‘I can’t believe this is your life now,’ Kitty said. ‘Whatever happened to little Cesca who spent her whole time in front of a typewriter? Look at you now, all glamorous and sought-after. I don’t know what to make of it, really.’
‘It’s not always like this,’ Cesca said. ‘It’s not as if we go around in limos every day with some guy in a black suit pushing us along. Most of the time it’s boring, we argue over who makes the coffee, I shout at him when he leaves his dirty boxers out. Last week he used up all the hot water and I didn’t talk to him for an hour.’
‘Well, that’s definitely a capital offence,’ Kitty agreed. ‘No girl should have to shower in cold water.’
The door opened and the security guard reached for Cesca’s hand. She turned to narrow her eyes at Kitty. ‘Were you trying to take my mind off things?’
‘It worked, didn’t it?’
It had, at least for a moment. But now that she was climbing out of the car and onto the pavement, reality hit her with full force. There were people shouting, calling her name, asking her where Sam was. She smiled at the cameras, letting the security guard’s soft hand on her back guide her forward. They walked past the hoardings on the side of the old building, posters depicting a scene from her play, with beautiful recommendations written by the usually harsh critics. She had to stare at them for a moment to really take them in.
This was her play. Hers. And it was finally being premiered.
‘Cesca, is it true you’re pregnant with Sam’s baby?’ somebody shouted as she posed in front of the posters.
‘Have you split up with him? Where is he?’
‘Does he still go like a jackhammer? Or was that just the Serena Sloane effect?’
Keep smiling, she told herself. Keep smiling and it will all be OK.
After answering a few questions about the play, Cesca found herself walking into the theatre foyer, where a welcoming committee of the staff were waiting. The manager, a man she’d got to know well in the time they’d been in rehearsals, came up and shook her hand vigorously.
‘Congratulations. We’re delighted for you.’
‘Thank you. Is everybody here?’ She looked around.
‘Everything’s fine. The cast are waiting for you backstage. Can I give you a glass of champagne to take with you?’ He gestured at one of the girls holding a silver tray of champagne flutes. She was dressed in a white blouse and black skirt, a more familiar uniform than the designer dress Cesca was wearing.
‘Thank you.’ Cesca took the glass even though she was too hyped up to drink it.
When she arrived backstage she was hit by the commotion. People were running everywhere, orders were being shouted out, a young assistant with a clipboard was counting down the minutes. Cesca took a moment to breathe it in, to absorb the excitement. As a young child sitting in her mother’s dressing room she had thought it romantic. Now it felt like so much more.
It was her lifeblood.
She pushed open the door for the dressing room, looking inside to see all the seats taken. The actors sat in front of their mirrors, adding final touches to their make-up, some whispering their first lines to their reflections. Each of them had their own ritual, honed through years of superstitious practice. Another part of this world that made it so unique.
&
nbsp; Then there was the leading man. A dark-haired guy making his theatre debut. He had his eyes closed, his lips moving softly as if he was repeating the words over and over again. Though his face was calm, his leg kept shaking, moving up and down in a rhythm of its own. Cesca squashed the urge to touch it, to curl her fingers around his thigh. He was getting in the zone, and she didn’t belong there.
Not yet.
‘Break a leg, everybody.’
A few of them looked over, waving to acknowledge her. But there was only one person she was looking at. Sam, turned around, his face still impassive but his eyes ablaze. A single look and he had the ability to turn her legs to jelly.
He wasn’t her Sam. Not right now. He was too deep in character for that. But when she was at the theatre she wasn’t his Cesca, either. Yet somehow they managed to make it work.
And when they got home, they were completely each other’s.
‘There’s some cards for you over there,’ one of the cast told her, pointing to the table in the corner filled with flowers and gifts. She walked over, picking up the envelopes with her name on them. She could take the bouquets later.
The first card was from the producer. The man who’d taken the risk to stage her show, in spite of her past history. She read his kind words then propped it on the table, sliding her finger beneath the flap of the next card.
The second was from Sam’s mum. Cesca couldn’t help but smile as she read her words. To the talented girl who has lit up my son’s life. Your mother would have been proud of you. Kisses, Mama Lucia.
In the time since Sam had walked back into her life, Cesca had come to know his mother and sisters well. Even when she was in London and he was in LA, they’d still invite her out to lunch, making her feel part of the family. Lucia had filled a void that Cesca hadn’t realised she had. A surrogate mother of sorts.