Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
True, but that’s not why I love that play. “I like Oscar Wilde. A lot.”
“Understandable. But you don’t need this in triplicate.” Heath crooks his finger on another copy, the one with a man in a suit on the cover.
“That one is fine to donate,” I say, watching his every move.
He reaches for the edition with the two men in top hats. I shake my head vehemently. “Take the red and white one instead.”
I grab the book with the top hats. “I’m keeping this one.”
Forever.
If someone wanted to take it, they’d have to pry it from me in my grave, and I’d fucking haunt them for the rest of time.
Heath lifts a very brotherly eyebrow. In that arch, he asks a silent question. Why is this one so special? Then he makes a guess. “Did Arlo give this to you?”
I shudder, like a wave of nausea rolls through me. “No. Arlo did not give me books.”
“Reason number seventy-eight why he’s an ex,” Heath says drily.
“Please. There are easily more than one hundred reasons why he’s history,” I say.
But really, a few big ones. The bastard of an ex-boyfriend used me to get my agent and then slept with him.
Harry was very nearly headless when I found out. Arlo too. But that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it was how I handled the two years that followed.
I don’t even like to think about what went down then.
Heath waves the book at me. “Then is this edition the one you used when you performed it in uni?”
“No. Someone gave that to me,” I say quickly, darting up to reach for the copy I’ve kept with me for seven years. TJ gave it to me on his last night, told me to read it now and then, that he’d underlined his favorite passages just for me. That book had lived on my shelves in that Waterloo flat for two years with Sir Boring, then a place in Bankside when I roomed with William and Olivia since she finally moved into the city when she became the queen of voiceover work. And now, the book has its home here with me.
When I flop back onto the sofa, I flip to the page my long-ago American lover read to me in bed years ago. I hope you have not been leading a double life, pretending to be wicked and being good all the time. That would be hypocrisy.
Then, the words he whispered to me next. Always be wicked, Jude.
Running my finger over the line, questions race through my head as they have many times before.
What is he up to now? The occasional glance at his social media reveals only the basics—he still worships at the altar of caffeine and seeks out new music like it’s a religion. But does he still despise rubber ducks on shower curtains and write his romances mostly in coffee shops, like he did when he was here?
Then comes the question that always jostles its way to the front of my mind.
Is he single? Or has he met someone new to whisper Oscar Wilde to? I asked Google about TJ a year ago, and the tight-lipped search engine didn’t say a word about his relationship status.
Heath breaks my trip back in time with an amused glance. “What’s that smirk for? A line you loved saying under the spotlight?”
Good thing I’m trained at feigning emotions. “Just thinking of all things wicked,” I say since that’s true enough. Then I tuck the copy safely back on the shelf and nod to the door. “I need to take off for curtain. And you need to drop my darlings at the library. Give them a good home. I insist.”
He smiles. “I will.”
We leave, and after I say goodbye to my brother out in front of my building, I head to the Garrick Theatre, an intimate West End playhouse. For the next two and a half hours, I perform Pillow Talk to a packed house, bow at the end, then search for a familiar face in the crowd and blow a kiss when I spot her.
After I change out of costume, I meet up with Helen outside the theater.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, then kiss her on the cheek.
“As if I’d miss it,” she says, then swats my shoulder. “I can’t believe you made me cry.”
I give a devilish smile. “Nothing makes me happier than audience tears or cheers.”
“Well, you earned both. Thank you for inviting me.”
“Thank you for coming. It means so much.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “You’ve always been so good to my store over the years. Before it was my store,” she says, since Helen bought the shop when Angie retired several months ago. “I mean, you sent that scrummy American to me all those years ago. Did you know he still shops here? He’s one of my best customers.”