Page 30 of How To Plot a Payback

It’s becoming clearer by the moment that I’m going to have to help her along, so I add, “And as someone playing that character, wouldn’t you of all people agree it’s time to see her stand up for herself? I mean, 232 episodes of zero character growth must have driven you mad by now, hasn’t it? If Ashley Krane has half the intelligence and self-respect the writers have claimed she has, she would’ve thrown down the ultimatum long ago.”

“What ultimatum?” Lavender says.

“That their fate be sealed one way or another. Marry or break up,” I say, as if this were obvious. And then add, to make it abundantly clear, “Permanently.”

She laughs.

It’s a light tinkle of a laugh.

Kind of like one of the twelve windchimes Sally Anne, my other ninety-two-year-old neighbor, put on her patio adjoining my bedroom window that at first seemed innocent but will eventually drive me to insanity.

The BBC once referred to it as “the laugh that stopped a world war.” Rumor has it that a door opened during a heated debate among several nations, and on the telly in the hall outside the room was Lavender Rhodes, laughing at some punch line. One by one, the heads of nations turned, and then they started laughing. And half an hour later, a peace treaty was initiated. A rumor at worst, coincidence at best. Whatever it was, here she stands over my shoulder, laughing that terrible laugh while blinking several times, chin up towards the sky.

A Kleenex appears in the stylist’s hand, and immediately she is dabbing beneath Lavender’s eyes, preventing any moisture from falling on her freshly bronzed cheeks. This must happen a lot. The tears.

“‘Choke on your flowers.’ Can you imagine anything at all more out of character? That’s hilarious. But seriously, Mr. Goodwin—”

And while she launches into what she believes is a real question with regard to the script, the room around me shifts.

Everything, all the goodwill come my way, goes to pot in an instant.

Faces around the table darken, lips pursed as disgusted eyes squint at me. As if I am some traveling cult leader and they almost, almost, got tricked.

With one laugh, with one dab of her eyes, she has effectively shot and killed my idea. She threw out that guffaw with the same disregard she now employs to stand on the strap of my laptop bag, crushing my personal belongings beneath her feet.

I wait several moments.

When she doesn’t step off, I speak.

“Excuse me,” I say. The stylist’s elbow clocks me in the jaw as she pulls down another roller. My body is arched, pressed against the man beside me (who looks only too eager to disassociate himself from me) as the stylist wedges herself in and keeps working. I look down at my strap beneath Lavender’s feet. “If you don’t mind.”

It takes a moment for Lavender to realize she’s being addressed. When she does, she follows the direction of my eyes to her own footwear. She steps off the strap quickly. “Oh, sorry.”

Her eyes linger on mine, and again that little crease forms between her brows—even as the stylist begins pressing on it with a cream as if wishing it away.

“Do I know you?” Lavender says.

Does she know me.

Does Lavender Rhodes, of Welling School of the London Borough of Bexley, England, know me.

This woman has single-handedly destroyed every single thing in my life she’s ever touched, down to my first day on my dream job. I almost don’t want to say.

“That’s Finn Masters,” Goodwin says gruffly, as if I can’t answer myself. “He’s come in from Higher Stakes to take over for Carrie.”

“Finn,” she repeats, chewing on my name as she turns her attention back to me. An uncomfortable mix of lightning and ice runs through my veins as our eyes lock again. I’m looking the dragon in the eye. I’m finding myself face-to-face with the sea siren herself, knowing full well the plumes of smoke from the distant town are her doing.

I’m momentarily struck by the iridescent green flecks in her marine blue eyes. The sliver of an opening between her full, soft lips. The question mark on her brow as it rises on her porcelain forehead.

Oh, never look her in the eyes!

“Well, Finn,” she says, her breath soft and flowery as she raises a hand. She pats me twice on the shoulder. Both times sending electric shocks down my arm. “Nice to meet you. Welcome to the show.”

Chapter 4

Lavender

Monday, Film Day, Stage 2