Page 12 of To All the Men I’ve Killed Before

‘Antoinette!’ I say. ‘That’s amazing. Do you think it could be him?’

She gives me a humble shrug. ‘I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘But he’s definitely worth checking out. He’s British and the clinic is new, according to the WeHo Local sub. It’s worth a shot.’

My heart accelerates in my chest.

‘For sure,’ I say. ‘What time?’

‘Midday,’ she says. ‘I know you’re not a morning person.’

See?

She knows me so well already.

Like only a sister could.

I’m about to ask for more details when we’re interrupted by a man staggering over to our table.

‘Excuse me, ladies.’

He’s older, probably mid-sixties, and looks like he’s been living the Hollywood lifestyle hard. His sandy-brown hair is very obviously thinning on top but he’s grown the back bits long and has them tied in a ponytail. His skin is tanned and craggy in the way that skin overexposed to the sun always is, leathery. God, why won’t people listen when they’re screamed at about sunscreen? He’s wearing a white billowy shirt that’s unbuttoned almost to his navel. His torso is covered in tribal tattoos, the kind that were super fashionable in the nineties but just look faded and sad now.

Quite a bit like their owner actually.

I recognise his face in a vague sort of way but I can’t think where from. He smiles down at us, one of his front teeth is gold and it glints under the fairy lights. The effect is creepy.

‘Can I help you?’ I say, not appreciating the intrusion.

‘I couldn’t help but notice you’re British,’ he says, or rather slurs, he’s definitely one Whiskey Sour away from the ER. Then he adds in an accent I guess is supposed to be British, ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’ He holds out his hand but, when neither Antoinette nor I make a move to shake it, runs it through his receding hairline as if that was what he’d intended all along. He leans against our table. ‘What brings you girls to the Chateau?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘but I’m actually trying to enjoy dinner with my sister.’ I catch Antoinette’s eye, expecting her to back me up but she’s staring at the stranger wide-eyed and open-mouthed. I’m clearly not going to get any support from her. I turn to the man again, hoping he’ll pick up on my social cue to fuck the hell off.

But he does not.

He continues to stare at me.

‘What are your names?’

Antoinette smiles sweetly at him. ‘I’m Kate,’ she says. ‘And this here is my sister. Pippa.’

He smiles and that horrible gold tooth flashes like a warning light. ‘I’m having a little party in my room tonight,’ he says. ‘Maybe the two of you would like to come along? It’s the penthouse. Just a little gathering to celebrate wrapping my movie.’

Then I realise where I recognise him from.

He’s Ron Wilde.

The Ron Wilde from tons of movies I watched when I was growing up. People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive several times in the late nineties. I peer at his face again. His fondness for alcohol and drugs has always been well documented. They should really use his current face if they want to put people off that kind of lifestyle though. With all the money in the world, he has not aged well. And, actually, I’m sure I saw an interview with him earlier this year where he was praising himself for now being sober. I surreptitiously sniff the air near him.

Sober.

What a joke.

He’s practically sweating booze.

‘No thank you,’ I say politely. ‘Now would you mind leaving us to our meals?’

He narrows his eyes at me and looks like he’s about to say something. But then changes his mind and saunters back to wherever he came from, muttering ‘suit yourself’ and spilling his drink.

Antoinette looks at me. ‘That was Ron Wilde,’ she says and I’m preparing myself for a lecture on how we should have accepted his party invitation because he’s one of the most famous men in the world, when she adds, ‘I fucking hate him.’