Besides, my life hurriedly resumed. We were, after all, in the middle of awards season, and the Oscar nomination had delivered a barrage of press conferences, fittings, parties, andtours. And it was that—the business, the distraction—that made me feel I might survive it all.
I followed Harper more obsessively than I ever had before, scouring every magazine and newspaper for any mention of her and even getting the British ones shipped over.
Her and Joel were arguing. She had been spotted crying with Kayla Alexander at lunch in Henley. She had gone to get coffee without even putting makeup on (a true cry for help).
But everything felt so distant, my fear slowly abating. So after a few days, I moved back home, half-convinced I might be able to leave it all behind and discard of our criminality like a poor film script or a turned-down part.
But Harper was the crime incarnate, and she came to my door only days later.
She had to wait for my front gate to open and allow her through, but she still managed to screech to a halt in my drive. Then she started screaming.
“You fucking bitch! You awful, meddling whore,” and the like.
I rushed to the door, glancing out at the singular photographer snapping away through my slowly closing gates.
“Harper,” I said calmly. “Do come in, let’s not cause a scene.”
She stormed through and slowed to her regular strut past the view of the camera lens. Her foundation was thicker than normal, covering the scratch that Joel had made. Calmly, she placed the leather handbag she carried on the table. “Your money, as requested.”
“Thank you.”
She turned to me then, and we faced each other, and I did not know what to say. For days I had wanted her, like my guilt and grief might be lessened by a reflection of it in her. But now that she was here it all felt too enormous to begin to get to.
“All according to the plan?” I finally asked.
She nodded quickly. “Had to delay the supposed argument given it didn’t hit headlines until the following day. Leaked a story about it to the papers too, pretended to be a dog walker who’d passed my house and overheard. Otherwise yes. Everything is cinders, including my marriage. I’m here because my husband abandoned me without even leaving a note. What a bastard.”
“Right.”
She was doing that thing again, where she rambled when nervous. Was it me or the situation? Or both? I was probably as synonymous to her of the events of that evening as she was to me.
“And … you?” she asked.
“All fine.”
She smiled. Of course she did. “You’re probably loving it, lording this over me.”
“Sure.”
“Go on, what is it you want? Some last-minute win before I snatch an Oscar from you? Shall I get on my knees and thank you profusely?”
I’d toyed with the idea a number of times, but right nowit made my stomach churn. The last thing I needed was her humiliation.
“No. I’m not that sadistic.”
She quirked a brow. “Well, someone had to push you into going to rehab. I didn’t imagine a gentle word or a scoldingget your shit togetherfrom me would have been persuasive. I tried bringing you food and getting your team’s attention, but in the end I had to rile you into getting help. It worked didn’t it?”
I scoffed—but something in my chest felt lighter at the turn. This was familiar ground. This bickering was a life raft to cling to. “You want me to believe you had my best interests at heart?”
“No, darling, mine. I saw you slipping away from me and, well, what am I without you?”
My jaw tensed. I couldn’t do this. Not again. “Didn’t stop you leaking the pictures,” I said, refusing to cave to her flippancy.
“Well, if I didn’t you wouldn’t have taken any of my threats seriously, would you? Besides, you’re the one who escalated all this.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was petty, surface level. You wanted guts.”
