“Listen to them. They’re cheering for her, all for her. You always knew,” Eve told him.
“I knew she could perform,” Roarke said. “And I knew we’d do well enough when I signed her. But I’ll admit she exceeded expectations.” He turned, brushed his lips to hers. “Need another nap?”
“I guess that woke me up. Shit. Here’s to Mavis freaking Freestone.”
Roarke clinked glasses. “I believe we should switch to champagne.”
“Why the hell not?”
He got up for a bottle, for flutes. Popped it. He poured, then settled back in again. “I’m going to think more seriously about putting in that home theater.”
“This is nice.”
“It’s very nice, but so would that be. Dear Christ.” He sat up, gulped champagne after absently eating some of the popcorn. “Why the bloody hell do I do that? Every bleeding time.”
“I don’t know what your problem is. It’s delicious. But more for me.” She ate a handful.
“You’d eat cardboard if it was covered in butter and salt.”
“Corn’s better.”
“That corn? Marginally. Ah, Nadine’s category’s in the next segment.”
“It is?”
“Best adapted screenplay.”
“Right. I wish it was over with. What are her odds?”
“According to the buzz, it’s mixed. Stiff competition in both writing categories.”
“Both?”
“Original, and adaptation,” Roarke explained, and caught himself before he reached for more popcorn. “She’s adaptation—screenplay based on her book.”
“Got it. Still wish it was over. Getting this far’s a big, right?”
“A very big. Here come the presenters. There are six in her category nominated.”
“How do they . . . Shit, they said her name. There she is. Mavis is back, that’s good. And she’s got everybody else right there, so . . .”
She narrowed her eyes, studying Nadine as the other nominees came on in adjoining squares. Looks calm, Eve thought, but she’s not.
Get it over with. Why don’t they stop talking and get it—
“And the Oscar goes to, Nadine Furst, The Icove Agenda.”
“Holy shit. Jesus, she won? She won?”
“This is a moment,” Roarke exclaimed.
Eve watched, dumbstruck as Jake planted a big one on Nadine, as Mavis bounced and squealed, as Peabody actually jumped up to dance.
And Nadine, elegant and sleek—hands shaking some—walked to the stage, climbed the stairs. Hugged two people she probably didn’t know. Clutched the gold statue.
“Oh,” she managed. “God. I’m just . . . I wrote something in case—and I left it in my purse. So here goes.”
“She’s crying a little,” Eve noted. Nadine was thanking the Academy, the cast, the crew, the director, her friends. “And talking really fast.”