Page 104 of Let’s Make a Scene

Tonight’s ceremony is being held at the Nokia Theatre, which is just over a thirty-minute drive from my place. The time passes quickly, and I twist my fingers in my lap as I think about seeing Jack again.

For the last time.

The jittery anticipation builds, but when I reach the venue and the door is opened, it’s Lorna who’s waiting, and today her smile seems off. There are far fewer teeth on display than usual.

“Jack’s flight has been delayed,” she says, and my heart sinks. “You need to do the carpet by yourself, and we’ll bring him through to his seat during the ceremony.” She glances down to the phone in her hand. “Your category isn’t until near the end anyway.”

“And we might not win,” I say, trying not to sound too hopeful.

Lorna chuckles. “I’m not so sure about that. And just remember what we discussed if you do win—”

“Yes, I know,” I cut in, desperately hoping that it will all be irrelevant. “We’ll do the kiss.” Or a version of it anyway. A quick, chaste version of it. That’s what Jack and I agreed via various assistants.

The red carpet passes in a blur. This is a low-key ceremony, with a younger crowd, and I’ve been dressed to fit, in tight jeans and a pretty, pale pink corset-style top, which I think is supposed to be a nod to the Regency period of the film, but with the hard work it is putting in I’d say it’s less Anne Elliot and more Ann Summers. The cameras flash and the photographers call my name, and I try not to panic about Jack’s precise whereabouts.

Before I know it, I’m shown to my seat in the giant amphitheater, which is worryingly near the stage. (Is that a sign of some sort? Does that mean we’re going to win? Please don’t let us win.) There’s an empty chair beside me with Jack’s name taped to it. Perhaps with him turning up late, I won’t even have to talk to him. We can just sit through the event, smile, and then go our separate ways. I try not to dwell on why that feels like a horrible anticlimax.

After a lot of fussing about with the cameras, the signal is given that we’re going live, and the theater hums with excitement. The charismatic actress who’s hosting is doing a great job, but I can’t help fidgeting, glancing over my shoulder and looking for any sign of Lorna or Jack. A new fear takes root—what if we do win, and Jack’s not here? It’s going to look like I’ve been abandoned by my fake boyfriend. I’m going to have to accept the award for best kiss between two people, alone. And then the news is going to come out that our relationship is over and people will think he basically dumped me live on camera. Oh, shit.

Time passes with no sign of Jack, and as the awards are handed out and I clap with a polite, if frozen, smile on my face, panic sets in. Where the fuck is he? Oh my god, has he left me here alone as some final act of humiliation? No, surely not. Even Jack Turner-Jones is not that evil.

During an advert break where they’re setting up the next shot, Lorna comes hustling over. She looks harassed and her mobile is clamped to her ear.

“What the hell is going on?” I hiss quietly. “Where’s Jack?”

“He’s on his way,” Lorna promises me before she starts barking directions into the phone. From what I can gather she is micro-managing Jack’s driver’s route from the airport. I guess that means he’s somewhere in LA at least.

“Isn’t it almost time for our part?” I ask desperately. “Do they know he’s not here? They’re not going to make me go up on my own, are they?”

“Everything is under control,” Lorna tells me soothingly before she clatters off on her high heels, still yelling into her phone and making increasingly dramatic hand gestures. It’s not reassuring.

“Everything is under control,” I whisper to myself.

Finally, it happens. Exactly as I was afraid it would.

In an increasingly bizarre series of events, Steve Carell is there, up onstage, announcing the nominees for Best Kiss. The giant screens at either side of the stage play the clips from the nominated films, and when Steve says, “Cynthie Taylor and Jack Turner-Jones for A Lady of Quality,” there we are, a million feet tall.

A passionate trembling of string music fills the air, as the camera follows Jack riding through the rain on the back of a majestic black stallion. His dark hair is wet and tumbled, his jaw tight, his blue eyes burning with intensity. The white linen shirt he wears is almost transparent, and when he pulls the horse to a stop, I swear a collective sigh runs around the room. Throwing one leg over the saddle, he lands lightly on his feet and without hesitation strides toward me, through the long grass and the swirling mist.

The music intensifies, and the camera catches me wide-eyed, as I stand pale and frozen, raindrops running down my face like tears, my lips parting as I drink him in. Without slowing, Jack hauls me into his arms, and it’s very forceful and manly, and even I feel my breath catch, watching it. He kisses me, lifting me into his arms while his hand cradles my face, and I kiss him back, burying my hands in his hair and holding him close. It goes on for some time, hungry and desperate, and I feel like I always do when I watch this scene: naked. Because I don’t see Emilia up there. All I see is Cynthie and how much she wants that kiss. The crowd is cheering and Steve fans himself with the envelope he’s holding.

The camera pushes in on me and I force myself to smile like everything is fine and I’m having the time of my life.

“And the winner is…”—Steve opens the envelope—“Cynthie Taylor and Jack Turner-Jones, for A Lady of Quality!”

Chapter 34 CYNTHIE

A wave of applause crashes over me, and I get to my feet, my knees shaking. Oh god, oh god, this is like a nightmare. What’s happening right now is the stuff of a very serious anxiety dream, and I don’t know what to do except pinch myself because hopefully I am actually asleep. All I can think is that I am going to kill Jack Turner-Jones when I see him. I’m going to straight up murder him.

An assistant is gesturing me toward the aisle so I can walk up to the stage. I climb the steps, my heart beating furiously as I scramble to think of something charming to say that isn’t going to make me look like a complete fool who got stood up by her boyfriend on international television.

I reach the podium and Steve is standing there, smiling at me, holding out a gold trophy shaped like a bucket of popcorn, and I take it, blinking at him in a way that I hope says, Please save me, Steve Carell!

Sadly, Steve doesn’t react to my mute pleas, and it looks like it’s all on me.

“Um, hi!” I say, hopelessly into the microphone, “Thank you so much for this. Unfortunately, Jack couldn’t—”

I’m interrupted by some sort of commotion at the back of the theater, and I squint into the lights, trying to see what’s going on. There’s a thud and a brief shout and several raised voices.