Page 3 of Love At First Fright
“It’s the same studio that optioned mine, but two guesses why they went with hers.” David laughed, and through the stacks of books, Rosemary saw him cupping invisible breasts.
Oh sure, her fantastic tits were the reason she got a movie deal, and it had nothing to do with the fact thatWhen the Devil Takes Hold,her Victorian gothic horror, was one of the bestselling horror books of the last decade.
“You never know,” James added, “she might have even found a different way ofpersuadingthe studio execs to take on the project.”
Rosemary had rolled her eyes into the back of her skull. These supposedly grown-ass men were skulking in a corner, sniggering about how she’d apparently sold her enormouslytitted body in exchange for a movie deal. Either way, they’d had their comeuppance later on when the vast majority of fans had shown up with only copies of Rosemary’s books to sign.
Now that the event was over, Rosemary looked around to see if she could spot the ghost again. But they’d disappeared, probably to a quieter corner of the store so they could read in peace. Rosemary was tempted to venture into the back aisles of the shop to chat with the ghost—especially since she hadn’t spotted them at Tickled Ink before—but she reminded herself that normal people didn’t go around talking to invisible beings in public.
Max strode over, beaming from ear to ear.
“You were fucking brilliant, as expected.” They laughed, pulling her into a bear hug that lifted Rosemary’s feet off the ground.
“Do you want to wait around, we could go out for a drink after I close?” they asked, looking hopeful. Max and Rosemary had gone out for dinner a few weeks ago. Rosemary hadn’t realised it was a date until Max had shown up with a bouquet of flowers for her.
Not that she minded; Max was handsome in a Californian surfer kind of way, all golden-bronzed skin and sun-kissed hair. And they made Rosemary laugh. They’d kissed at the end of the date, but Rosemary realised that with her upcoming trip, she wasn’t really in the right place to start a relationship. She found Max attractive, but there’d been something missing in their kiss, a kind of vital spark. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that kept you up at night, even if she wished it was.
“I wish I could, but my flight to London is tomorrow, and I still need to pack my book case.”
“Your bookcase?”
“Like my book suitcase, where I put all my books.”
“You’re singlehandedly keeping eBooks from taking over, I hope you know that. But hey, maybe we get dinner when you’re back?” They smiled, and it was so heartachingly kind that Rosemary wished she felt differently.
“Of course, I would love to,” she replied. Max looked like they had been about to say something else, but then the bell at the till rang, and they both looked over, noticing the queue of readers eagerly waiting to purchase signed copies.
“Well, that’s my cue,” Max said. “I’ll see you when you’re back from England. Have a lovely time, and don’t murder the actors.” They grinned wickedly before leaving.
Ah, yes, the actors. One actor in particular. The actor that had been a bane of Rosemary’s existence since she’d found out that he was going to be cast in her book-to-movie adaptation all those months ago. Hollywood heartthrob and, according to one very viral tweet, a certified daddy. Ellis Finch.
When Rosemary found out he’d been cast as Alfred Parlow, the leading man in her movie, she’d been furious. Sure, she’d heard of Ellis Finch before, and had been assured by her film agent that he was the shiniest of Hollywood actors, but he looked nothing like her character. Alfred was a feeble Victorian gentleman—tidy, skinny, timid—and Google Images showed Ellis was instead tall and broadly built in a way that said he was muscular without being “gym-ripped.” He was in his early forties, with a rakish grin and grey-blue eyes that pierced Rosemary through the phone screen. In some photos he was clean-shaven, with an offensively chiselled jawline, in others he sported a grey-tinged five-o’clock shadow. His dark brown hair curled a little at the ends, and appeared to be greying at the temples. According to his Wikipedia page, he was born in Scotland and had lived in the UK for most of his life. Rosemary wondered if he had an accent.
Quite a few of the photos online were paparazzi shots of him; sometimes at a café or a bookstore—and seeing him carrying a tall pile of books, shirt rolled up to display his muscular forearms, hadn’t elicited any strange feelings in Rosemary. None at all.
In fact, it made her stomach drop with what wasdefinitelyjust acute dislike. And not to mention the photos of him parading his latest girlfriends down the red carpet, a whole host of gorgeous, tanned models with dazzlingly white teeth. Though she had to admit those all seemed to be from around a decade ago, and there was nothing about him dating anyone more recently. She had reassured herself, when she’d googled “Ellis Finch girlfriend recent” that it was only part of her research into him as a professional.
Regardless, he wasn’t famous for period dramas, although he’d been in one years ago. From the list of movies Ellis had starred in, it was clear he was better suited to action-packed blockbusters.
The frustrating thing was, when she looked at his face, she couldalmostunderstand the casting choice. He had clearly mastered a roguish expression that would have been perfect if he were cast as Wickham in aPride and Prejudiceadaptation. Or maybe Willoughby. There was just something about him that would make historical women act all wanton and weak in the knees. Not her, though. When she’d first found out he’d been cast, Dina and Immy had to listen through a nearly hour-long rant about how terrible a casting choice he was. This was a man who was known for starring in films where the only female characters were one-dimensional love interests, the cars were fast, the explosions huge (but never actually killed the hero), and don’t even ask about the plot, because there wasn’t one. That’s what Ellis Finch was good at, and she wished he hadstayed in his lane. Once, after one too many room-temperature white wines at a book event, Rosemary had emailed her film agent to present the case for why Ellis should be pulled from the casting. She’d received a kind, but firm, no. Ellis was going to be her Alfred.
The fact of the matter was that he was just completely wrong for the part and nothing could change her mind.
—
Rosemary unlocked the door toher building and pulled a small glass vial of salt from her pocket. There was a ghost she occasionally saw drifting in and out of the apartment opposite hers. He grumbled whenever someone walked past him, and once or twice Rosemary had seen him stick out a leg as if to trip someone. Thankfully, he was faded enough to no longer be corporeal. Rosemary didn’t see him as she entered her apartment, but just before she closed the door she sprinkled a trail of salt across her threshold, just to ensure he wouldn’t be able to come in.
Salt, lavender, rosemary, sage. All had the ability to either soothe or ward off ghosts. In her research for a previous folk horror, Rosemary had spoken to an Indigenous North American park ranger who swore by obsidian, too. That’s why she lined all her clothes drawers with little bundles of dried herbs, often gifted to her by her friend Dina, who was a kitchen witch. They made her clothes smell lovely and had the added benefit of warding off any unwelcome spirits. Most of the ghosts Rosemary had seen weren’t malevolent, though; they were often people who had passed away before their time, and who wanted to linger in this world, by their loved ones’ sides, a little while longer.
Rosemary surveyed her empty apartment. Up untilyesterday, it had been full of moving boxes that she’d taken to a storage locker until she found a new place. It hadn’t originally been her plan to move out during the shooting period for the film, but the stars had aligned when she realised her lease was up within a week of the shoot starting. Good real estate was hard to come by in Brooklyn, and even a grumpy-old-man ghost wasn’t enough to make someone move out of an apartment with a built-in washer-dryer and floor-to-ceiling windows. But Rosemary was heading to England, and would stay there until the shoot ended in a few months’ time. She couldn’t afford to pay rent in an apartment she wasn’t using.
It was strange, seeing the empty walls with their slightly bleached rectangles where her vintage horror movie posters had hung. Her entire life in New York had been condensed down to fifteen medium boxes and a ten-square-foot storage locker. She wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry.
As she changed into the pair of comfy sweats lying on top of her open suitcase, Rosemary waited for the sadness to kick in. She was supposed to be upset about leaving New York, wasn’t she? She’d built a life here over the last three years. Made friends here, wrote three novels here. She’d come here because New York was the place where all writers made themselves, or so she had believed. There were people she’d miss, she was sure of that, and moments she would recall with fondness. But the city had also suffocated her. Some days she felt boxed in, only able to breathe when she went for a walk in the park to catch a view of the sky that wasn’t bitten through by skyscrapers. The sky where she grew up was so wide it could swallow you up, and she missed that feeling of being small, but not lonely.
A thought tickled the back of her mind: she didn’thaveto find a new apartment when filming was over. She could find somewhere else, maybe somewhere with more nature, and do itall again. Georgia didn’t feel like home anymore, even with Dad still living there. It hadn’t been home since her mom had died. Rosemary had tried with New York, she really had. She’d been desperate to make this place feel like home, but in all this time, it never quite had. Home, for Rosemary, was being with her friends. So how could she be at home when her friends were an ocean away?
Rosemary tucked herself into bed, pulling the blinds shut on what could be her last-ever New York night. She flipped open her laptop and forced herself to write a few paragraphs. Tonight, as it had been for the last few months, writing was like milking a pig. Her next book, a possession horror about a monk in a rural monastery where they lived by silent prayer, was due in two months, and Rosemary was way behind. She should have been reaching the final climax of the novel by now, but she was still trapped in the first third. She couldn’t bring herself to tell her agent or her editor, even when they sent her those gentle “just checking in” emails. She had always written a book in a year, that’s what they expected of her. Rosemary couldn’t let them down now.
