my thick, not-quite-straight, not-quite-wavy locks. I close my eyes for a brief moment, wondering for the hundredth time what possessed me to have it all cut off.

Well, I know what possessed me—it was the misguided belief that I would look like Audrey Tautou: elfin, chic, French. I thought I’d be fricking Amélie, and people would describe me using words like gamine, before offering me elegant, skinny cigarettes, which I would then smoke without coughing while sharing my thoughts on existentialism.

(In this scenario I understood existentialism because of my haircut.)

Instead of this, my hair is an awkward frizzy triangle that is threatening to take over the whole world.

And the bus still isn’t moving.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I hesitate for another long moment and then reach up and press the bell. I’ll walk the rest of the way, and by walk, I mean run. It’s not too far. I’ve still got—I look at my watch, wince—seven minutes.

Flinging myself from the bus doors the second they open, I start sprinting down the road in what I hope is the right direction. I have the map that I printed out with directions clutched in my sweaty fist, and I gaze up at the improbably tall buildings, looking for a road name. Bloody London, with its bloody looming architecture and a million pedestrians striding confidently along like they know exactly where everything is.

By the time I reach the swanky hotel where the table read is happening, I am wheezing and my enormous hair is now also damp and sticking out in a variety of wild tufts around my face. But I’m here, I made it. With about five seconds to spare.

I’ve never fully appreciated the phrase “he looked down his nose at me” before, but that’s exactly what the man behind the reception desk does. I swipe at my sticky face and smile brightly.