Page 3 of The Location Shoot
“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
“When you come home . . .”
“We’ll spend every moment together. I’m sure I’ll drive you batshit mad. You won’t be able to get rid of me,” he said.
She smiled and rested her head on his shoulder.
He sighed. “But oh, how I will miss you, my love.”
“CAN’T WE AT LEAST DISCUSS IT?”Charlotte asked.
“The car is picking you up soon. This really isn’t the time. Besides, I must get down to the theater. Yesterday’s auditions were an absolute disaster. Bloody hell, it’s like they’ve never heard of Shakespeare. It’s so much easier when I can just cast you. You are the most brilliant actress.”
She feigned a smile.
“I really ought to go,” he said.
“I was hoping you would mull it over while I’m away. It would be the perfect timing. I’ve warned my agent that I may take some time off after this job.”
“Love, you’re about to star in a Jean Mercier film. It hardly makes sense now of all times. Isn’t this the kind of film you’ve always hoped to do?”
“Well yes, but . . .”
“This role will open a lot of doors. Having a child now will only derail your brilliant career.”
“I can still work. Lots of women do it. I’ve been acting nonstop for more than twenty years. A break wouldn’t be the worst thing. It’s exhausting, you know, spending your life portraying other people. Like I said last night, we could try when I return. Should things go well . . .”
“Charlotte, you’re forty years old. Doubtful it would be as easy as you think. Aren’t we a little past our prime to be starting with all of this?”
“Many women get pregnant in their early forties. Adoption is also a possibility if we have trouble. I downloaded some information,” she said, grabbing a pile of papers off the coffee table.
He kissed her forehead and said, “I’ve got to go, love. Leave the papers and I’ll look them over, but honestly, I suspect you’ll feel differently when you return. You’re an artist, Charlotte. You always return to the thing you’re most devoted to: acting. A few days of filming and you’ll forget all about this.”
“Maybe, but . . .”
“Text me when you get there so I know you’ve arrived safely. Have a wonderful shoot. Get immersed, lose yourself,” he said as he dashed out the door, leaving her clutching the unread papers. She took a steadying breath and looked around the large, open-concept flat they had shared for years, the walls covered with art gathered during her travels, reminders of the life she had chosen.
“YOU’VE GOT A PHENOMENAL ASS.Turn around, baby. I want to do you from behind,” Michael instructed, grabbing her hips and swiveling her around. “That’s it, baby, that’s it,” he said, moving faster and faster until he groaned in ecstasy. He pulled back, patted her bottom, and said, “That was great.”
“I still can’t believe I’m here, in Michael Hennesey’s apartment,” she said, giggly and wide-eyed. “Your place is so modern, sleek, masculine. I guess that comes from being a bachelor. Maybe you need a woman’s touch around here.”
“I think we just covered that, babe,” he replied with a chuckle.
“I’ve always had such a crush on you. I’ve watched you on television for years. When we met last night . . .”
“I’m gonna grab a water. You want something?”
“I’m fine,” she replied, pulling the silk sheets up.
He put his underwear on, looked at her sensuously, and said, “You stay put.”
He trotted to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, catching sight of his reflection in the stainless steel and smoothing his hair. As he guzzled a bottled water, he noticed the message light flashing on his phone and decided to listen to his voicemail. The first message was from his driver, confirming his pickup time. The next message was from Lauren.
“Hi Michael, it’s Lauren. Listen, Sophie wants to go to an arts camp in August. I’d appreciate it if you could send some money. I’ve emailed you the invoice. No need to call back. Please have your assistant wire it over. Thanks.”
He looked despondently at the callback number. His finger hovered over the dial button, but instead he sighed heavily and set the phone down on the counter. He strutted back to the bedroom, trying to remember the name of the woman waiting in his bed.
