Wednesday

I struggle with my bags as I hold the theatre door open with my foot. It’s heavy and worn, a sad reminder of past opulence. This theatre was once shiny and new, a place to be. Now the paint is peeling and thick fluffy cobwebs dangle from the severely unfashionable cornices.

Casey and the rest of the cast bustle through, all giggles and laughter, interrupting my melancholy train of thought. Ollie, still stuffing his face from a take-out box, clumsily spills some rice at my feet. It’s the last week before opening night. Despite all the surface-level cheer, the troupe’s collective nerves are frayed. There had nearly been a fight over where to get dinner.

The group mills about in the foyer, joking and bickering, all reluctant to head back to the stage. I tap Casey on the arm.

‘I’m gonna head home now – you guys don’t need me for the rest of this.’

She nods and opens her mouth to speak – Ollie interrupts.

‘Hey! it’s not fair you get to go home before us. You have to audition for the next one.’

‘Yeah, right. The next one is a cheesy romance.' I stick out my tongue, mock vomiting on the floor. 'What am I gonna play? The evil stepmother?’

‘Nah, you’d be the princess!’

I almost choke on my laughter. If nothing else, Ollie is sweet.

‘Seriously? You think I’d be able to get through that kind of dialogue?’

Taking a moment to straighten my expression, I turn to a chipped and dusty plaster bust of Shakespeare settled in a nook in the wall. With a solemn look, I stretch out my hand to cup his cheek and say

‘Oh, my love, how long must you deny your feelings? Your cold gaze wounds me. I know what lurks inside your heart.’

Hand to my chest, I swoon dramatically to my knees. I look up at the bust with teary eyes and say;

‘If you do not kiss me now, I fear I shall die from the agony of this broken heart.’

I collapse to my side with a sad sigh, and the troupe bursts into raucous laughter, filling the space with a painful level of noise. I awkwardly lift myself back up off the tired carpet, feeling part of it lift up with me.

‘Ugh, gross.’

I stand, pointing back to the floor.

‘Don’t lie down there. There’s something really sticky.’

Casey throws her arm around me, still laughing.

‘Go home, you idiot.’

I shrug and attempt to reply, but the side door opens and Director Hollis, looking very stressed, barks out;

‘What are you doing? Get back in here. Now!’

Still laughing, the group jostles their way backstage, leaving me smiling to myself. I heft my bags and shoulder my way back out the front door into the cool night air. It’s peaceful out here – late enough for the traffic to have petered off to just the occasional car. I stand on the lowest step and take a few deep, calming breaths while my eyes adjust to the darkness. Once acclimatized, I turn left towards the bus stop.

Behind me, the theatre door opens.

‘Excuse me, you’re not in this show?’

I turn back. A young man in a well-tailored suit stands in the doorway. I hadn't noticed him in the foyer.

‘No, I’m not.’

I squint at him. His features are hard to make out with the light behind him. At least I can tell that I hate his haircut.

‘And you're not going to audition for the next one?’

‘…No?’

My bags begin to slip, so I rest them on the ground. A little wall of nonsense separating the two of us.

‘Look, I have something that might be better than…’ He inclines his head back toward the theatre.

‘Are you a talent scout?’

‘Uh, no.’

‘But you’re asking me to an audition?’

‘No, um. Consider that back there the audition. You turn up, you have the part.’

That’s... not normal. I can’t see his expression in the darkness, just that he's fussing with something in his jacket pocket.

‘Look…’ He glances around, then points at a café across the street

‘Come talk to me tomorrow, there, midday.’

I glance over at the dark windows. At least he’s suggesting a public space? As I turn back, he thrusts a handful of paper into my hands, then disappears back into the theatre.

I look down at what he’s given me, and my eyes widen. It’s money. Lots of money. I stuff it in a bag and glance about me frantically, hoping nobody saw what he gave me. I can’t see anyone, but I rush to the bus stop anyway.

What the hell was that?

When the bus arrives, I’m scrolling through search results, trying to work out who that guy was. I plonk myself down in the front seat and absently swipe my ticket. Looking for directors in town is impossible, there’s no localised 'director directory'. I look for casting calls in the area, to see if there are any names attached. I know it's probably not going to help. Casting calls tend to be vague at the best of times - they won't give me the names of directors or investors. By the time I reach my stop, the man’s features are fuzzy and indistinct in my memory.

The house is silent when I get in. I close the front door quietly behind me and head to my room to dump my bags on the floor. I move some books so I can sit down in the cluttered space and start digging through everything until I find the money. I was too scared to count it in public. Now though...

I hold in my hands two months’ rent.

He just casually handed me this much cash. Some random woman he’d never met before. Like it was nothing. He didn’t even give me his name! A business card! Anything! He had to have been some big-deal movie director, right?

I glance around the room, then pull out my sewing box and hide the money down the side, under the lining. I’m nervous about having this much cash on me. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve held that much physical money, and all of those times it wasn’t even mine.

The whole situation is ridiculous. It makes no sense. Two months’ rent for swooning at a statue?

I rub my face. It’s nothing to sniff at. I struggled to make this month’s rent at all, and haven’t eaten much more than oats and water for the past week. There’s no regular work around here for someone like me, and my set-building gig doesn’t pay shit.

Thursday

Nobody is up when I wake for breakfast. To be expected – most of my housemates are in the production with Casey, and they were out late. I shower as quietly as I can. If someone were up I could borrow a job-interview outfit, but no such luck. I shuffle around my room looking for something vaguely respectable. I only have a few 'office casual' blouses, most of which I haven’t worn since high school… Turns out I’m fatter than I was back then. They don't fit.

I check my phone for the time – later than I’d hoped. I check the common areas again; still nobody up. There’s no other option. I take down the garment bag on the back of my door – it’s the only outfit I have that might work. I pull out the very expensive blue floral dress and hold it up to the light – it’s not too creased. My parents bought it for me to wear to my sister’s wedding. Came with shoes too. It’s the most valuable thing I own. Fortunately, it still fits me.

I rifle through my bag from yesterday and collect only the essentials, then jam them in my ‘good’ handbag. It’s cute as heck, but way too small for everyday use. I prefer to be prepared for anything. Phone charger, spare battery, notepad, pens, tissues, a roll of tape, an emergency sewing kit, bandaids, a comb, hair pins... all the sorts of things you never have when you need them and never need when you have them. I make sure I always have them.

Not today.

I don't like it.

I had hoped to spend the day on something productive… but I’ve already wasted so much time looking for clothes to wear to a… something. Something that isn't likely to pay off.

The guy is probably planning on kidnapping me. There’s no way I’m lucky enough to have just stumbled into a big-budget film role. I’m not the right shape for adult films either. Unless it’s some kind of gross fetish thing. I groan. I hunt around in the mess until I find a clean sheet of paper to write a note;

Gone to job interview at BEANBOW CAFÉ 12pm. Have my phone. If not back by 5 & not answering phone, call police. Job seems shady. Guy had dark hair, clean shaven, about 6'6", was wearing tailored suit, met him at the EURIPIDES THEATRE last night.

I tape the note to the outside of my door.

It’ll have to do.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

As I head to the front door, my housemate Laurie shuffles past in his dressing gown, a bowl of cereal in his hands. He exaggeratedly looks me up and down.

‘You’re dressed all fancy.’

‘Yeah, job interview.’ I do a little twirl; 'Is this too much?'

‘Too much for waitressing, perfect for office admin. Break a leg.’

‘Thanks. It’s probably a scam.’

Laurie chuckles.

‘Sounds like a great gig. Good luck, don’t get scammed.’

I hurry out to the bus – it’s not too busy and I’m glad to sit. I’ve barely walked a block and these shoes are already making my feet hurt. This is why I never wear heels. I wonder if I’ll need to lose this guy on my way home. I won't be making a run for it on foot, that's for sure.

I could take the bus in the wrong direction - pass through the city - then take a different route home. It’d be hard to tail me if I swap buses a couple of times.

Of course, the guy still knows I spend time at the theatre. He'd be able to pick my trail back up if he really wanted.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid.

If I didn’t desperately need the money for food and rent, I wouldn’t be doing this.

I get off the bus and curse myself the whole way to the café. It’s a nice-looking place. I haven’t eaten there myself. According to a discarded menu, a single cup of coffee costs more than I spend on food in the average week, so I don't know that I'd ever feel inclined to try it. Maybe this guy will buy me some overpriced food to go along with this interview... or whatever it is we're doing. I know I'm being greedy.

Glancing over the patrons outside, I don’t see him. I try to surreptitiously peer through the window, and immediately change my opinion of the place – it's repellent. The inside is lit by bare incandescent globes – not the sort you buy in the store. They’re huge. The bulbs are probably hand-blown glass. They’re dim and the filament inside each one looks far more complex than is necessary for any normal light. The furniture has that extremely expensive square brutalist/faux industrial style that seems so popular with wealthy arts students – perfect décor for a spot so close to the theatre. I hate it with every fibre of my being.

I scan the patrons again. It’s packed with people eating tiny sandwiches and dainty pastries. I don’t see him. I check my phone. 11:58 am. I sigh.

Midday means twelve exactly to me – who knows what it means to movie directors and kidnappers. I assume it could be anything from 12:00 pm to 12:59, though I'm sure someone would argue that even 1:30 pm counts. I can’t sit at the café ordering nothing for an hour, and I don’t want to waste money on their wildly overpriced drinks.

I look back through the window for a specials board – it’s easy enough to spot, dangling from artfully rusted chains above the polished concrete counter at the centre of the room. The cheapest item is a grilled cheese sandwich – it costs as much as two and a half weeks' worth of normal food. I can’t justify it. I step back and look around.

There’s a park bench further down the street, but it’s too far away to properly watch the café. I groan silently and instead lean against the wall of the neighbouring shop. I’m stuck with standing.

I carefully free my phone from my tightly packed handbag and return to searching for clues about the guy’s identity. Patrons wander in and out of the café. My feet grow cold.

12:10 pm. I’m searching shady job websites for local ads requesting ‘models’. None of them are offering anything near what I got yesterday. I check the theatre’s past and future shows for directors, financiers, writers. I check their social media for mentions of productions they might be courting.

12:20 pm. I shift painfully from foot to foot, trying to relieve some of the pressure. The strap of my bag digs into my shoulder. It may be smaller and lighter than my usual bag, but I don’t normally just stand around like this either. If this guy isn’t here soon...

12:34 pm. I need to rest my feet. Holding my phone in my pocket, I take one last look at the café patrons. The park bench is better than nothing. Have I been stood up? I almost hope I have. Perhaps I misunderstood the concept of 'midday'. Maybe I missed him, and he didn’t see me very conspicuously waiting here.

It seems unlikely.

I turn to leave, but movement at the theatre catches my eye. I spot him as he steps down onto the pavement. 12:36 pm. He hasn’t seen me yet. I could still-

Our eyes meet.

Too late now.

I watch as he crosses the road. He stands tall and proud, tie pin gleaming in the sunlight. Now that I can see him properly, his suit looks even more expensive. There’s no way it came off the rack in a normal store. His hair is immaculately styled, though it makes him look like a dweeb. I wonder if he has a personal hairdresser that does his hair so perfectly every morning. If so, they mustn't be on good terms.

His face is expressionless and impossible to read. I feel like my nervous butterflies have transformed into lead scorpions writhing in my stomach. I pray to see any sign or expression that might tip me off as to his intentions. Nothing. I resist the urge to run. The entire creative community is full of horror stories about idiots like me taking stupid risks like this and getting into serious trouble for it. I should have brought Casey with me. Even Laurie. Literally anyone.

He stands in front of me, broad shoulders blocking my view of the café.

‘You haven’t ordered yet?’

‘No.’

He turns and walks into the café.

Wait, what?

No hello? No apology for being so late? No thank you for coming? Not even a ‘what will you have?’

The guy still hasn’t asked my name.

I stretch my shoulders surreptitiously, trying to make space in my chest for my lungs. I feel like I'm suffocating.

He returns a few moments later and hands me a to-go cup.

‘Here.’

Then, he turns and strides away without a word.

I follow at a distance, reluctant to stray far from the café. Fortunately, he doesn’t go far – around the corner is a tiny ‘park’ – really just a single tree and a fountain crowded in between two buildings. There’s even a plaque that grandiosely reads ‘Alfred Memorial Garden’. The person who commissioned that plaque was clearly a liar.

The man sits on the lip of the fountain and sips his drink. I stare.

‘Sit.’ he commands.

It occurs to me that my feet would like to murder me.

I sit.

‘So. You care about dialogue.’ he says, matter-of-factly.

‘Yes… is this a script reading?’

‘What? No.’ he looks confused. ‘This is a… a pitch.’

Okay, what?

He frowns.

‘I don’t know what you actors call it. Just listen to me until the end, and then if you don’t like it, you can go. But, listen to the end.’

I say nothing. This isn’t normal. This man isn’t normal.

‘Dialogue. Convincing dialogue is important. You need to be convincing at a party.’

I’m not sure where this is going, but I’m definitely not a party person.

‘You have to fool a family. That…’ – his ears go red – ‘That you’re my fiancée.’

What?

Now, in a rush;

‘My parents want me to marry. They’re threatening to disinherit me if I don’t. Soon. They think it’s shameful I’m a bachelor at my age.’

He can’t be more than 20-25, 30 at the absolute maximum... Unless money can completely stop aging. I guess it kind of can.

‘They kept trying to set me up with suitable women.’ he spits the word like it tastes bad.

‘They wouldn’t stop. I lied and said I had a girlfriend. I thought they’d leave me alone. But after a couple of months, they started trying to set me up again. I told them I’d proposed. They kept demanding to meet ‘her’. Now…’

He looks pained.

‘Now if I don’t bring her to a party this weekend, I’m cut off.’

I don’t quite know what to make of this. It's ridiculous.

Haltingly, I say;

‘You want to hire me to lie to your Mother.’

He seems uncomfortable with the way I've phrased the job description.

‘Yes.’

‘For how long?’

‘I don’t know! They’re both out of the country most of the time. A month? Two? Then they’ll leave, they’ll leave me alone, and everything can go back to normal.’

What a brat.

‘Have you tried dating?’

I immediately regret my question. He looks at me as if I tried to stab him.

‘I… I don’t have time for it. I’m busy. People take too much time.’

‘What do you do?’

He starts in surprise.

‘You don’t know who I am?’

Someone has a bit of an ego.

I shake my head, and he points to a nearby wall. This is when I notice the unusual callouses on his fingers. I follow the direction he’s pointing. There’s a row of concert posters pasted up, announcing an event in about a week. Jacques Glarean.

Ah. He’s not a director. He’s a musician.

A goddamn spoilt little rich man child.

I mean, I get it. I’m not totally without sympathy. I get the desire to spend every waking moment on whatever creative project I’m currently working on. Of course, I’ve never had the luxury. I rarely have the space to make anything for myself. I’m normally stuck at the plan and dream phase.

Is this man who I’d be if I didn’t have to struggle?

No. I doubt I’d ever go so far as to shun humanity entirely in favour of my art. But, I also don’t know who I would be if I had grown up with money like that.

‘I’ll pay you well.’ His voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

‘You won’t have to do anything… weird. Dinners. Lunches. Talking to my parents. Hold hands and smile for a camera. I’m not a creep.’

Then he quotes a figure so large that it’s meaningless to me.

How much is he losing if he’s willing to spend that much to keep it?

I lock eyes with him, serious.

‘You’re offering me that much to be an accessory to a crime.’

He looks taken aback.

‘It’s not… it’s just…’

‘Fraud.’

‘No, I'm trying to keep what's already mine.’

'Fraud doesn't stop being fraud just because you're doing it to circumvent rules you think are unfair.'

‘I guess.’ He slumps, looking defeated.

‘This is serious. I’m not rich like you. If your parents find out and decide to be vindictive, they could destroy me. Forever. There's a chance they'd forgive you. Me? I'll go straight to prison.’

He nods dejectedly, then offers an even larger figure.

Holy shit.

‘Stop. Listen to me. Don’t think about persuading me right now.’

He nods, looking hopeful.

‘From what you’ve told me, you’re a bad liar.’

‘What? No, it’s because I won’t let them meet her.’

‘Yes, that means you’re a bad liar. A good liar would have had a solution long before it got this out of hand. Now, what excuses have you been making?’

‘I don’t know. She’s busy, she’s shy. I don’t want them to scare her off.’

‘What else have you told them about her?’

‘Not much. I just change the topic.’

I sigh.

‘If I’m going to do this, I need to know everything you’ve said. Everything. You can’t leave even the most insignificant detail out. And, I need to know you’re not going to back out because you’re feeling remorse for all the dishonesty. I need to know I’m not going to die in prison.’

‘You won’t! I mean, I won’t say a word! I just want to play my music. ‘

I look at him. Despite all my earlier worries, I can only see a wreck of a man with a thin veneer of calm pasted over the top like a fresh and soggy concert poster. I don’t think he’s lying to me. The story is wild, the money being offered is outrageous, and everything about this shrieks SCAM at me, but…. I really don’t think he’s lying.

Sincerity is, of course, only half the problem here; I doubt I can trust his resolve. The instant I become inconvenient, I'm sure he'll throw me to the wolves. Even if he does stick with it, I can't trust he won't expose the lies by some stupid slip of the tongue.

I shouldn't do this.

I really shouldn't do this.

It's just so much money.

‘Fine.’

‘You’ll do it?’

‘Yes. But it’s not going to be as easy as just having me turn up on the day of the party. How much time do you have?’

‘All week!’

‘No, today.’

‘Oh. Um. All afternoon?’

I sigh and stand up.

‘Okay. We’re going to need somewhere better to plan than this. There’s some space in the theatre’s workshop. It’s not perfect, or particularly private, but the troupe won’t bother us much between breaks.’

He hesitates.

‘Do you have a better idea?’

‘Yes… No. No. It would be weird if I got a hotel room.'

‘Yes, it would.’

I sigh again. There’s not enough space in my room for me, let alone two people. I also don’t really like the idea of letting him know where I live.

I take out my phone and search the name from the poster. Lots of photos pop up. It’s definitely him. There are dozens of photos of him standing awkwardly next to an array of beautiful women. I search for some of their names. Thus far, none are deceased.

‘What are you doing?’

I look up at him. Then I step over to sit beside him, open my camera in selfie mode, wrap an arm around his shoulder, lean in close, and snap a shot of me smooching his cheek. His look of surprise is perfect. His blush makes it all the more convincing. He leaps away from me, as though I bit him.

‘What are you doing?!’

I smile absently as I send the photo to Casey, then look up.

‘I’m planting evidence.’

My phone starts buzzing with replies.

I turn the phone to face him, so he can see.

> OMG

>

> ARE YOU KISSING JACQUES GLAREAN?!

>

> OMG GIRL WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?!

>

> IS THAT THE FOUNTAIN NEAR THE THEATRE?

>

> OMG I WANT TO MEET HIM!!!!!

>

> I’M TELLING EVERYONE!!!!!!!

‘Now, that photo will find its way onto the internet. There will be gossip. It’ll get to your parents eventually. And, as a bonus for me, if we go to a hotel room and you rape and murder me, my friends have photographic evidence that I’m with you to give to the police. This is the first step on the way to defrauding your parents.’

I think his expression is shock. I’d like to think there’s a bit of awe in there as well. It’s probably more like horror. Honestly, I’m horrified too. I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.

I drop the full to-go cup in a bin as we walk past. He may be telling the truth, but I don’t trust him enough yet to drink something he gave me if I didn’t see it being made. I feel a sense of loss, knowing that such an expensive drink is going to waste… but, I’m set for life if I pull this off.