Page 3 of For My Finale
She strode through the swirl of press, cameras clicking, reporters shouting questions at her. Ignoring it all, blocking it all out.
The thing was, no one cared that she was quitting. They only cared about what it meant for them, about what it meant for their careers. Actresses that could take parts ear-marked for her, directors wanting swan songs, journalists wanting scoops and inside stories. None of this chaos was actually about her at all.
Because, and this was a realization that had been a long time coming, in this world, Lilah Paxton wasn’t a person. She was a commodity. A hot one, to be sure, but a product nevertheless. A thing. An object.
She grabbed herself a bottle of champagne from a stunned-looking waiter, looked around, spotted an escape, and then pushed her way out of a Fire Exit. The alarm bleated behind her.She looked left and right, seeing the tail-end of a limo at the end of the alley, and made a bee-line for it.
“Home,” she said, sliding into the back seat. “You know where that is, right?”
The driver glanced in the back mirror. “Yes, Ms. Paxton,” he said. “But—”
“No buts. The show won’t end for hours yet. You’ve got plenty of time to drop me off and get back here for whoever else you’re supposed to be driving. Step on it.”
And he drove off without another word.
Lilah took a glug of champagne and started to laugh. For the first time in years, she felt free.
THE TERRACE DOORS were open and the night breeze floated in. Lilah sat on her bed, her laptop on one knee, a plate holding a prosciutto and provolone sandwich on the other. Typing with two fingers, she searched for ‘peaceful places.’
She growled at her screen when the obvious answers appeared. A meditation retreat in Bali? No thanks. She was likely to meet half of Hollywood there. Same with anything that had relax and rehabilitate in the name. She’d never been one for drink and drugs, the one Hollywood problem that had passed her by.
She took a thoughtful bite out of her sandwich and wondered just where the hell she could go. She couldn’t stay here, that was for sure. Yet it felt like Hollywood was the only home she’d ever really known.
Except…
Except it wasn’t, was it? Not technically.
She searched her memory for the name, finally coming up with it and typing it in with two fingers. Bankton, England. Her birthplace, as any rabid fan would know. Her phone rang, Margot again. She declined the call and leaned in to look at pictures of cobbled streets and cows and cottages.
“There we go,” she said to no one in particular. “Decision made.”
She was going home. And whatever happened next… well, she’d figure it out.
Chapter Two
The morning rush at The Bankton Bean was in full swing. Although, in a village as small as Bankton, the word rush was somewhat of a relative term. The cafe, cozy, and perpetually smelling of cinnamon and espresso, was already abuzz with chatter and familiar faces as Blossom Baker wiped down the counter with practiced efficiency.
It was home-like, that was what Blossom liked most about the Bean. The furniture was a delightful mismatch of cushioned chairs and wooden tables, the kind of charming disorder that just worked. The villagers were always friendly. And if the pay wasn’t exactly a fortune, what she lacked in financial compensation, Blossom more than made up for with job satisfaction.
She stacked up some cups and the cafe door swung open right on cue, ushering in a gust of cool morning air and Ives Pearson, Blossom’s best friend. All sharp angles and effortless androgynous style, today Ives was in fitted trousers that bared her ankles, and a long-sleeved button-down shirt that covered her colorful tattoos. She was also wearing an expression that suggested that she had yet to make peace with being awake at this hour.
“You look entirely too cheerful for this time of the morning,” Ives grumbled, as she dropped onto a stool at the counter.
Blossom grinned. “It’s called caffeine and optimism. Youshould try it.”
Ives snorted, but accepted the black coffee that Blossom placed in front of her. “What, no side of optimism?”
“You’ll need to provide that yourself,” Blossom said. “And how’s village life treating you this fine morning?”
“Oh, you know, coffee, gossip, existential dread, the same as usual.”
“Existential dread?” Blossom asked.
Ives smirked. “We’re all going to die alone, the world is a lonely place, that sort of thing.”
“You just don’t like mornings,” said Blossom. “Which is odd in a teacher. Shouldn’t you have chosen something with a later start time?”
“No comment on the fact that we’re all dying alone, then?” asked Ives, ignoring her question. “Still in denial about your chronic single status?”
