4. Luna

4

Two shows down, ninety-six to go…

I'd gritted my teeth and apologised to Paul for snapping, but the photoshoot still cast a shadow over the day. The video of my outburst had appeared on BuzzHub before I managed to change into my gold bikini, and from there, it had quickly spread to TikTok, Facebook, and Instagram. In my previous life, I'd checked my socials hourly—okay, minutely—with a sense of anticipation, but now that had turned to trepidation. Last week, everyone had been worried about me, and my comments were filled with numbers for crisis hotlines and therapy recommendations. This week, the public had turned, and now I was a slut, an attention seeker, and a bitch for ignoring my fans, all at the same time.

Predictably, Cordelia's next message had arrived right after I changed into regular clothes. A bunch of emojis followed by Unbelievable. But they clearly didn't teach emojis at etiquette school because she was confused, drunk, and tired. And also a squirrel, but I figured that was an accident.

The show in the evening had gone well, but Paul was still off with me. He'd barely spoken in the car on the way home, not that he usually spoke much, but tonight he'd said, like, three words, and those were "See you tomorrow."

The car sped off the instant the door to my apartment building clicked shut behind me, and I realised I needed to apologise better. Something else to google. Should I buy Paul a "sorry" gift? A man would send a woman flowers, but Paul didn't strike me as the floral type. Maybe…beer? Gah. Life had been so much easier when I pretended not to care about anyone.

My fifth-floor apartment was far smaller than my old home, with just two bedrooms, an open-plan living area-slash-kitchen, and two bathrooms, one with a shower and one with a tub. My bedroom had a small balcony with a table and chairs I never used, not that the view was much to write home about anyway, and long, gauzy drapes stopped people in the opposite building from spying on me.

I hadn't met the neighbours on either side of me, but occasionally, I heard a shower running in apartment 503, which made me think the soundproofing wasn't fantastic. I still sang to myself, but quietly. Just ballads. Several times, I'd seen the brunette in the apartment opposite leaving for work as I got home. She wore a uniform from the Nebula, which would once have taken a prize for the shabbiest casino in Vegas, but in the past couple of years, new management had given it a makeover, and it was super luxurious now. She'd flashed a smile and muttered a "Hi" before she hurried to the elevator. The ring that glinted on her left hand suggested she was married.

In this new place in life, I felt lonely, but safe.

At least, I did for the next forty-seven minutes.

I took a shower, washed off the sweat and grease and glitter, and discovered my tan was going blotchy. Lourdes, the tanning technician who used to come to my house, did a better job than the lady at the theatre. With Lourdes, I'd stayed beautifully bronze for a whole week, but now I was fading after only three days. I needed to get Lourdes back. But I didn't have her number, or her surname, and I couldn't remember the name of her business. Which meant I'd have to suck it up and text Jubilee, and I didn't want her to know what a poor job I was doing of fending for myself with my pile of dirty laundry and my TV dinners for one. This morning, I'd run out of toilet paper. Thankfully I had tissues, but the groceries weren't being delivered until Monday, and how did people remember all this stuff?

I couldn't even remember to take a lasagne out of the freezer.

Lunch was a distant dot in the rear-view mirror, I'd been on stage for nearly two hours, and my stomach was doing that weird yawny thing that meant it was beyond empty. This was all so…so overwhelming, and I almost curled up and cried, but then my eyes would go puffy and I'd still be hungry. I set the microwave on high power and checked my socials again. I'd posted a picture of myself backstage this evening, an attempt to mitigate the damage from the photoshoot, but nobody wanted to see me happy and smiling. Misery and drama gained all the attention. Oh, and naked flesh.

The buzz of the intercom made me jump because who the heck would be outside at nearly midnight? Or had somebody's drunk boyfriend hit the wrong button?

"Who is it?"

"Delivery from Carlo's."

"From where?"

"Carlo's Italian Restaurant."

"You have the wrong apartment."

"502?"

"That's me, but I didn't order anything."

"I think a friend ordered it for you. A surprise after a difficult day."

A friend? Luis, maybe? Or Paul? He'd practically given me the silent treatment, even though I'd said I was sorry for biting his head off, so perhaps he realised he'd been a little harsh?

"What was their name?"

"I don't know, ma'am. Do you want the food or not?"

Microwave lasagne or restaurant Italian? There was no contest.

"I'll be right down."

Could Frank Serafini have sent me dinner? He was Italian, plus I'd overheard him telling one of the brutes who followed him around that I needed more junk in my trunk. Which was strangely complimentary. Most people seemed to think I was too heavy at the moment, although today's unauthorised snaps hadn't helped. They said the camera added ten pounds, but the camera and an unflattering angle added twenty.

I walked past the unmanned concierge desk—he finished work at six—and headed for the front door. It opened onto a landing framed by two stone columns, and wide steps led down to the street. Really, the apartment building started on the second floor because the first floor was taken up by the parking garage.

Outside on the landing, a delivery guy wearing a red motorcycle helmet with the restaurant's logo on the side handed over a bag and then stood there. Waiting. Staring at me.

"What? Do you want an autograph?"

"Usually, people give me a tip now."

Crap. "Right, of course. So I left my purse in my apartment, but I'll be right back, okay?"

The guy was leaning against the wall with his arms folded when I huffed my way back down the stairs—the elevator took forever—but when I handed him a fifty, I got a mock salute and a "Thanks, ma'am." Phew. That meant I'd tipped enough. Jubilee had always taken care of payments; my credit card was just for show. And now groceries. Caro was helping temporarily with the rest of the bills, thank goodness. The logistics, not giving me actual money. After I finished at the Palace, she'd promised to spend a week in Vegas so I could show her the Strip and she could show me how to balance a chequebook.

My apartment smelled funny when I walked back inside. Double crap. The lasagne was a smoking brick in the microwave, and I was even more grateful for the bruschetta, the perfectly cooked linguine carbonara, and the portion of tiramisu.

A receipt fell out of the bag, and I took a bite of bruschetta, then checked for clues as to who had bought me dinner. I paused mid-chew as I thought of a possible fourth candidate. Ryder. He liked to buy me food, plus he had some weird way of knowing me better than I knew myself, which meant he'd probably guessed I was craving carbs this evening.

But the truth was much, much worse.

The "Special Instructions" section had a whole freaking essay, and my appetite vanished entirely as I read it.

My Dearest Cleopatra,

I hope you're feeling better after your unfortunate encounter with the asp. Your strength and resilience have always been an inspiration to me, and I have no doubt that they will aid you in overcoming this trauma. Someone should teach that photographer a lesson.

May this meal bring you the warmth and comfort you deserve, my queen. It is but a humble offering, but it carries all the affection and admiration I hold for you. As you dine, I hope you can feel my presence and know that I'm thinking of you.

Just as the stars once shone brightly above Ancient Egypt, they now shine upon you. I believe you carry the spirit of the great pharaoh within you, a timeless elegance and grace that hasn't diminished through the ages. Your strength and beauty enchant me, and I feel honoured that I shall soon walk by your side.

Yours,

Mark A

I spat the mouthful of bruschetta back into the box and gagged. Sending earrings to the theatre was one thing, but sending dinner to my freaking apartment? What if he'd poisoned it? What if I was about to die? I'd typed out the nine from 911 when I remembered the food had come directly from the restaurant.

Cleopatra? Ancient Egypt? Mark Antony? Was Paul right and this guy was a total crackpot? He'd been stalking me online, that much was clear. What if he was watching my apartment too? Panic took over, and I dialled the same man I'd called the last time my knees had gone weak with fear.

And got through to his voicemail.

Thoughts jumbled, I left a long, rambling message that probably didn't make much sense, and as I spoke, I realised how crazy I sounded. Someone had sent me earrings and linguine? He'd said I had the spirit of a pharaoh? I hung up and channelled Jubilee and her stupid meditation app. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

Maybe I was overreacting?

It wouldn't be hard to find my address. Reporters camped outside most days, and I'd seen pictures of myself leaving the building. People used to mail stuff to my old house, but I hadn't flipped out because I was never alone there. Mom was nearly always around, and Jubilee, and the maid, the yard service, the pool cleaner…

If I thought about this logically, I wasn't alone here either; I just didn't speak with anyone. My neighbours would hear me scream if a creep showed up at my apartment, I lived on the fifth floor so nobody could climb through the window, and I had two locks on the door. As long as I kept my phone charged and with me, I'd be okay.

I'd be okay.

The notes were polite, not nasty.

And that linguine did smell good.

I cracked and ate a mouthful as I googled Cleopatra and Mark Antony. Then another mouthful. And another. Cleopatra had married Mark Antony—aka Marcus Antonius, a Roman general—after the death of her first husband, Julius Caesar. He'd been murdered on the Ides of March. What was an ide? I googled and came up with "Integrated Development Environment," which didn't seem right.

Anyhow, Cleopatra had been powerful in her own right, the Queen of Egypt, a pharaoh. They hadn't fallen in love right away—Mark Antony had fought the attraction and married another woman soon after they met, Octavia, even though Cleopatra was pregnant with his babies—but he and Cleopatra reunited later on. I wasn't sure I liked Mark Antony much. He seemed like a player.

So, it wasn't surprising when he had a tiff with his ex-wife's brother, Octavian. Did the Romans not have many names available? Octavia and Octavian? Mind you, I'd competed in pageants against a girl named Simona, and her brother was called Simon, so the problem wasn't confined to ancient history. Octavian and Mark Antony got into a battle, like, with armies, and Cleopatra figured her man would lose, which wasn't very loyal of her, but she also seemed to be more manipulative than Cordelia, so her actions weren't entirely surprising.

Rather than shack up with a loser, she pretended to kill herself, so Mark Antony killed himself in return, and then she really did die by suicide—an asp bit her boob the way Paul said. What a freaking horror story. If they'd lived in this century, the two of them would have been on a remake of The Jerry Springer Show for sure, and Mark A thought I reminded him of Cleopatra? Gee, thanks.

I polished off the rest of the linguine, double-checked the door was locked, and crawled into bed. Sleep was a pipe dream. I lay there in the dark, googling "how to un-leave a voicemail" and finding that it wasn't possible. Where was Ryder? Probably in Virginia, working or out with friends. Or maybe saving the world.

He'd moved on, and I had to do the same.