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“What’s your fault?”
I cringe. “Last night, I, um… drunkenly told Hugo to follow his heart, and I think he might have followed it a long way from Sussex,” I blurt in a rush.
Hazel’s jaw drops. “What?!” she cries, her voice rising.
I wince—and not just because the volume splits my poor hungover skull apart. “I know! I am so, so sorry! I was just venting! And drunk! When I said to choose love, and hold on tight no matter what… I didn’t meannow.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
A bellow from behind us alerts me to Reeve’s arrival. I turn and find him standing there, pale faced and frozen at the news.
“Again, I am SO sorry,” I blurt. “It was the tequila talking! And heartache! I never imagined for a moment that he would… That he thought…”
“That he would walk off the set of a sixty-million dollar production, and fuck every single person left standing,” Reeve says numbly. He flops down right there in the grass and lays sprawled amongst the daisies. “This is it. This is how my full psychological breakdown finally begins.”
“Oh, pull yourself together and stop being such a drama queen,” Hazel says firmly, nudging his prone body with her toe. “Both of you,” she adds, with a stern look in my direction. “Hugo is hardly the first actor to fuck off on a whim. We’ll get him back and forget this ever happened.”
“Back to what?” Reeve asks, still staring listlessly at the sky. “Every day of filming we miss costs us a quarter of a million dollars.A quarter million dollars,” he repeats slowly. “We won’t last a week before they pull the plug. All this work, all the prep, my vision… For nothing. I’ll go down in moviemaking history as the man who lost Darcy!” he laughs, hollow and manic.
“No,Iwill.” My stomach churns. I want the ground to open and swallow me up.
“Hold the self-loathing spirals for just a second,” Hazel whips out her phone, and starts scrolling. “OK, Hugo isn’t due to film ‘til Tuesday,” she reports, looking relieved. “He has a bunch of fittings and rehearsals scheduled, but they’re not the important thing. We still have three days to get him back!”
“And people just…Won’t notice our leading actor is AWOL?” Reeve asks. “Okay! Sure! You’re right! No problems!”
“Again, pull it together.” She sighs. “You’re supposed to be the creative genius, so get creative!”
“We say he has the flu!” I announce suddenly, clutching at straws. “He’s contagious and gross, and confined to his room so he doesn’t infect the rest of the cast.”
I look to Hazel. She nods, looking thoughtful. “It could work…”
“I’ll say he went down last night. Vomiting, a fever, the whole nine yards,” I continue. “Reeve?”
He doesn’t move.
“Reeve!” Hazel kicks him. Hard.
“Owww.” Reeve finally pulls himself up into a seated position. “OK, say we go with the flu story. That buys us time, but then what? Do you even know where he went?” he asks me.
I shake my head. “But I’ll find him, I promise. I’ll track him down somehow and bring him back before anyone even knows he’s gone! I’ve got this,” I insist, projecting a confidence I absolutely don’t feel. “Just focus on the movie! The next time you see me, it’ll be with a handsome bastard in tow, I swear.”
I should stop making promises I absolutely can’t deliver on, but at this point, I don’t know what else to do. Surely one megastar can’t be that hard to track down?
Just how far could he have gotten by now?
I’m just praying to God the answer isn’t Las Vegas.
* * *
Reeve,Hazel, and I finalize our plan. They set off to spread the gossip about Hugo’s killer case of the flu, while I hop back on the golf cart, and make a beeline back to the pub from last night.
When in doubt, retrace your steps, that’s what my Nana always said.
Of course, she was talking about lost keys and lipstick, not a wayward award-winning actor, but I figure the basic principles are the same.
When I arrive, it’s early afternoon, and I find the pub empty, save a couple of old-timers in the corner watching a soccer match. I’m relieved to recognize the barmaid on duty—the same woman as last night—so I hurry to the bar, but before I can say a word, she pulls out a cardboard box. “Lost and found?” she asks, sliding it over to me.
“What? No, I didn’t lose anything. Well, nothing that fits in that box,” I say. “Do you remember the man I was drinking with last night?”
