11. Eve

CHAPTER 11

EVE

W e had dinner the next night in our hotel, a long, lazy meal in the Italian tradition. We'd spent most of the day tumbled up in bed, then in the shower, then against the wall. Then in the bed again, then back in the shower. Now we were glowing and freshly scrubbed clean, sprawled in our robes like Greeks in their togas, eating olives and artichoke hearts and juniper-salted prosciutto. Marco's phone buzzed, but he ignored it. He reached for a fat bunch of black grapes.

"These are so good," he said.

His phone buzzed again, texts bubbling up. Then came a photo, a pair of bare breasts. Marco saw me see them and flipped his phone over.

"Sorry."

I forced a laugh. "It happens."

Marco picked his phone back up and put it on silent. I put down the bit of bruschetta I'd been eating. These things did happen, but my stomach felt sour. Jealousy bubbled there, bitter and sharp. I knew there'd been others — I knew who Marco was — but still, seeing one of them flaunting her chest…

"She's someone I met last time I was here." Marco had stopped eating, and was polishing his phone screen. "She must've heard I was here and thought, well, you know. I wasn't going to see her again."

"I don't care," I said. Marco recoiled. I realized I'd spoken more harshly than I'd meant to. I gulped some wine to calm down and tried again. "What I mean to say is, we all have a past. I don't need to know about yours, or who's in it. All I need to know is, right now you're mine. For the term of our agreement?—"

"No, yeah, of course."

"Because it wouldn't look good if you were ‘cheating.' If Rafael jilted me, then you had a side piece. That would defeat the whole purpose of us being here."

"I don't. I'm not. She's not— Hold on." He thumbed his phone back on and pulled up his texts, and scrolled up past her bare chest to their history. "See? Her last message was ten months ago."

"I believe you," I said, feeling petty and stupid.

"I'd get it if you didn't. I do have a past. But, yeah, I'm yours now, for as long as you want me. Till we've got our revenge, I mean." He looked away. I stared at him, trying to parse his expression. He looked almost hurt, or a little bit sad. Then he smiled again, and slapped his palms together.

"Okay, let's not dwell on it. Change of subject!"

I leaned back, relieved. "Yeah, that sounds good."

"I was trying to ask you at dinner, the other night, before those reporters came and we had to run…" Marco frowned, maybe trying to find the right words. "So, I've shown you my passion. You've seen me race. But you're still a mystery. What makes your heart race?"

I winked at him. "You."

He shook his head. "No, no, I'm serious. I mean, for real. Your dream. Your passion. I know you have one."

I bit my lip. I did, but…

"Come on. You can tell me."

"There is something," I said, suddenly nervous. "But I never really pursued it. My parents, they always… No, it's not their fault."

"Well, spit it out. What is it?"

I exhaled, harsh and shaky. "I could show you right now. But you have to promise to laugh."

He cocked a brow. "You mean, not to laugh?"

"No. You must laugh, or I'll be highly offended." I stood up. "Get dressed."

"We're going out?"

"That's right. Now get dressed before I change my mind."

Ten minutes later, we were in the back of a taxi. Marco wanted to drive us, but I wouldn't let him. Giving him the address would spoil the surprise, and I wasn't ready to answer his questions. Not till he'd seen, and he'd laughed, or not laughed. Not till I knew if he'd be on board with my dream, or if he'd dismiss it like so many others. Why bother? It's hard. Almost nobody makes it. It's constant rejection, and you don't need that. You have everything already, so why ? —

We pulled up at a bar in an old, narrow street, its peeling sign hanging askew. Marco paused with his hand on the door handle.

"Is this the right place? It looks kind of sketchy."

"What, are you scared?"

"No, but that window…" He pointed at a window with a crack running down it, the pane held together by a zigzag of duct tape.

"It's part of the charm." I grinned and got out. Marco hurried to catch me, and we headed inside. I watched his face as he took it all in, the wobbly tables. The butcher's-slab bar. The ramshackle stage with its single spotlight; the NO CAMERAS sign with its crossed-out cell phone. A wave of laughter went up, and he blinked, bemused.

"A comedy club? Are you going to tell jokes?"

"Wait here," I said, and ducked into the crowd. Marco started after me, but I left him behind. I shouldered up to the bar and waved down the bartender, and his face lit up at the sight of me.

"Tell me you're going on."

"Yeah, if there's room."

"I had three comics cancel, some bug going round. I was about to do open mic, but that's always a trainwreck."

"Well, I can't fill up three sets, but I'll do fifteen minutes."

"That'll get me through till someone can cover."

Waiting in the wings, a scary thought hit me: I'd never done this before for someone I knew, unless you counted my sister. Which, yeah, I didn't. I'd always come to places like this, lowbrow, low-rent. Places you wouldn't catch my social circle, and if you did, they wouldn't admit it. I could come here and be someone else, be someone funny and silly and rude. But, what if Marco hated that person? What if he didn't laugh? If he was embarrassed?

I was spiraling so hard I missed my intro, and the guy who went before me had to nudge me onstage. There, I stood frozen in the buzzing spotlight, clutching the mic like a life ring at sea. I looked for Marco and saw he'd found a table. He'd ordered a beer, and he raised his glass, half a toast. My heart did a somersault and my head emptied out, my act, my material, all up in smoke. I felt a shift in the atmosphere, a hint of impatience. If I couldn't recover soon, I'd bomb and bomb hard. No one would laugh, least of all Marco. Or he'd give me a pity laugh. A dry little chuckle. I'd know it was fake, and?—

Pretend he's not there.

I swallowed so loud the mic picked it up, shuffled my feet, and said the first thing I thought of.

"So, uh, I've been dating this race car driver."

I hadn't said anything funny yet, but the audience was warm. They snickered at that. I egged them on, grinning.

"Yeah, I know, right? A race car driver. His whole purpose in life is finishing fast. No, not just fast. Finishing first , before anyone else can."

The laughter got louder. I didn't dare look at Marco. Still, I plunged on, picking up steam.

"He took me to see one of his races. Cars going round and round that little track…" I waggled a finger in tight little circles. "Around and around, going for that fast finish. But just round and round, that's not going to do it. You need some up-and-down action, some back and forth. Some quick little flutters, some—" I trailed off as the laughter rose, drowning me out.

After that, it was easy. I'd hit my groove. There's this sweet spot on stage, a back-and-forth with the crowd, my timing, their laughter, one conversation. Some nights, I never hit that spot, but when I did, it was magic. I rode the tide of their mirth higher and higher, till I saw the lights dip and my set was done.

"Thank you," I yelled, over their laughter. "I've been Eve Hansley, and you've all been great."

Marco was there when I came offstage, and he caught me in his arms and spun me around.

"Where did that come from? When'd you get so funny?"

I giggled, delighted, still riding my high. "I heard you laughing."

"Yeah. You were great. Even if your whole joke was, I'm bad in bed." He leaned down and kissed me to show he wasn't mad. "Seriously, how did I not know you're… a stand-up comic?"

I sighed as I felt myself sink back to earth. "I'm not a real comic. I only— Hold on." The bartender had come out from behind the bar. He passed me an envelope.

"Nice set. Any chance you could come back tomorrow?"

"Sadly, no. We're headed to Barcelona — his next race is there." I kissed Marco again. He took my envelope from me.

"What's this, your pay?"

"Yeah, and my tips."

"So, you are a real comic. Why would you say you aren't?" He steered me back to his table near the back of the room. "You've obviously got talent. You make people laugh. So why would you act like that's not a real thing?"

"Because I can only ever do it in places like this." I stared down at the table, with its layers of beer rings. "It's just, with my family, with their royal connections, what does it look like, me doing this?"

"They don't approve?"

"It's not that, exactly. It's… Okay, imagine I hit the big time. If I was the next Seinfeld, if I got my own show. I'd love that, but what about my obligations? My family's big on charity, on giving back. On using our name and money as a force for change. And I want to do what? Be on some sitcom?"

"Actors do charity," said Marco. "Couldn't you do both?"

"If I was successful, but what if I wasn't? What if I tried, but I fell flat?"

Marco cocked his head, as though deep in thought. "So, let me see if I've got this straight: if you succeed, it's not good enough, because it's not what your folks raised you to do. If you fail, you're a failure forever and ever?"

I flapped my hand at him. "That's not what I meant."

"But that's what you said."

I tried to think of a retort, but Marco was right. That was what I'd said, and it sounded weak. Silly.

"I get it," he said. "For me, it was easy to take a long shot on racing. I was nobody special, not famous or rich. If I made it, I could buy a new house for my ma. If I flamed out, I'd work for one of my uncles. You've got further to fall, so it's harder to jump."

I tried to imagine going all-in, doing comedy festivals. Going on auditions. Being recognized for something besides my last name. It felt like a daydream, but I got laughs. I did. If I tried, really tried, what was the worst that could happen? I'd already had the worst moment ever on socials, running out of my wedding. Tearing my dress. Bombing a festival, a lousy review… none of that seemed so bad after Rafael.

"You should do it," said Marco. He gripped my hands tight. "If your family loves you, they'll support you. Your friends will, as well. And your fans, once you get some. Once you show the world what you can do."

I knew he was right, at least about Gabriella. She'd always supported me. She'd be on my side.

"I saw you up there, how you came alive. It's like when I'm racing. I saw that same fire. You can't deny yourself that. It'd be like living life on a diet. You might not starve to death, but where's the joy in just bread?"

"Bread's what you don't eat when you're on a diet."

He squeezed my hands harder. "You know what I mean. Life's really short, and you only get one. Do you want to spend your only life thinking what if? "

A vision flashed through my head, me on a movie set. At an awards show. People smiling and laughing, just seeing my face. Running up to get autographs, phones up for selfies. Marco beside me, cheering me on.

Only, he wouldn't be, because we weren't real. Two weeks from now, we'd be all over, and any dream-chasing I did would be on my own. Marco would be somewhere, with someone else. Maybe the woman who'd texted at dinner.

"Maybe," I said, and pulled my hands back. "Come on, let's get out of here. It's getting late."