Page 119 of How To Plot a Payback

Now I know you were hoping for more time off, but they just wouldn’t budge. I did, however, manage to get you a couple more days, Lavender, and I hope you’ll find the little conciliation prize I was able to snag as something to ease things: Dressing Room 4A opened up, and it’s yours. Bigger space. Full remodel.

By the time I’ve finished reading, Sonya’s foot is tapping so madly she’s close to making a hole in the floor. When I look up, her face looks like it’s about to absolutely explode.

“Three more seasons!” Sonya cries, and in very un-Sonya-like behavior, she throws her arms around me.

“Yes.” I exhale. She squeezes like a python. I’m pretty sure one of my ribs is cracking.

“And the raise!” she cries in a frisson of excitement. “Can you believe it? Goodwin really took his time there.” She laughs, then pulls back to look at me, saying in a confessional tone, “I was actually beginning to panic.” Then lowers her voice further. “I was considering taking the interview at . . . Stephouse.”

As words flow from her in an adrenaline-driven barrage, I notice a bizarre feeling has overcome me (in addition to the other bizarre feelings I’ve had all morning).

I don’t feel thrilled.

No, if I had to nail it down, I’d say I actually feel numb. Which isn’t the right way to feel at all in the face of such news.

Three more years. That’ll take me into my thirties before I’m up for another contract renewal, or the chance to get out.

Get out.

Those aren’t the right words to say in this situation.

I should be elated. The room is crackling with electricity. Every single person around me is bursting with smiles. Jobs saved. Stress spared. Stability, nay, even raises given.

And one can’t forget: a new dressing room.

“Lavie, you okay?” Sonya says. Her flow of words abruptly stops, her eyes zigzagging as she scans my face. “Hang on. Are you seriously not thrilled?”

I take a breath. The swell of bustling bodies crowds me. The hopes and dreams of others sit on my chest. I push the claustrophobic feelings aside.

I will not think about the contract.

I will not think about the number of years I am going to remain in this exact spot, playing Ashley Krane, dancing around the same problems, playing with the same lines.

I will not think about the missed weddings, birthdays, retirement parties, and funerals. I will not think about Thursday nights when Mum slides herself in front of the telly to watch Doc Martin or wonder when I’ll next see Dad poring over his petunias.

What I will do in this exact moment is exactly what I do for a living. Act. Lie. And if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that I can lie flawlessly.

I let my eyes crinkle at the corners, feel the muscles from my cheeks to my chest tighten in a manipulated burst of projected energy. Excitement. My smile brightens. Wide. I take a little anticipatory breath, and when I speak it’s in a breathless, I-can’t-believe-this-incredible-news-and-will-be-celebrating-for-days rush. “This is amazing.”

“I know—12.9 percent!” Her nails press into my palms. She’s so overjoyed, she doesn’t even notice. “The ratings must be through the roof.”

I shake my head, eyes twinkling from the inside out. “It’s all . . . just absolutely . . . perfect.”

Chapter 24

Finn

Thursday, Rehearsals, Stage 2

She’s lying.

Lying through her teeth.

While Sonya parades around the room, uncharacteristically hugging everyone in sight, Lavender trails along.

The set has transformed into a party. All thoughts of work have been thrust aside. The writers have begun brainstorming ways to mark the occasion, clamoring for the biggest and best idea until words like flights and air balloons and even group tattoos (with the curlicue Neighbors logo) all become mainstream.

Everyone is over the moon about the new reality: this contract is going to propel Neighbors onto the list of longest-running live-action sitcoms in US history.