Scene 38

"Smashing! Everything I hoped for and more!"

Up in her cups on free champagne, Sam was practically levitating down the pavement of Leicester Square. She'd not quit raving about the film since they'd been funneled out the double doors of the Empire, where an endless line of black sedans and limousines waited to whisk away their superstar clientele. "And Kam!" Sam continued, her voice hoarse with excitement. "Howay, man! A tour de force!"

Dillon was quiet, grateful that in the afterglow of her exhilaration, Sam didn't seem to notice.

She needed a moment to settle herself, to take it all in.

Sam was right. Kam was superb. Even if there had been any question as to the magnificence of her performance, one needn't have been a connoisseur of cinema to judge the reaction from the crowd. The standing ovation she'd received during the credits confirmed everything Dillon already knew. This wasn't a fleeting act of brilliance. Kam had just flung open the doors to a titanic career destined to be storied in success.

It had all felt a little overwhelming. A little more than Dillon had bargained for. She'd not expected to find herself intimidated by the woman on the screen. To feel like she hardly knew this enigmatic person with whom the world had just fallen in love.

She knew it was an asinine departure from reasoning. Kam was still Kam. Whether she was the standout star of the premiere or the girl who'd texted her half a dozen times the night before, deliberating how to properly address her mother— Jacqueline or Mrs. Sinclair —she was still the same person.

But when the fanatical crowd at the end of the square erupted in applause, and Dillon turned to find it wasn't Elliott or Grady they were cheering—but instead, Kameryn—she could feel her pulse quicken, along with the familiar wash of discomfort she'd once experienced with Kelsey.

She dismissed the reaction, forcing herself to look away from where Kam climbed with Carter into the back of a limousine and returned her attention to Sam, who hadn't stopped talking.

"That scene—with the wolves—you know the one I mean? She made me cry! I can't remember the last time I cried in a movie!" In her drunken rambling, Sam hardly drew a breath before her focus changed. "Are you sure we have to skip the do? The Beckhams are going. I could still text Victoria and ask her to save us a couple of seats?"

She meant the afterparty at Tate Britain, an exclusive event held for cast and crew, with an invitation extended to London's most prominent elite.

"Sam," Dillon began, making no effort to curb her warning, "you agreed—"

"Alright, alright," Sam waved her off, "keep your hair on—I was just checking that you hadn't changed your mind."

It had been part of their deal. Dillon would go with Sam to the premiere so long as Sam understood, under no circumstances, would they be going to the after party. The venue was smaller, the setting more intimate, and Dillon wanted Kam to be able to enjoy her evening without distraction.

"I'm going to order you an Uber," Dillon said, steering Sam through the hordes of people camped out in the square. The first public showing of Sand Seekers wouldn't play in the cinemas for another twenty-four hours, but already the queue exceeded the preplanned barriers. The Tube in any direction was bound to be a nightmare.

"Nah, I'm too hopped up to head straight home. Think I'll stop in for a pint. Keep me company?"

It was the last thing Dillon wanted to do. She was ready to get back to her flat. Even though she knew Kam's hopes of arriving any time before morning would likely be dashed by the after party, she didn't want to risk not being there. Just in case.

Sam laughed, quick to read her thoughts. "Come now, marra! As much as I now understand your urgency to get home—I mean, that opening scene, those…" she glanced at Dillon with a wicked smile, " assets ," she chose the word carefully, "wowza!—you'll be lucky if she gets out of there before dawn. You can spare me an hour." She looped her arm through Dillon's, who reluctantly allowed herself to be dragged past the statue of Mary Poppins and onto the narrower alley running behind the Odeon. "Besides," continued Sam, "I still have to write Seren her Christmas poem so I can send it to Swansea with you in the morning."

Dillon groaned. What had started as a joke had become annual tradition.

The first time Sam met Seren, the footballer had been so taken by the older Sinclair, a week later she'd penned her a drunken rhyme in a London pub, and insisted Dillon hand it over to her sister when she went home for Christmas.

At the time, Seren had laughed and almost been flattered. Now, a decade later, the poems were a source of exaggerated eye rolls, despite Dillon knowing her sister secretly looked forward to them every year.

"Still holding out hope one of your miserable haikus will win her over?"

"I won't give up on her—she's too canny a lass to stay a spinster forever."

"Right. Because at almost thirty-three, she's practically got one foot in the grave."

Sam ignored her sarcasm. "I think I'm going to change it up this year. Skip the haiku and try something different. Maybe I'll go for a limerick."

They'd walked west, away from the pandemonium of the entertainment epicenter, and crossed Piccadilly toward St. James Square, where the streets grew quieter and the pubs less crowded.

"What do you think of this?" Sam asked as they waited at a traffic signal.

" There once was a bonnie lass, Seren

For whom my heart was yearnin'

So I wrote her this poem,

And sent it on home,

With an offer for some winin' and dinin'"

"If that's the best you've got, it's no wonder you're single."

Sam's full eyebrows shot up in the amber glow of the caution light. "Oh, I can do better." She bounded with her uneven gait across the street, forcing Dillon to jog to catch up with her. "I was just trying to keep it PG for your sake. You won't like my next one."

"Dirty limericks about my sister? Correct. Stick with the haikus. Or better yet, skip the prose and just buy her a nice jumper."

"A jumper?" Sam stopped beneath a sign that said Thorn and Thistle . "That's a gift you give your nan, not something you give someone when you're trying to get inside their knickers."

"Jesus, Hunt—"

"Here, I've got another," Sam fielded her a brazen grin as she paused with her hand on the black-lacquered door.

"There once was a hinny with long dark hair.

Her tits were ample with plenty to share."

"Sam—" Dillon threatened.

I considered it jammy— .

To sit on her fanny—"

"Sam!"

"And lovingly touch her down there," she rushed on, laughing as she ducked beneath the palm Dillon swiped at her head, before shouldering her way through the door.

Three pints later, when Sam was truly bladdered, she finally conceded to allow Dillon to tug her out of the pub.

"Okay, okay, for real this time," Sam laughed, stumbling over the threshold. "I think I've got it!"

Dillon steadied her with an arm around her waist, trying to work her phone out of her back pocket. The weather had turned with the late hour and the thin material of their suit jackets did little to keep out the frigid December air. The sooner she could bundle Sam into an Uber, the better.

"Ahem!" Sam cleared her throat, the steam of her breath disappearing into the festive lights hanging from the pub front windows.

"My darling Seren, this verse is for you

'Tis time to cast out the lads and pay me my due

You'll find the love of a lass

Is truly first class

But right now I just need a loo."

Dillon couldn't help but laugh. "You are bloody bevvied, mate." She checked the time. It was twenty 'til eleven. No texts from Kam. She couldn't help but look south, in the direction of the river, where less than a mile away, Tate Britain was holding host to some of the most glamorous people in Europe.

Dillon's thoughts were only on one of them.

No matter how tonight played out, no matter how late Kam reveled in the aftermath of her much-deserved laudation, by this time tomorrow, they'd have escaped the suffocation of the city to the quiet shores of her Welsh hometown just outside of Swansea. With traveling by train no longer a viable option, Dillon had arranged to pick up a hire car first thing in the morning. And then they'd have a month together, instead of stolen nights and short weekends.

"M'be I sh'ld try'a sonnet," Sam slurred, staggering to lean against a corner lamppost. "Fourt'n lines—gives m'more t'work with."

"Or," Dillon swiped open her Uber app, "maybe you should call it a night? Get a good rest and in the morning you can go all out and write her a ballad."

"A ballad!" Sam's eyes brightened. "Brill'nt!" She shivered, suddenly pawing at the buttons on her jacket. "F'ckin' ‘ell, it's positiv'ly baltic!"

Reaching forward, Dillon began to work on fastening Sam's buttons, before an unfamiliar voice interrupted her progress.

"What we got here, lads?"

Dillon looked over her shoulder. A trio of men had rounded the corner, their faces unmistakably ruddy with liquor. University-age. Not overly dodgy.

She ignored them and went back to finish buttoning Sam's jacket. The Uber wasn't due to pick them up for another ten minutes.

"We interrupt date night, ladies?" The first man continued.

"Ladies?" The stouter of the three barked a laugh over the blue stripes of a Manchester City scarf. "I know a pair of fanny fiddlers when I see ‘em."

"Sod off," Sam snarled, spinning to face the speaker and nearly losing her balance.

The man's lips curled. "Plucky bint, are you? You put that sharp tongue to good use?" He brought his fingers to his lips in the form of a V, making a vulgar gesture.

"Why don't you ring up your girlfriend and ask her?"

The retort brought a laugh from the third man, who instantly fell silent at his mate's darkening glare.

"You think you're funny, you little slag?" He took a step forward and Dillon was quick to catch Sam's arm, preventing her from answering his challenge.

"Leave it," she hissed, digging her fingers into her elbow. She didn't want any part of this. It was too cold, too late, and Sam was far too drunk. "Let's wait back inside the pub."

Sam shook her off. "Want to find out how funny I am, you fucking chav?"

Without time for Dillon to process a way to stop it, the man—twice Sam's weight, despite sharing a similar stature—lunged forward, taking a wild, off-target swing in her direction. Sam, too drunk to make a proper parry, took an awkward deflection off her forearm, and returned a glancing blow to his stubbled chin.

For a second, Dillon fostered a fleeting hope the altercation was over, but before she'd drawn a second breath, the bloke—who'd feigned to turn away—suddenly spun back toward Sam and slammed his fist into her face.

"No cunt calls me a chav!" he hurled, as Sam crumpled to the pavement. At once Dillon was between them, even as the bastard's two mates were at his side, cussing him for a fool and trying to restrain his flailing arms. But the man was feral, his temper entirely undone. Something in the skirmish caught Dillon's temple—an elbow, a fist, she couldn't have guessed—and nearly sent her to the ground, but she'd gotten a hold of the prick's scarf and saved her balance, clawing her way back between them as he plunged his loafer into Sam's side.

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you, Jerry?" the man who'd first approached them shouted, finally securing a hold on his mate's shoulder and hauling him backward. "You bloody idiot!"

The second man stood momentarily dazed, his eyes wide on Sam, who was groaning on her side, before turning to his comrades. "We need to go!" he hissed, shoving at the pair. "We need to get out of here!"

There was another cursed whisper, followed by the sound of feet retreating down the street, but Dillon didn't notice. She'd dropped to her knees to check on Sam, who was still barely moving.

Seconds passed, or maybe minutes—it felt impossible to tell—before Dillon was vaguely aware of a car pulling up to the curb. It was their Uber.

"You all right there?" said the driver, poking his head out the window, and then "oh, holy hell!" he continued, seeing Sam on the ground. A car door slammed and a moment later a silver-haired man joined her on the pavement. "I'll call an ambulance!"

Sam moaned a refusal, but when she wasn't able to keep a sitting position for more than a few seconds, Dillon took him up on the offer.

An hour later, Dillon found herself sitting in the waiting room of St. Thomas' Hospital emergency department, listening to a physician explain that while Sam had suffered a concussion, the CT came back negative, and other than a couple of bruised ribs, she was no worse for wear. They'd hooked her up to an IV to treat her inebriation and recommended she remain under watch for a few more hours until her nausea was under control.

"You could use a few stitches yourself," the physician commented, gesturing to Dillon's brow.

Dillon ran a hand across her tender temple. She'd known she was bleeding—evidenced by the scarlet splatter down her lapel —but hadn't thought much of it. Beginning to decline, she took a glance at her reflection in a stainless steel clipboard hanging on the wall, and changed her mind. Thirty minutes later she was back in the waiting room, five sutures tidier, still waiting on Sam.

A vibration from her phone dragged her from her contemplations of the hundred different ways she was going to kill her friend as soon as she could stand.

Of course it was Kam.

"Hey!" Kam sounded cheerful, if not a little tipsy herself. There was music in the background, an upbeat tempo jarringly contradictory to the cold, sterile atmosphere of the hospital waiting room. "You finally answered! I was worried you'd maybe run off with Kate Winslet and kicked me to the curb."

Dillon didn't realize she'd missed a call. Three of them, apparently, according to her notifications.

She tried to laugh, but it hurt more than was worth the effort. "Sorry. I—I guess I didn't hear my phone."

"Is everything all right?" Kam's gaiety dropped a peg.

Dillon hesitated. Somewhere close to Kam, there was laughter. She was still at the party and Dillon didn't want to dampen her night.

"All's good. I'm out with Sam." Again she paused. She didn't want to lie to her. "She—got in a little scuffle. We're at the hospital, but everything's okay."

"The hospital? What do you mean?"

"It's nothing, honestly. Sam got into it with a couple lads at a pub. An ambulance was called as a precaution—"

"She went by ambulance !? Dillon, what hospital?"

Dillon took a sweeping inventory of the brightly lit waiting room with its plastic chairs and buffed floors and curt triage staff assessing feverish babies and sniffling toddlers as anxious mothers picked at their cuticles. It wasn't a place for Kam. Not after tonight. She couldn't waltz in there and sit beside her, waiting for Sam to be discharged. Not as silent footage covering the Sand Seekers premiere played on the flat screen hanging above the sign indicating toilets were only for patients.

Not without a circus.

"It doesn't matter. You can't come here."

Kam was silent as the opening strains of a new melody struck up in the background. An Ed Sheeran song, Dillon recognized the track—and then realized it was actually a live performance.

The perks of a life with the rich and famous.

"I'm sorry, Kam." She sunk lower in the uncomfortable chair. "It's just…"

"No." Kam was deflated. "I know. You're right."

"We're okay. I promise." Dillon tipped her head back to stare at the flickering recessed lighting. "We'll be out of here in a few hours. I'm going to take Sam back to my flat to watch her until morning."

There was another long beat of silence.

This was not the night they'd planned.

Kam sighed. "Will you call me when you get home safely?"

"Of course. Hey," Dillon said, worried she was going to hang up. "You were superb tonight. I mean, just—extraordinary. The whole thing."

"Thanks. It meant a lot to have you there. I know movies aren't your thing."

"If you're in them, they're my thing."

"Oh, please. You just liked my nude scenes."

"Hands down my favorite of your costumes," Dillon teased. "Might have enjoyed it even more outside a group setting."

Kam finally laughed. "Perhaps I'll consider giving you an in-person private screening."

"First thing tomorrow?"

"Oh, you're going to have to work harder for it than that. You owe me, after tonight."

"Good thing I'm not afraid of hard work, then."

"Sinclair!" A nurse stood in the doorway with a clipboard. "Dillon Sinclair?"

Exhaling, Dillon pushed off the sticky arms of the chair to stand. "Is it still best for you to come to me, or should I pick you up?"

"I'll have my driver drop me first thing in the morning."

"I'll be waiting," said Dillon. "Unless, of course," she added, "I run into Kate Winslet in the meantime."

"Unlikely, since I'm currently watching her tip back martinis with Elton John."

Dillon laughed. "All the greater possibility she'll twist an ankle and turn up at the emergency department."

"Sinclair?" The nurse hollered louder.

Forced to rush through a goodbye, Dillon approached the door.

"Dillon Sinclair?" the woman checked her chart. "Miss Huntley's asking for you. She's looking a bit better. I imagine she'll have a raging headache for a while."

Deservedly so, was all Dillon could think.

A few minutes later, she dropped onto the foot of Sam's hospital bed, sending an aide scattering off after getting Sam's autograph.

"Gave as good as we got, yeah?" said Sam, through the swelling of a lopsided smile.

Dillon crossed her arms.

" I once had a good mate named Hunt

Whose prowess was only a front.

She talked a big game,

To live up to her name,

But in reality was only a cunt."

Sam's grin widened. "Look at you—a proper poet."