them up.
Not until I was ready.
Then I’d be back for her.
And Jane Doe would wish she’d never laid eyes on me.
Part II
The Present
16
JANE
It was the last place I wanted to be.
I was surrounded by famous and not-so-famous faces, features blurring as guests moved around me, some nodding hello, others stopping to chat. I smiled, asked questions I couldn’t remember the answers to seconds later, and willed the minute hand on the giant, frameless clock above Patel’s fireplace to move faster.
Patel Smith was the Academy Award-winning producer on the movie I was working on. It was the second time I’d worked for Patel. The first time was five years ago, and I was a mere art department assistant at the time. Now I was his art director.
Despite the uber-contemporary (and expensive) home in Laurel Canyon—a house he bought two years ago after a landslide scared off its previous owner—Patel insisted he wasn’t “Hollywood.” It was obvious by his home and car that he liked the money, the sun, and the lifestyle, but according to him, he was still the working-class guy who grew up in Liverpool, England.
While his wife, Shireen, lived a designer life, Patel didn’t seem interested in conversation unless it was about books, film, music, or Liverpool Football Club. Since I had no interest in soccer, I fell upon books and music as my go-to topics for conversation with Patel. But mostly we talked about set design.
Patel’s house had a panoramic view of Los Angeles and an infinity pool that merged with the sky reflected in it. As Shireen told everyone who entered the house, they were lucky not to have lost everything in the cyclonic fires that had ripped through the Hollywood Hills a year ago.
I personally thought the house was a risk.
Beautiful, but unreliable.
Who wanted to invest themselves emotionally in something that might get wiped out by a landslide or climate change?
The party was a crush. Patel wasn’t a guy who just invited actors and “important” crew members to his parties. Everyone working for him got an invitation. It was a large cast and crew on this movie, and I didn’t know everyone by name.
The cast and crew appeared and disappeared through the rotation of guests while I longed for Asher’s steadying presence.
Strike that. If I was wishing for stuff, I wished to replace the spritzed partygoers with the bitter scent of linseed oil, pungent turpentine, and the piney aroma of a new canvas frame. Instead of the mansion, I wanted to be in my bedroom/art studio in my apartment in Silver Lake.
I’d spent seven years building a career I never meant to pursue. Not that I was unhappy, but working in Hollywood was far more frenetic than the future I had envisioned.
I chose this life. And for what? I was no closer to my goal, even with Asher’s help.
These parties reminded me of all the things I could gladly do without. I was an introvert by nature and being forced to schmooze was akin to someone scoring their nails down a chalkboard.
Still, I might never have wanted this life—to be dealing with people day in and out, collaborating with production designers, delegating, keeping to deadline, working crazy hours—but I didn’t mind it. The movie Patel was directing and producing was a musical, which meant elaborate, expensive sets and a huge amount of work I could disappear into.
Filming would start on Monday, so Patel’s party was kind of a kickoff event that I’d felt obligated to attend. For now, I estimated I had to put in another hour at this party before I could leave without being rude. While the cast might not have to work tomorrow, I’d be up at the crack of dawn and on the lot to make sure the set Patel wanted to work with first was ready.
I squeezed through the crowds gathered in the open-plan sitting room and strode into the kitchen. The music playing throughout the house, mixed with the cacophony of voices, meant I couldn’t even hear my booted heels click against the ceramic-tile floor. Like the living room, the kitchen also had a bank of bifold glass doors along one wall that looked out onto the infinity pool and the city beyond. The doors were pushed all the way open as guests wandered in and out of the house.
Seeing a waiter pick up a tray of hors d’oeuvres, I moved toward him and took a few. As I reached for another, the waiter eyeballed me. It was clear he