Scene 37

Fifty feet ahead of me, I gazed with mounting envy at the sensibility of Margaret Gilles' low kitten heels. One would have thought I'd have learned two days earlier in Hollywood that skyscraping stilettos made for a miserable stroll down the red carpet…

But no.

Here I was, twenty feet into the quarter-mile trek through Leicester Square, with my toes already threatening to file a formal complaint with the union.

"Kameryn!"

"Kameryn!"

"Miss Kingsbury!"

The clamor of my name in stereo from a sea of strangers' lips still felt like I was waking in a dream. Thousands of people leaned against the railings, waving movie posters and memorabilia, begging for autographs as I walked by. I signed as many as I could get to, knowing most of these people had been waiting more than seventy-two hours to secure their place in line.

"Now, the burning question," the red carpet host, Matt Siker, a charismatic London comedian, greeted as I reached the first stage of interviews on my way to the Empire Theatre. "How would you compare tonight's event with that of Los Angeles?"

I wondered what he'd say if I leaned into his mic and said I couldn't really give you a fair comparison, Matt . I don't remember much of the Hollywood premiere. I spent the majority of the evening trying not to lose my lunch on my borrowed óscar de la Renta gown .

Somehow, I didn't imagine my PR team would appreciate me admitting I'd been so nervous about my red carpet debut, that as soon as I'd made it through the doors of the Dolby Theatre, I'd stowed myself away in the backstage greenroom.

In my defense, I hadn't been the only one overwhelmed by the enormity of the occasion. I'd been kept company by Grady Dunn, who'd sat at the private bar, his tie dangling loose around his neck, face perspiring, as he waited out the showing of the film. In one of my passing trips to the bathroom, he told me he couldn't stand seeing himself on screen. And then tipped back another drink.

Those anecdotes, I was certain, weren't the ones my English host was looking for.

I played it safe. "The reception has been incredible. Both cities have made us feel extraordinarily welcome."

"And deservedly so," he beamed, "but tell me honestly, Kameryn," he lowered his voice conspiratorially, "no one can beat the way we do it here in London, don't you think?"

An impulsive side of me wanted to tell him he was absolutely right, but not for the reasons he believed. Because despite the magnitude of the Hollywood premiere—the largest the world had ever seen—on a personal level, London had the clear advantage by a mile. There was nothing Hollywood could offer that could outweigh my growing anticipation, knowing by the time the night was over, it was Dillon who'd be unlacing the silk ties on this Versace gown.

"London certainly holds a special piece of my heart." I offered him a broad smile as the flashbulbs continued to burst, creating a wall of chaotic light in every direction.

Somewhere behind us, by the rising decibel of the roar of the fans, I knew either Elliott or Grady had arrived. There was a certain magnetism that followed them—a kind of high voltage that electrified the crowd every time their names were announced.

It turned out to be Grady.

He smiled as he approached, and bent to kiss my cheek. "You look radiant, Kam. The true belle of the ball."

It still seemed surreal, somehow, to find myself at one of the most anticipated movie premieres in the world, with my name tumbling off Grady Dunn's tongue. Two days earlier, my mom had accompanied me to the Hollywood launch, and her bewilderment had nearly trumped my own.

"Pinch me, Kam," she'd whispered when Julia Roberts walked by and asked me for a selfie. For once, I don't think UCLA crossed her mind. Every time one of the screens towering above the entrance to the theatres rolled footage of me combating the elements of a cataclysmal winter or staving off scavengers in an apocalyptic wasteland, she squeezed my hand, gazing around us with a euphoric, glassy stare.

It had brought me a lot of joy, watching her grow starstruck posing for a photo with Margaret Gilles, and I'd laughed when her tanned cheeks had flushed floridly after Elliott made a point to introduce himself and kiss her hand.

For all of the differences we'd undergone over the past few years, I'd been undeniably grateful she was there. Her enthusiasm, her excitement, her unquestionable pride in being my mother had helped ground me when a moment began to feel too big to face on my own.

On the flight to London, I'd begun to second guess myself for having not asked her to come both nights. Her presence had felt so uncomplicated, so unobtrusive beside me.

It wasn't the same with Carter.

Now, to be clear—he'd been nothing short of wonderful these last few months in which I'd engaged him to take on a role that wasn't fair. I'd known it was selfish to ask for his help when our feelings for each other had been so convoluted for so many years. I knew he still loved me. But I also knew, despite the complexity of the situation, his ringside view of my relationship with Dillon had begun to help him find a closure we'd been lacking. No longer did he question any chance of our future. He knew I loved her in a way I hadn't been able to love him.

But even with complete transparency, and the awareness we were both in on this with full disclosure, it didn't wholly alleviate the awkwardness that arose.

As I left Grady to his interview, and rejoined Carter in my slow procession toward the Empire, I became acutely aware each time his hand rested at the small of my back, comfortable there from habit after so many years. And when we reached the step and repeat banner, posing for photos that would be viewed across the globe, I struggled to smile as he dutifully tucked me into the crook of his arm and kissed my temple, a familiar action he'd done so many times before.

The deception felt more stifling here, not because it was on display in front of the whole world, but because tonight I knew Dillon would be watching.

Yet even then, I couldn't bring myself to regret inviting her. It mattered too much to me to have her there—to share firsthand with her this thing I'd helped create, this film I was so proud of. The same way she'd wanted me present to watch her cross the finish line in Leeds.

Finishing with the official photo op, I lingered outside the entrance to the theatre. Grady swept by, signing a handful of last minute autographs, and then disappeared into the privacy of the Empire. I knew I should follow suit. I'd spent more than enough time smiling for selfies and signing Addison Riley bobbleheads and plastic quarterstaffs. Tomorrow, Entertainment Weekly would give me a five-star rating for my fan interactions. Not a kudos I'd intentionally been trying to earn. I just wasn't ready to disappear inside yet. I was still listening to the names of the guests arriving.

Sir Ian McKellen. Helen Mirren. Harry Kane. Gordon Ramsay. Cate Blanchett. Dame Judi Dench. Princess Anne.

Sam Huntley.

There.

I paused with a sharpie hovered over an 8X10 print of me locking lips with Grady in front of a snowy backdrop. In my peripheral, I could see Sam making her way along the cordoned path. She was impossible to miss, dressed to the nines in an outlandish suit of fuchsia, pausing to take photos and banter with the crowd.

I turned further away but continued to watch in the reflection of a lens thrust in my face until Dillon appeared beside her. I knew it was her, not just by the unaffected stroll of her relaxed gait, or the flare of her white sailor pants Sam had convinced her were worthy of the red carpet, but because of the meteoric way my heart responded.

She had come, just as she'd promised.

With my breath still hitched, I scrawled my signature across the photo of me and Grady—nearly misspelling my name in the process—and made one final wave to the fans before turning my attention to navigating the stairs of the theatre, determined to survive the nosebleed height of my imbecilic choice in footwear.

Compared to the chaos of Leicester Square, it was quiet inside the theatre. Unlike my experience in Los Angeles, I felt calm, and even excited, about the unveiling of the European film launch. It seemed hard to believe after fourteen months of madness, that in less than twenty-four hours, Sand Seekers would be viewed in cinemas across the world.

In a glowing review from Forbes following the Hollywood debut, the business magazine predicted the film would have the highest-grossing weekend on record. The night before, on my flight to London, Aaron sent me a screenshot with the following sentence highlighted:

It was a five-star electric performance from newcomer Kameryn Kingsbury, who showed thrilling chemistry with Dunn and Fleming, making it impossible to pull your eyes from the screen.

And another, from Entertainment Weekly:

Kingsbury proves she's not just another pretty face, delivering a nuanced, riveting performance as the indisputable star of the most anticipated film of the decade .

Overcome with stress… relief… excitement… and the reality of it all coming to fruition, I'd pulled my hoodie over my head and cried half way across the Atlantic.

"Looking for someone in particular?"

Interrupted from where I'd found a moment of privacy along the outskirts of the lobby foyer, I startled at the whispered voice near my ear.

I turned to give Elliott a frosty glare. There was something in his cat-who-ate-the-canary grin that promised I wouldn't appreciate the tenor of his jesting.

"Carter," I answered coolly, knowing I'd been caught scanning every face in the crowd. "He went to get us a drink."

Elliott's hazel eyes gleamed. It was almost gross, how handsome he was dressed up in a tux with tails. And equally annoying how deftly he saw right through me.

"For someone almost certain to find herself shortlisted for an Oscar, it's almost astonishing what a miserable liar you are."

"I wasn't aware the two went hand in hand," I responded tartly.

We'd built an odd friendship, ever since his whistleblowing phone call. He'd never mentioned the conversation again, and when I'd tried to thank him for his help, he'd abruptly blown me off.

"We look out for each other, Kingsbury," was all he'd said, before making it clear the topic was off-limits. But over the following months, it was he who'd gotten me through the grueling stress and helped me survive our globe-traversing press tour.

"Acting, lying," he shrugged, "both forms of deception."

"Elliott—Kameryn!" It was L.R.'s wife, Rebecca. "Photo?"

Elliott draped his arm over my shoulders and we smiled obediently before she went on her way.

"Do you ever hate this?" I asked beneath my breath as he waved at another tuxedoed stranger.

We posed for another photo. And another.

"Every single day." His lips never moved as he spoke through his grin.

Alone again, he leaned closer. "So—point her out."

Not a hundred percent certain of his implication, I chose to remain coy. "Who?"

"C'mon, Kingsbury," he stopped a passing waiter, swiping two flutes of champagne, and handed me one while he downed the other. "Show me yours and I'll show you mine."

Apparently here, with the most prominent figures of English society surrounding us, he'd decided to lift the ban on our taboo.

"You've already seen mine," I said, hiding behind a sip of champagne.

"Give me a little credit, Kameryn. I'm an asshole, not a creep. I wrote a check and left the details of your personal life to my lawyer."

Oddly, I actually believed him.

"I haven't seen her," I said, still wavering on if I was willing to share Dillon with anyone else. He fixed me with a look. I supposed twenty grand bought him the right to an insider's scoop. "Not in here, at least."

His lips curled. "But I was right? She is here?"

I offered an indiscernible wag of my eyebrows.

Another waiter passed and he collected two more flutes. I shook my head, thinking he meant to hand one to me, but instead he pounded the first, and set the glass on the ground, before settling in to work on the other.

"At your eleven o'clock," he said, wiping bubbles from his upper lip with a cuff-linked wrist. "Glasses. Red tie."

I turned a slow gaze in the appointed direction. A slender redhead was talking to Rebecca Sims. He turned his head at something she said and I realized it was our 2 nd Unit Director of Photography.

"Wesley Arthur?!" I said the name too loud and Elliott stabbed me with a thumb on the pretense of fixing a wrinkle in the satin of my gown. "Isn't he married?" I continued, correcting my volume to a whisper.

He shrugged. "Welcome to La La Land. His wife's sleeping with one of last year's nominees for Best Actress." I couldn't think fast enough to remember who had made the shortlist. "Now, come on," he returned to scanning the crowd, "let me guess your type."

I huffed. "Like you'd know anything about my type."

"Oh, please—I pegged you your first audition."

"Liar. When I started auditioning, I'd never so much as glanced at a woman."

"Trust me, darling, you can lie to yourself, but I can spot a girl-kisser from half a mile away. Repression doesn't make me wrong."

I rolled my eyes. "Have you always been a bastard, or did Hollywood do you in?"

He smirked. "Oh no, definitely since the day I was born. My mother's been trying to give me away since birth."

From over his shoulder, I spotted the bright hues of Sam Huntley's suit near the bar. To her left was Dillon. As my gaze swept to her face, she looked up and caught my eye. I realized she'd been keeping tabs on me from across the room.

I considered pointing her out to Elliott. Giving in to the temptation to tell him how to spot her—the unruliness of her sandy blonde hair, the keenness of her sea green eyes, the perfection of her physique showing through her unbuttoned blazer. I wondered what she'd do if I texted her? If I asked her to meet me in the bathroom? I contemplated the possibilities of reenacting Andrew Garfield's scene from The Social Network , taking a moment to allow the fantasy of that reel to run through my mind.

But unfortunately my newfound professional persona convinced me college shenanigans at a premiere with some of the most prominent VIPs in the entertainment industry wasn't the brightest idea. So I peeled my eyes away from her, and feigned another survey of the room.

"Well?" Elliott prodded, leaning so close to me I could feel the condensation of his breath on my cheek.

"Keep gazing at me like that and people are going to think it's us sleeping together."

"All the better," he smiled.

"Speak for yourself." I took a step back, giving one more cursory glance of the room. "She must still be outside."

From the brightness in his eyes, I knew he didn't believe me.

"Maybe she got cold feet. Not everyone wants to see their lover naked on the big screen." He lowered his voice. "At least not with seventeen hundred other people watching."

My face must have betrayed me. I'd been so anxious about a million other things, I hadn't even had a chance to worry about the revealing of my intimate scenes. But Elliott misunderstood my horror. It wasn't strangers I was worried about seeing it. I mean, even Judi Dench had once had whipped cream licked off her nipples—and that was back in the seventies!

But… my mom !

I was suddenly grateful I'd spent the Hollywood premiere praying to the porcelain gods, and hadn't been there to see her reaction to my nudity.

"She should have given you away," I glared at him.

"Who?"

"Your mother." I tipped my drink back. "Excuse me—I see my date."

His eyes snapped up, intrigued, before he was disappointed to find it was Carter walking our direction. "Not fair, Kingsbury. I showed you mine."

"Entirely unsolicited." I kissed his cheek, pressing my empty glass into his hand. "Thanks for the drink."