Page 140 of Valentine Nook
“Even when the traveling is over a field?”
“Yes. Even then.” I wrap my arms around her. “I love you, Holiday Simpson, and I’m done with being apart from you. So what do you say? Will you move into Burlington?”
She lifts onto her tiptoes and flings her arms around my neck. “I’d love to.”
Epilogue
Holiday
EIGHT MONTHS LATER
“ENCORE. ENCORE.”
My heart hammers against my ribs as I rush back onto the stage, greeted by a standing audience cheering, whistling, and hollering, and take a deep bow. A second later, my co-stars join me, followed by Hamish McTaggart, our esteemed director, carrying a giant bouquet of roses.
“My star,” he says, taking my hand and kissing it before handing me the flowers.
From the size of Hamish’s wide grin, you’d never know he’d thrown a tantrum only hours before. Or that nearly every main cast member threatened to quit at some point during the rehearsals because they couldn’t take any more ofHamish and his histrionics. You’d think he was the first person to ever direct Shakespeare.
But tonight all is forgiven, and Hamish can bask in the glory of applause for as long as he needs, and I’ll be doing the same becauseman, do I deserve it. We all do.
I thought I’d known hard work before, but theater is a whole different beast—exhausting, exhilarating, and utterly terrifying—and I’ll be back here again tomorrow night to do it all again, and twice on Saturdays.
Theater comes with a thrill I can see myself getting addicted to. The adrenaline rush of stepping out in front of a live audience and praying you don’t fuck up your lines. I’ve never been a fan of roller coasters, but I bet it feels the same. In comparison, a movie is slow and steady, filtered, and you rehearse your lines over and over until you nail them.
Then it’s all tied up in a pretty little money-making bow.
Early reviews are in, and they’re all saying this production ofTwelfth Nightwill sweep the Olivier Awards next year, including best actress for me in my role as Viola—“my best work to date.” And for the first time ever, I think the critics might be onto something.
But I couldn’t have done any of it without my number one fan and biggest supporter, currently beaming up at me from the middle of the front row—Lando—along with his siblings, his mom, and my parents. Marcy was here for the first week of pre-shows and once more declared the phone would be ringing off the hook with requests for me, which I’m happy with.
We’ve agreed to one project a year, wherever that may be, because Lando has said he’ll join me.
Since the beginning of the year, he’s been a permanent fixture next to me on the red carpet, which, to the amusement of his brothers, set off a slew of fan accounts featuring #hotenglishduke. I might have had Ashley “like” a couple of the posts for me.
Lando would be happy for it to die a painful death and never discuss it again, but Miles, being Miles, won’t allow that to happen. Since the first social post, any new ones are shared in the Burlington family chat group and rated.
I don’t hate it.
The cast and I take one final bow before the curtain falls, and for a minute, we all stand there, breathless. We did it. We got through the pre-shows and opening night without any fuckups, no lines forgotten, and no entering from the wrong side. Nothing.
We’re still on the stage, so our squeals of excitement are silent as we jump around congratulating and hugging each other, and the collective relief that we’re one show down is palpable. We don’t even stop when Hamish tries to calm us for post-show notes. In the end, he gives up because he’s eager to get to the opening night party for a stiff drink just like everyone else.
I’m floating on a cloud of happiness when I bump into Isobel, one of the production assistants.
“Holiday, would you like me to pop those in water for you? I’ll put them with the rest.”
“Yes, please.”
“And you have a visitor,” she adds with a smile.
I shove the bouquet at her and sprint down the stairs, then along the corridor to where the principal dressing rooms are. The scent of roses hits me before I reach mine, and when I enter, it’s like I’m walking up the path to Bluebell Cottage because flowers cover every available surface and the floor.
But I don’t notice any of it because Lando is leaning against my makeup table looking more handsome than I’ve ever seen him, backlit by two dozen bulb lights.
The socials would have a field day if they could see him now.
“There she is.” He grins, holding his arms wide open for me to fall into. “You were incredible. I’m so fucking proud of you.”
