Bliss (27 page)

“Someone had a good time last night,” said Wanda with a wink.

In a semitraumatized state, Sophia closed her eyes and let Wanda do her job uninterrupted. When it was done, Sophia examined her face. When she looked herself in her eyes, she could still see the hollowness. But when she examined her face as a whole, the foundation was a good disguise.

An intern arrived with her bag. Incredibly, nothing had been stolen. She started crying again. “Stop that!” said Wanda. “No crying until we wrap for the day. Then you can sob your heart out.”

Sophia squirreled off to her dressing room, with her bag. She paced the small room, and tried to piece the night together, getting as far as the girl on the chair, singing, lipstick smeared. Then she hit a memory wall. She scrolled through her phone for photos, or to see if any names and numbers were added to her contacts. Nothing. A text from Demi came in. “Where were you last night?”

Sophia started to call, but hung up before it rang. She replied, “At the studio, can't talk.
☺
”

Things were finally turning around for Demi. Sophia couldn't drag her down with this. Besides, if she breathed one word about it, especially to Demi, Sophia would completely lose it. She'd be hysterical; her makeup would be destroyed. Her composure, hanging on by a thread, would snap. That could
not
happen. It was the second day of shooting. She had to go out there and do her job. A personal unraveling was not blocked into the shoot schedule. She started panicking again, her insides writhing, terrified about breaking down with cameras and hundreds of eyes on her.

Scott would know what to do. He was an experienced actor, and might have advice. If she were sick, they'd give her the day off, right? She'd just say she was sick. She was, absolutely sickened by what she knew had happened, and more so by what she didn't know.

“Hey, Scott,” she said into her phone.

“Sophia Marcus from Vancouver! How the hell are you?”

“Not so hot.” Sophia quickly told him the whole story. “I'm supposed to do a scene comforting the victim of a sex crime today. I can't do it, Scott. I'll lose it. I'm going to tell Julie Chapman I'm not feeling well.”

“You can't call in sick to stardom, Sophia. Two hundred people are counting on you to go out there and say your lines. If you beg off, they'll think you're a prima donna who can't handle a hangover. My advice to you, which you must take, is to say
nothing
. Don't rock the boat. Don't obsess about last night. You got some action, that's all. Pretend it never happened, and move on.”

Another knock on the door. “Sophia? You're needed on set.”

She said, “I've got to go.”

An image flashed in her mind, the wheel of fortune turning and rolling right over her.
But I did my karmic duty
, she thought. It didn't protect her. She got crushed anyway. And now, she had to pretend that she was a functioning adult, a strong, beautiful woman who had her shit together.

You got this
, she told herself, not believing it for a minute.

 

18

so many pints

Leandra and Harris's seven-hour drive from Scotland to London turned into a seven-day tour of the English countryside. Harris was a doer, not much of a talker. Thankfully, he didn't ask her too-personal questions, like, “Do you have any siblings?” That one always made Leandra's shields go up. Apparently, Harris didn't care about her family or background. He was living in the moment. Leandra was curious about his background, but she didn't push it, taking all conversational cues from him.

The first day, they walked along Hadrian's Wall which had been built thousands of years ago to protect the Roman imperialists from the Scottish barbarian hordes. For Leandra, it was a pleasant stroll along a pile of ancient bricks. But Harris went berserk, saying the ruins inspired the Wall in
Game of Thrones
. He described how it must have looked way back when, the orderly Roman army with gold helmets and red tunics on one side, and blue-faced
Braveheart
maniacs in skins and rags on the other. His excitement was infectious, and Leandra got into it.

For lunch, they ate meat pies and drank pints of ale. So many pints. In their room at the inn, Harris was too drunk to raise his standard, as it were. They slept nestled together, Harris as the big spoon, and woke up in each other's arms.

In the morning, as Leandra hastily applied her makeup in bed next to a sleeping Harris, she decided that not screwing on the first date was a refreshing change. It gave them both a chance to get to know each other before lust took the reins of the relationship. But one day was enough to hold off.
We'll do it tonight
, she thought.

They spent the next day shopping and having tea with scones and clotted cream in the medieval village of Hexham, and dined at another inn, with more pies and pints. The whole town reminded her of the movie
P.S. I Love You
. Her real life was a romcom. In bed, Harris held her until she fell asleep, but he didn't grab her boobs or ass, not once. In the morning, Leandra wondered if he was gay (unlikely). He might not be attracted to her (absurd). Or, she realized with surprise and delight,
He must be falling in love
.

Their days unspooled like a silken ribbon. They headed south, with several detours and stops in the Lake District. It was like driving through the fluttering heart and quivering loins of every romance novel ever written. The purple mountains, the blue lakes, and the electric green valleys took Leandra's breath away.

Harris said, “If you didn't fall in love with this part of the world, your soul is dead.”

Leandra noted that he said, “fall in love
with
this part of the world,” as opposed to “fall in love
while in
this part of the world.” She agreed in both cases.

During their fourth night, they bedded down in the Beldsfield Hotel in Windermere. Leandra sat on his lap in front of their window, gazing dreamily at the deep blue of Windermere Lake. Harris kissed her for the first time. She was wearing khaki shorts and a T-shirt bought at a tourist shop called Scrambles in Hexham. She was not at the height of fashion with minimal makeup and hair in a ratty pony, but Leandra had never felt more beautiful in the reflected glory of the lake, the heather on the hills.

“That was nice,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Very,” he said.

Leandra's mind quieted, and she felt all artifice fade. She wasn't Charlie's wife, or Oliver's spiritual advisor. She was just a girl in a half-poly T-shirt, kissing a boy in a half-poly T-shirt. This was as close to honest as Leandra had been with a guy, maybe ever, and she basked in it.

When Harris's legs fell asleep, they moved from the armchair in the window to the downy, inviting bed piled with chintz-covered pillows. Harris explored her mouth and touched her body, but he didn't try to remove her clothes. Leandra strained against his hands, willing him to go further. Although they were falling in love with each other, Leandra needed assurance in words or deeds that he found her sexy. His gazing moonily at her over hurricane lamplight and plates of bangers and mash in pubs wasn't enough. She needed heat. Her past relationships were forged in fire. A man's passion fueled her confidence. Harris denied her that power. He held off out of respect, probably. But it was starting to irritate her.

On their fifth night, they stayed in Liverpool, birthplace of the Beatles, Harris's favorite band. They went in and out of nostalgia shops and saw a concert of a pseudo–Fab Four performing the classic hits. Harris was in fan-boy heaven. That night, in the four-star Malmaison Hotel, Harris finally touched her naked skin. He bathed her in the claw-footed tub and shampooed her hair. He wrapped her up in a soft, thick bathrobe, carried her to bed. Slowly, he untied the cord of the robe. She lay back on the bed, open to him.

He drank her in with his eyes and then thrilled her with his mouth, making her come so hard and so loud, she rattled the crystal chandelier.

He kept his clothes on the entire time.

Leandra started to wonder if he even
had
a penis.

On day six, they drove to Stratford-upon-Avon, the birthplace of some minor, lesser-known poet and playwright. They took a tour of historic places around town (“Shakespeare Ate Here!” “Shakespeare Shopped Here!” “Shakespeare Shagged Here!”), which Harris loved. But Leandra was edgy, confused, and beside herself with impatience. She hovered on the brink of not-fucking madness. Kissing was bliss. Harris going down on her had been a religious experience, not just because she screamed, “Oh, god! Oh, god!” But, if he didn't slip it in
tonight
, she would lose her freakin' mind.

After an interminable Royal Shakespeare Theater performance of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
(Leandra liked the fairies and the magic, but the she-loves-him-he-loves-her relationship jumble was just nonsense), they went up to their suite at the twee Tudor-style Arden Hotel. As soon as the door closed behind them, Harris ripped the dress off her back, and threw her on the bed. He removed his own clothes piece by piece, the whole time staring at parts of her body. Finally breathtakingly nude, Harris crawled across the bed to her. If he gave a second's thought to her pleasure, she had no idea. He took his, and in his thrall, Leandra lost herself—and had the first multiple orgasm of her life.

She was so proud of herself!

When it was over, they lulled in the feathery softness of their King Henry bed. Harris fed her bites of chocolate and sips of champagne. “To think,” he said, “we might have spent this week eating grass and sleeping on a cot.”

Shocking herself, Leandra burst into tears. Did that mean their time together was over? When they arrived in London tomorrow, would they go their separate ways? He must have understood why she was suddenly so upset, but he didn't put her out of her misery with reassurance. Instead, he stroked her hair, soothing her insecurities by touch. Just like every night, they fell asleep in each other's arms.

The drive to London was rough. The Jaguar started acting funny. It might not make it to the drop-off location on the East End, and Harris was cursing and pissed off about it. Leandra sat in the passenger seat, quietly terrified of what would happen when they got through the traffic and drove into the city proper.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“Kings Road,” she said over the lump in her throat.

Leandra's stuff was still at Oliver's town house. Harris hadn't said a word about his plans and Leandra felt like she couldn't ask. Their original agreement was to drive south to London together. They'd done that. Leandra hated not knowing what would happen next. Like the
Midsummer
lovers in the play last night, Leandra agonized over the answers to unasked questions. She couldn't reveal her feelings to Harris—that she loved him and would like to be surgically attached to his side—for fear that he'd reject her and destroy her one chance at real happiness. Plus, she was flat broke and Oliver, if he had any pride, wouldn't take her back now.

The Jag sputtered to a stop outside of Oliver's town house. Leandra turns to Harris, tears in her eyes, ready to say farewell. He said, “How long do you need? If I come back in two hours, will you be ready to go?”

“I'll be ready in one,” she said, and burst into tears
again
. Harris had to think she was a soggy female. “I'm usually an unfeeling shrew, I swear.”

“You thought we were over?”

“I didn't know.”

“I'm not letting you go,” he said. “But I do need you to hurry. I have to get rid of this shit car and take care of some business. We're flying to Los Angeles tonight, so when you pack your stuff, make an overnight bag for the flight.”

“Okay.” She only cried harder now, snot indelicately dribbling out of her nose.

“Two hours.”

She got out and watched him ride away. She waved idiotically on the street, and didn't care if Blinky and Spotty and Swanky happened to see her. Harris was her hero, her maestro, her lover, and her savior. Yes, he'd saved her from Holy Isle (there was an irony in there somehow). He had taken her to bliss, and tonight, he was taking her to Los Angeles, to his mansion in the San Fernando Valley. Maybe there was something to Sophia's crap about manifesting and vision boards. Leandra had acted like a Valley Girl for Oliver, and now she was going there.

She skipped up the steps of the town house, and rang the bell. Grimly the valet opened the door and said, “Grayson Manor.”

“It's me,” she said.

“Who is calling?”

“Leandra. From a week ago.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “You're back. I hoped we'd seen the last of you.”

Only in England was the help snottier than the people they served. “Just get out of the way,” she said, pushing past him, and heading up to her room to start packing. “I need you to carry my suitcases downstairs.”