It slipped my mind to line up a plus-one for tonight. Janelle said, ‘Don’t you know anyone in New York? You can’t just show up at your first opening night in a lead role alone.’
First, yeah, I do know someone in New York, but I can’t exactly phone him up and ask him to be my escort. Thanks for reminding me. And second –
‘Why the hell not? I don’t need an escort, by the way. I can walk from the car into the theatre – and probably even back again! – without being led by the elbow, thank-you-very-much.’
‘That’s not what I –’
‘Whatever, Janelle, let’s just drop it. I’m going alone, and I’ll hit the after-party for a bit, and then I’m coming home tomorrow. And next week, you and I have some things to discuss.’
There’s an apprehensive pause. ‘Oh? Like … what?’
‘Next week.’
‘Fine.’ She’s not genuinely angry, just exasperated. I’ve had that effect on her for a while, especially three years ago, when our relationship took a not-so-subtle turn. She woke up to find me in the driver’s seat of my career the day I turned eighteen and fired the manager Mom had hired years earlier. The way Janelle accepted instead of power-tripped that day is why she’s still my agent.
We hang up, and I concentrate on the multiple-choice questions for the Public Discipline section I’ve just completed. Question number four: Your child throws a screaming tantrum because you won’t buy him a candy bar at the grocery store. Do you: (a) explain that a candy bar will ruin his dinner, (b) plead with him to stop, (c) swat him on the bottom, (d) ignore him.
I guess Roll my eyes and wonder what the hell I was thinking would most closely resemble (d). Click.
‘Whatcha doin’?’ a voice says, and I snap the laptop closed, which probably means I’ll have to start that section over again. I turn and glare – at Reid, who’s relocated my shoulder bag from the adjacent seat and plopped down next to me.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I whisper much too loudly.
‘Looks as though I’m joining you for opening night. Different movies, of course.’
‘What?’ I shake my head, cobwebs clearing. ‘You’re going to New York. Today. On my flight.’
He smirks. ‘Or – you’re going to New York on my flight.’ Pulling his boarding pass from his back pocket, he asks, ‘So what seat are you? We might as well get this over with.’
I know for a fact that Reid prefers the aisle, while I insist on the window. And of course we’re both flying first class, alone … I turn my ticket over next to his.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’ 3A, 3B.
‘What are the chances that I’ll make it to New York alive?’ Reid has never, ever been a morning person, and yet he is alarmingly wide awake for someone who should be sleeping off a hangover with one or more idiot girls and missing his flight.
If only.
‘Better, if you shut up and stay that way,’ I mumble.
I want to get back to my end-of-section quiz while the material is fresh, but I don’t particularly want to do it with him looking over my shoulder. And now the expectation that I can intimidate my rowmate into muteness like I always do is shot to hell.
‘I don’t suppose you can just pretend you don’t know me for the next six –’ I glance at my phone display – ‘or oh-my-God seven hours?’
He smiles, picking at a fingernail. Without turning to look at me, he asks softly, ‘Why do you still hate me?’
I falter before hissing, ‘Like you’re all good with me?’
Hands moving to grip the seat on either side of him, his shoulders taut and facing straight ahead, he angles his head just enough to look at me. His hair falls forward, hiding his focused expression from everyone but me. ‘I don’t hate you, Brooke.’
The gate agent announces the impending boarding process, and Reid breaks our staring stand-off, turning to get my bag and his own from the seat next to him. I shove my laptop into the rolling bag, stand and pull the handle as he shoulders his only bag and hands mine over.
‘Will our first class passengers please begin boarding at this time,’ the agent intones robotically, and I march forward to present my boarding pass, Reid right behind me.
When we reach our seats, he automatically takes my bags and heaves them into the overhead bin, placing his in beside them as I take my seat. As he slides into the seat next to me, each of us pulls a drink menu from the seat pocket, avoiding eye contact with our fellow passengers as they trudge by sluggishly.
It occurs to me that to these strangers, we look, to all intents and purposes, as though we’re travelling together.
Half an hour later, we’ve each downed a coffee, and Reid has requested and eaten a bag of caramel popcorn. The plane taxis down the runway, finally, and judders into the air at a worrisome angle, but we haven’t exchanged another word.
An hour later, I clear my throat. ‘Are you … going to sign the paper?’ My question is barely audible over the droning of the plane engine.
Leaning closer, but without turning to look at me, he says, ‘I talked to Dad. We’re requesting a confidential paternity test first.’
A blaze of resentment rips through me like a flash fire. And then I recall that Reid’s father is, of course, an attorney. Like Norman Rogers, he’s bound to proceed cautiously – more so in matters pertaining to his son. Proof is a required starting point. And I know better than anyone that the proof will be conclusive.