i

You think he's maybe just a little too pleased with himself, standing there twirling the paddle between his fingers and looking at you as though he invented the appreciative stare, as though no man's eyes have ever traced the line of your jaw and dipped down your neck and then down further still.

You think he's maybe just a little too pretty.

ii

"You shouldn't have followed me," you say, and you actually mean it.

iii

He never actually understands how difficult ending things with Tom are. Like you were just doing it for fun. Like he's cornered the market on batting his eyes and marrying into British money so old it's stagnant. Stagnant and powerful. You're an actor - you are, goddammit - and you're not exactly the kind of person to take money lightly. He thinks that your priorities are completely different. Partly it's because you're a woman, and he can't take women seriously. You don't tell him this, of course, because you do love him, and he's no more sexist than every man behind every audition desk in the whole fucking city.

You wander around that obscene polished mansion in the country for the last time, and try not to be the mercenary little princess Tom's mother thinks you are. Partly out of a desire to be contrary. Mostly because it's a part you're going to have to outgrow.

iv

You call your mother, who asks if everything is all right. You bite the side of your hand and think about Chris' fine suits, his beautiful fucking eyes, his company car and his expensive haircut and suddenly you're horribly, sublimely certain that he will never care about you enough.

"Everything's fine," you say.

You're an actor.

v

"Nola," he says.

You hear the disaster in his voice.

You turn around anyway.