Page 85 of Is This for Real?
“Hey, what are you doing in the robes?” someone asks.
“Go toward the voice,” Rory says.
“Are you sure? He sounds angry.”
We push robes out of our way following the voice.
A man in a djellaba greets us. “What are you doing? You want to buy?” He points at the robes.
“No,” we say. “We were looking at them and then we got lost.”
“You touch, you buy.”What is this, like fruit?
“We don’t really want to buy anything.”
“I call the gendarmes.” His voice rises. His face is turning purple. “You want to go to jail?”
No, I definitely don’t want to spend my secret cinema night in a fake jail cell. That is definitely not part of the plan. The actors here take this very seriously.
“We’ll buy one,” I say. “We can use it for a Halloween costume.” We buy a blue one for Rory and a white one with gold trim around the neck opening for me.
We look down the alleyway but don’t see her. We report back to the communications desk that we lost her. We tell them that we heard her say that they were rounding up the usual suspects. The movie starts in an hour. Rory suggests we go dance at the Parisian Club. It turns out there’s an entirely different set for the Paris café where Ilsa and Rick dated.
A Big Band is playing. We take a moment off to the side to remind ourselves of the steps. Rory takes me into his arms. It’s Savoy swing dancing from the 1940s, which is very fast. Rory twirls me out, and then I do the fancy footwork, as does he. My butt doesn’t hurt, luckily, as I wiggle it in time to the music. Baby got back. Zelda would be proud.
He pulls me in. We swing around, and I’m holding on to him as we go round and round. I laugh. It’s so freeing.
We slow down from the spinning, and our glances meet. His gaze is intense, and he lowers his head. I tilt my head up. My arms move up from his waist to encircle his neck. I’m aware of only him, his lips, his hands holding me to him.
Someone jostles us on the dance floor, and we break apart.
The loudspeakers announce an air raid and direct us to move to a protected space. We join the crowds of people streaming toward the cinema area.
Six screens surround the seats. We find our seats. His arm is around me, tracing patterns, tantalizing tingles of sensation up and down my body. My mouth is dry. As the lights dim, he kisses me quickly again. I tighten my grip on his hand. Need to pinch myself. This is really happening. We watchCasablanca. On a stage in front, actors are acting out the scenes. It’s perfect. Even if it is a love triangle and they don’t end up together.Don’t be superstitious and worry that’s some sign.
Confetti showers us as we head toward the exit. Rory’s arm is around me. His hand rubs my lower back—and lower.
“Does it still hurt?”
“No.” That should have been clear after all the swing dancing.
“Good.”
He gives me a “you’re mine” look of longing. And I’m sure he sees the same message in my eyes.
Rory opens an app to hail a cab, but there are a million of us out here, and everyone is hailing cabs. The next ride is at least a thirty-minute wait.
We can’t wait another thirty minutes. We take the Tube, packing onto the train with a lot of other revelers. Rory holds on to a strap with one hand, his arm encircling me, holding me closely against him. I rest my cheek on his chest, his heart beating against my ear. It feels more than right.
Chapter thirty
Wearrivebackatthe hotel and run into Myrtle and Bernie. Unbelievably bad luck. They invite us for a drink.
“It’s our last night, and you promised us a drink,” Bernie says.
Rory looks at me apologetically and says, “Sure.”
Is he having doubts?He was quiet on the subway ride home.Get yourself together. This is his client, and he can’t say no.Again.
