Page 54 of The Actress Unscripted

I don’t do that either, though.

It’s almost as if I’m too sad for tears. I’m too sad for anything, other than to lie there in bed, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about the times Jett lay here next to me. Not too many times; this cottage isn’t private or secure enough to accommodate a Hollywood star for long. But he did stay here briefly, during our fake-dating period, and for a few days after it. He lay in this bed beside me. He said being close to me was the only thing that allowed him to sleep at night.

I wonder how well he sleeps with Violet next to him? I wonder if his insomnia came back after we broke up, or if he was already so in love with her that she kept all his demons at bay, the way I once did?

I wonder if I’ll ever see him again, or if that reallywasthe very last time? Me limping out of the restaurant with red wine all over my white shirt, like a murder victim; him staring after me, not bothering to speak?

I roll over in bed, pulling the pillow over my head in an attempt to block out the image of Violet and her triumphant smile. When I finally remove it again, it’s somehow morning — I guess I was so tired I must have slept after all — and there’s a message on my phone from McTavish, telling me not to come into work today.

“I’ll pop round and see you later,” he’s written. “Best you don’t come near The View today, though.”

You don’t say.

There are no more messages after that; and none from Jett either, even though I check my phone roughly every two minutes, hoping he’ll call and tell me it was all some big mistake: thatof coursehe isn’t marrying Violet.Of coursehe wouldn’t marry anyone but me.

He would, though. And he is.

And there’s absolutely nothing I can do or say to change that.

I’ve messed everything up again. I could have done this so differently. I could have got him back on side; made him realize how much I still loved him, and that I’d do anything to have him back. I could have been nicer, or prettier, or cleverer, or, I don’t know,taller, maybe. There must besomethingI could have done to make this end differently.

I could have been good.

But I’m Lexie Steele. I don’tdo“good”. It’s not in my DNA.

The thought of DNA reminds me of the test Jett said he was going to get Grace to arrange. I don’t expect that’s going to happen now, somehow, so that’s another thing I’m going to have to add to my To Do list.

I wonder how much a DNA test costs? And if it’s more or less than the cost of a really good bottle of Merlot?

I’ll think about all of that some other time, though. Today, I just don’t have the bandwidth for any of it, so instead of wallowing in my misery, I do what I always do in situations like this (Not that I’ve ever been in a situation quite likethisbefore, mind you….): I clean my house.

If I’m being honest, the house doesn’t really need much in the way of cleaning, because I never let it get particularly messy. I grew up in chaos; it’s the very last thing I’ve ever wanted in my life as an adult. But cleaning is my therapy. It’s sometimes the only way I can kid myself that I’m actually in control of my life, and, right now I may not be in control of my money, or my job,or my relationships — oranything, basically — but Icancontrol the state of my cupboards and floors. So I pull everything out, then put it all back together again, having first of all scrubbed it until my fingers start to wrinkle, and my ankle decides it’s had enough.

By the time I’m done, it’s starting to get dark outside, and I’m feeling a tiny bit better: just a tiny bit, but it’s enough to make me want to eat something for the first time since I was sent home from work in disgrace. So I make myself some beans on toast, and even treat myself to a glass of the red wine I found lurking in the back of a cupboard while I was cleaning out the kitchen. Then I run myself a bath, almost as if I’m a normal person, who does things that could be described as “self-care”, and who never gets sacked.

I know I should be looking for a new job; or booking the DNA test; or doinganything at all,really,to turn my shitty little life around. But Jett and Violet are getting married. That over-rides everything. It’s the only thing I can think about, and as I climb into the bath, clutching my wineglass, I allow myself to dwell on it — to wallow in my misery like I’m wallowing in the bubbles I don’t actually have, because Past Lexie didn’t bother buying bubble bath.

Just one day of wallowing, then I’ll get myself back on track, I promise.

Just one evening of pretending to be my old self again: the one who drank wine in the bath, and got her roots done every six weeks.

I miss that girl.

I miss her life.

Maybe if I justpretendeverything’s normal again, though, I could make myselffeellike it was normal, too? What’s that they say? Fake it ‘til you make it?

The thing is, even if Jettwasn’tmarrying Violet, I know he wouldn’t be marryingme. We broke up. It was already over. Technically, I haven’t lost anything since yesterday; or nothing I hadn’t already lost, anyway. Violet isn’t the reason Jett and I aren’t together:Iam.

And I suppose the sooner I can come to terms with that, the better.

Climbing out of the bath, I pat myself dry, then rummage in the bathroom cabinet until I find an old sheet mask I was saving for some imagined time in the future when I’d need to look good for something, and slap it on. Then I slip into my ratty old dressing gown, and go downstairs to fill up my hot water bottle, intending to curl up on the sofa and watch something mindless on TV until I fall asleep.

I’m standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil and chuckling at my reflection in the window (Is it just me, or do sheet masks make everyone look like Hannibal Lecter?), when a sharp rap on the door (Note to self: need to get that doorbell fixed….) makes me almost jump out of my dressing gown. Which reallywouldbe scary for whoever is out there, because I’m not wearing anything underneath it.

I say “whoever’s out there”: it’s McTavish. I know it’s McTavish, because he told me in his message that he’d pop round later — probably to officially fire me now that he’s had time to speak to Hazel about all the different ways I managed to fuck up yesterday.

Oh well, might as well get it over with.

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