Page 87 of Let’s Make a Scene

“Yes,” I say. “I remember.”

“You were pretty stoned. I wasn’t sure.” His eyes slide to mine. “Anyway,” he exhales. “We talked, and you asked me if it was strange, being born into the business like I was.”

“You said it was a lot of pressure,” I say, nodding. “You said you didn’t know if you’d ever really chosen it.”

“You really do remember.” His mouth tugs up. “You also told me it didn’t sound like much fun. That conversation was a pretty big turning point for me. I started asking myself whether I was doing things I enjoyed, what work made me happy.”

“Apparently I get insightful when I’m stoned.”

“I’m serious,” he says. “It took a long time to unpick it all, but it started then, with you. For years I’d been plagued by anxiety, trying to live up to my parents’ expectations. I regularly had panic attacks. Before I went onstage, before I went on camera.”

“I had no idea,” I murmur, shocked. “This was going on when we were filming?”

His smile is rueful. “Yeah. I used to think I needed to keep it a secret, hide it from people in case they thought less of me.” He runs a hand over his jaw. “Obviously now I know that only made things worse. There’s no shame in having a brain that works a little differently, but at the time…” He sighs and there’s a dull ache in my chest as I think of the Jack I knew then, as I rearrange the facts I thought I understood.

“It’s one of the reasons you and I clashed, I think,” he continues. “I was a scared, anxious kid, and I tried to cover it all up with a layer of arrogance. I was blind to how right you were for the film… All I saw was a threat to me, to my career. I panicked. It was selfish and I acted like an asshole. It’s thirteen years too late, but I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” I say, and I mean it. I give him a watery smile. “You weren’t the only one who made mistakes. I’m sorry you were going through that alone. Why don’t we just say we were both young and foolish.”

“Okay,” he says softly. “That sounds good.”

“So.” I get to my feet, shake out my skirts. “Can we really go now?”

“Absolutely.” Jack gestures toward an alley down the side of the bins. “I’m told this leads down to the delivery area where my car should be waiting.”

“And you’re okay to drive?” I ask, as we pick our way through the shadows.

“I was always planning to drive, so I only had one drink,” he replies. “But I can call you a cab if you’d rather?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I want to go with you.”

When we emerge, we find one of the kids from the valet stand waiting with Jack’s car. His face clears when he catches sight of us. I wonder just how much money Jack thrust at the server.

“Thanks for waiting,” Jack says, already fishing out another tip for the boy, who is staring at me. I smile.

“Oh!” he squeaks, his cheeks going pink. “It’s no problem, sir.” He hands Jack his car keys.

“Don’t tell anyone we’re sneaking out early,” I tease, making my way round to the passenger seat.

“I won’t,” he says earnestly.

We get in the car, and when Jack pulls away, he shakes his head. “Thought the poor guy was going to swallow his tongue. The Cynthie Taylor effect.”

I scoff, and as we drive out under the streetlights, I check my phone and find a bunch of missed calls from Theo. I text him and Clemmie back in our group chat to let them know what happened and they reply instantly.

THEO:

Don’t worry, Clemmie just about stopped me from committing GBH with a dessert fork.

THEO:

But she also managed to sneak over and empty a saltshaker in his drink.

THEO:

He spat it down the front of some politician.

CLEMMIE: