Page 90 of Let’s Make a Scene

The Curzon in Mayfair is one of my favorite places. I used to come here as a kid to watch films every weekend. It feels very full circle to be here now at my own premiere. I try to let myself enjoy it for a second, to let myself just be here, like Cynthie said, but again I taste the fear in my mouth, tangy and metallic. My ears are full of the sound of my own heartbeat, and my vision wavers. Not now. I think. Please, not now.

I take a breath, try to force my body back under control, then I lean back into the car and hold my hand out.

“Come on then,” I say, my voice clipped as Lorna and Suzy approach the car in a flutter of excitement. “Let’s do this.”

Cynthie shuffles forward, and when my fingers wrap around hers, her hands are cold. She’s nervous, but no one else would ever know. The second she emerges from the car, she’s all smiles.

There’s a small crowd of young fans standing behind a barrier, and they start shouting when they see us. As agreed, I keep Cynthie’s hand in mine.

“Hi, guys,” Lorna greets us breathlessly. “You both look wonderful!”

“Thank you,” Cynthie says, and I wonder if anyone else notices the way she toys with the delicate chain around her neck, the way her hands are trembling, just a touch.

“You have some time to sign autographs before we hit the carpet… if that’s okay with you?” Lorna says, more than half her attention on the phone in her hand.

“Sure,” I agree. “Sounds good.”

“Yep.” Cynthie’s voice is pitched higher than usual. “That sounds great.”

We move over to the crowd, and their excitement climbs to a frenzy, as do the squealing noises they’re making. Grasping hands reach toward us, and there are people shouting my name, shouting both our names. We approach the barrier and Suzy hands us a couple of markers.

Notebooks, scraps of paper, and even a few copies of the poster for the film are thrust in front of me, and I scrawl my autograph over and over again, smiling and greeting people as I go. The crowd is mostly made up of teenage girls, and they look at me with hearts in their eyes. When I watch Cynthie with them, I notice they wear the same look with her.

“She’s so pretty,” I hear one girl sigh.

“They look amazing together,” her friend replies. “They’re, like, the perfect couple.”

The whole time, I can feel the attack pressing in on me. I try to fight it, to ignore it, but I know it’s inevitable. I can’t get enough air into my lungs, and my chest is rising and falling too rapidly. Someone’s going to notice. My fingers wrapped around the pen are tingling. I have to get out of here. Fast.

I take an abrupt step back. Put my hand in my pocket.

Cynthie looks up at me, startled.

“What are you—” she starts, but I cut her off.

“There’s a call I have to take,” I snap, already moving away. I clutch my phone in my hand like the prop and the lifeline it is.

“You can’t be serious,” I hear Cynthie murmur, but then she’s laughing, bright, making jokes and excuses for me to the crowd.

I stride away back toward the car, which is still idling, waiting in the queue to turn around.

“I just need somewhere private to take this call for a second,” I say to the driver, amazed that I’ve kept the words steady, when my lungs feel like they’re full of broken glass. Then again, I’ve had plenty of practice hiding my panic attacks from people.

When I get into the backseat, I tug at my bow tie, pulling it away and unbuttoning my collar. Sweat beads on my forehead. I place my shaking hand on my chest and focus on the feeling of my thumping heart under my fingers, on breathing slow and smooth. It feels like it always does: it feels like I’m dying.

Even if they stretch endlessly, it’s really only a few minutes before I’m back under control. I know how to manage things, but it doesn’t make this any easier. I hate that it happened here, today, that I couldn’t just enjoy myself and be happy like a normal person. It feels like something has been taken from me, and I won’t be able to get it back. I grab a water from the mini-bar in the console in front of me and swig at it, press the cool bottle to my forehead. I do up my shirt and retie my tie with steady fingers. I push my hair back from my face and straighten my jacket. When I leave the car, I’m sure no one would ever guess what just happened, but I feel hollow, exhausted.

“Oh, there he is.” Lorna looks relieved as I reappear. She turns to the crowd. “Sorry, we need to get these two down to the red carpet now.”

There’s a collective groan of disappointment, and Cynthie disentangles herself. After a second’s hesitation, I take her hand in mine and the group behind us shrieks their approval as we walk away.

“Perfect,” Lorna murmurs, clearly pleased. “You’re doing great. So, just remember what we talked about for the carpet… it’s all about body language. We want the two of you to look like you’re together.”

“I cannot believe you did that,” Cynthie hisses through gritted teeth, her expression pleasant. “Those people waited hours to see you and you just fobbed them off for a phone call?”

“I needed to take it,” I say, abruptly.

“You really are the most entitled, selfish…” Cynthie begins, but she doesn’t get to finish that lovely thought, because Lorna hustles us through a barrier into the holding area.