MONDAY

Monday is slow to start. I lay in bed, trying to work out what to do. I feel like a bird that willingly flew into a cage, unaware I was giving up the open sky.

Jaq sent me a text.

> Mother has invited us to lunch. Be ready for pickup at 11:30

A lunch invitation? That seems positive... though maybe Charles hasn't quite decided what he's going to do yet. He'd have to wait until the admin building at my old uni opened before he got his proof anyway.

I glance at the time.

He's had two hours to get them to confirm or deny my claim. He doesn't seem like the sort of person who would sit on a lead like that if he intended to act on it.

Despite that... I'm not sure if I can celebrate yet. He may have slept in late, like me. Or they might be taking their time faffing around with some kind of dinosaur fax machine, refusing to send him confirmation that, yes, I was expelled, via email.

Bureaucrats do so love their outdated, garbage technology.

I roll out of bed and lay on the floor, covers dangling down over me. If I get cold enough, then maybe it’ll be easier to force myself to go have a shower and get ready.

My stomach feels like it's trying to eat itself, so at least the food will be welcome.

I wonder how much time will have to pass before I feel safe.

I did this to myself.

I'd pray, but I'm not sure who to pray to on this one. It seems like blasphemy no matter how I frame it.

I'm the idiot that gave my enemy the weapon to destroy me, and I did it in the service of someone else committing fraud. Against their parents.

Any religion with reasonable morals would probably require me to do some kind of penance before I'd be eligible to request favours again, and then they'd need to be favours that were morally sound.

I don't deserve divine intervention anyway.

I can feel the lid on my bottled-up emotions beginning to come loose.

Don't dwell on it.

I haul myself up off the floor and sit in the knot of sheets and blankets. The mess I abandoned yesterday stubbornly awaits my attention. I shouldn't have left it. I could have put off seeing Jaq in the morning if I'd dealt with it immediately. He might have changed his mind about asking me to marry him.

Idiot. Why did he do that?

I think he likes having someone around to keep trouble at bay. It doesn't need to be me, though. Nor does it need to be a romantic partner. He could hire a different kind of lackey for a much lower wage and get equal or better defence.

I notice the mask laying on the floor, slightly further afield. I don't want to see it again.

I could give it to Frances. A souvenir of the time she got duped by a loser like me.

It's crass and petty, and I hate myself for thinking it would be funny to give her something so poorly made.

I'm a hateful person.

I hear my phone buzz. Casey says;

> Don't forget the cast party tonight!

I did forget.

I didn't time this sequence of events well. How am I supposed to pretend to be normal for them, after all this? They'll know I'm faking it.

'Okay, fine. I'm an idiot. I said it. Happy now?' I ask the empty room.

----------------------------------------

I am collected from the hotel by an unfamiliar driver - I expected Jaq. I'm not sure if I should be worried by this. My stomach, already complaining about the lack of breakfast, decides I should definitely be worried.

I feel like I ate a flock of angry pigeons.

At least I'm not hungry anymore?

I regret bringing the mask with me. It'll be weird if I bring it in and then don't hand it to someone. It's so nicely wrapped - it's obviously a gift.

If there's a bin outside I might be able to discreetly drop it in.

I unload at a restaurant with its outdoor seating in a large terraced garden. Lionel is waiting on the footpath outside for me. He greets me with a severe expression and a single word;

'Trouble.'

We enter and make our way past elegantly potted olive trees and cycads to the table reserved for us. Frances looks vaguely pleased, Isaac; mildly dissatisfied, Jaq; stoic, and Charles...

I wasn't told he'd be here.

Trouble is an understatement.

I plaster a smile on my face and take a seat.

'Hello! When Jaq let me know about lunch he didn't mention there'd be six of us. It's good to see you all.'

Pleasantries are exchanged.

I quietly pass the parcel containing the mask to Frances, and she accepts it with a polite;

'Oh, you shouldn't have!'

Fortunately, she doesn't open it here. It's presumptuous of me to give her something like this. She'll see how cheap it is. She'll realise how cheap I am. How little I genuinely have to offer.

I feel like a snail stranded on a busy garden path. I could be stepped on at any moment. I don't know whose boots are most likely to do the deed. Frances is here - but she's not my biggest fear. I doubt she has the biggest feet.

I feel ill.

I force myself to hope that Charles is here to make Jaq uncomfortable, not to hurt me.

If that is his goal, it would have been kinder if he'd left the rest of us out of it. We don't need to be here. Jaq is easy enough to torment when he's alone. No audience is necessary.

I suppose Charles has never shown the slightest hint of kindness.

Even if I choose to believe the most generous interpretation of his actions that I can think of... his warning that Jaq isn't husband material wasn't kind.

He probably doesn't know what kindness is.

'Isn't that right, Jojo?'

I haven't been listening to the conversation.

'I'm sorry, I must've dosed off. What did you say?'

Charles chuckles.

'I said; You can't replace writers and artists with AI - it's offensive - and demeaning to the audience.'

I stare at him for a moment, completely bewildered. That isn't where I expected this conversation to go.

'I guess I agree. People in creative fields are already massively undervalued. If a computer can do the same with a two-word prompt, why pay for art at all?'

He smiles. I feel like I've unwittingly stepped into a trap.

'It's like the tech world, with all its billions of dollars, was so jealous of what the humanities had, they had to find a way to steal the whole thing. It's plagiarism of an entire field of human enterprise.'

Oh, fuck you.

I guess he did call the university as soon as the phone lines opened.

Isaac looks like he'd rather be chained to a mountain with eagles eating his entrails than listen to this conversation. Frances seems to be enjoying herself.

Figures.

I am resigned to being verbally vivisected.

'It's funny though, AI always manages to leave fingerprints.'

Yep. Keep going with this overwrought metaphor. I'm sure it'll be spectacular when you completely annihilate me.

'In visual arts, it doesn't quite get faces, and it often misunderstands the objects it draws in odd ways. AI-generated essays and articles are unfocused, jumping around without reason; leaving the reader confused. If you know what you're looking for, it's easy to spot.'

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Oh my god, get to the point.

He shows Frances something on his phone. She nods thoughtfully.

'Like AI, plagiarists leave fingerprints.'

He leans over - for a moment I see a vividly 'painted' image of a woman with a horribly deformed face - then he swipes across the screen. It's a photograph of an actual fingerprint. He swipes again, to a wider shot. The fingerprint is baked in, under the glaze of my final sculpture project for uni.

That thing was in pieces, but it's been carefully glued back together. How does he have it? I threw it out in the hotel's garbage.

No. I asked one of the staff if there was a bin somewhere I could dump a box of rubbish into, and he said he'd take it. I gave it to him.

Little bastard must've taken a bribe.

Why on earth is Charles showing me this?

He smiles smugly to himself, swiping again.

It's an almost identical sculpture. He swipes again. Another fingerprint.

I suppose they could be the same? I'm not a fingerprint expert.

What am I supposed to do with this? Is he telling me he believes me? I didn't ask him to believe me. I just wanted him to forgive me and point his hate at someone who deserved it instead.

I can't keep my composure. The confusion is too intense. The knot in my brows must be screaming 'I don't understand!'

Fortunately, only Lionel seems to have picked up on it. He has one eyebrow raised, quizzically. Jaq is staring at his lunch like he's waiting for it to jump up and bite him. Isaac is grimly downing his fourth glass of wine since I sat down. Frances seems to be completely captivated by Charles. She's not paying me any attention at all.

Ah. That's why Isaac isn't happy to be here. Frances has a crush on the younger man.

'I wouldn't worry so much if I were you, Jojo. Audiences can be very discerning. They know when they're being cheated. I don't think AI can replace the soul of an artist; not until everyone on Earth forgets what real art looks like.'

Frances responds, but I don't hear the words. I don't want to be here. I'm so tired of this constant stress.

Lunch passes in a haze.

As we prepare to leave, I pull Jaq aside;

'Did Lionel give you your outfit for tonight?'

He looks briefly confused.

'He gave me some weird old clothes, yeah.'

'Did you try them on? Do they fit you?'

He looks uncomfortable.

'What are they for?'

'The cast party! For my friend's show! You couldn't come to the show because you had your own show to prepare for, but you can come to the cast party.'

He looks dubious.

'You need to be seen going places with me, Jaq.'

His expression doesn't change.

'Just wear them so you don't feel too out of place. I gave Lionel the address.'

Before; I wanted him to turn up. Now, I need him to be there. I have to get him alone to talk to him.

Charles approaches us, having completed his extravagantly affectionate farewell to Frances. Isaac must be fuming.

Completely ignoring Jaq, he says;

'What did you think of my detective work?'

I glance down at my hands.

'I'm really not sure.'

'I thought you'd be happy.'

'I don't know anything about fingerprints, but I assume you're implying that the plagiarist handled my work before it was complete... and that that's somehow proof that they copied me?'

'Correct.'

'But it was over a year ago. The investigation is closed. Nobody is going to care.'

'I care.'

I almost don't want to ask.

'Why?'

He smiles.

'Because you told me the truth.'

He pats my shoulder. I flinch.

I feel small and insignificant under his hand. Deep inside my psyche, the animal part of my brain remembers the terror of being dragged around the zoo by this monster.

I'm not asking the all questions I want to ask. How does he have my fingerprints? Or my sculpture? Or the plagiarist's sculpture? How did he have time to get them both, examine them, and find a stray print?

I don't understand this creature. He's man-shaped, but there's no way he's just a man.

'I'd kiss you goodbye too, but I'm sure your knight in shining armour would take issue.'

I shudder involuntarily.

'You and Lionel look good together, by the way. He's a much better choice for you than Jack.'

Charles strides off.

Jaq disappeared while I was distracted.

Coward.

----------------------------------------

I'm dithering by the entrance to the hotel, double checking I have everything I'll need. Wallet, phone, congratulatory chocolate treats, keys. Lionel arrives to collect me. He's alone in the car.

I hoped that Jaq would be with him. That way I'd be certain of his attendance.

There are infinite reasons why he'd refuse to go; He doesn't like parties, he might want to avoid me because I rejected him, I told Charles the truth when he refused to, he could just be sulking after the awful lunch we had with his parents...

There is no point in dwelling on it. He'll show up, or he'll be absent. I'm not willing to kidnap him to force him to go where I want him to.

Unlike some people.

'Any more bizarreness from Charles?'

'Not since lunch. I'm not looking forwards to whatever he plans to do, though. I should probably be glad he's occupied himself with something other than my downfall -'

I remember what he said.

'Oh.'

Lionel glances over.

'I think Pitch gave his blessing for me to date you. Like he thinks he's your Dad.'

Lionel's laugh comes out as a splutter.

'He'd be a terrible father! Can you imagine it?'

I can. The thought makes me nauseous. Would his children even be allowed to sneeze without permission?

'Ugh.'

The sound is involuntary.

'So what about it then?'

'What?'

'You dating me?'

You didn't...

Lionel looks calm and collected, not like someone who just asked their crush out. I hope he's joking.

'That'd be a very bad idea.'

He doesn't show any sign he's distressed.

Can I rest easy, or is he just hiding it well?

I'd never considered him as a possible partner. I feel hypocritical thinking about it now - his ex-girlfriend was right. He doesn't have enough ambition.

He doesn't have to hide under his parent's wing like some frightened fledgeling chick. He could stand on his own. He has interpersonal skills that Jaq could only dream of, and he seems far, far more streetwise. He'd be fine out in the world by himself.

That might even be all it took for him to shift from the 'definitely no' category to a 'maybe?'

He gives a lop-sided smile.

'Why so serious?'

The question startles me out of my distraction.

'I wasn't sure if you were serious.'

He laughs.

I still don't know.

----------------------------------------

We arrive at the bar - it was Director Hollis' choice. I think it might be his favourite place to drink. He always brings the cast here. I step out while Lionel continues on in search of a parking spot.

Inside, I see familiar faces. People are in their costumes for the last time, looking strange without the right hair and makeup. I spot Charles' stuffed tiger seated at the bar, wearing a flat cap and a tie. Even out here on the street, I can hear their laughter. I feel a nostalgic pull, dragging me in to be among them.

This is where I belong. This is home.

I open the door, and the volume raises from clamorous to cacophonous. I feel a smile wider than I've smiled in days impose itself on my face.

Stella's cheerful orange dress stands out among the costumes of the other cast members. I dash towards it to hug Casey.

'It's done! You were fantastic!'

She turns, giggling and hugging me back.

'You're here!'

She looks around.

'Where's Jaques?'

I shrug, grimacing.

'He had some stuff to do, so he's coming separately.'

I know it's not a good look.

'That boy needs a talking to! Anyone would think he was neglecting you.'

I try to laugh it off, but she sees straight through me.

'Oh my god, Jo, you deserve better than that! It's his fault you're being harassed by that lunatic, the least he can do is go places with you occasionally!'

The second the words leave her mouth, I see several sets of eyes turn to observe us.

'Who's harassing you?'

Dammit, Casey.

At least she has the decency to look ashamed of herself.

Sal's not a tall man, but he's bulky. He often finds himself typecast as the antagonist, in complete contrast to his real personality. In this production he was just a card-playing goon. His costume makes him look like a 1940's dock worker.

'Nobody's harassing me anymore. I'm fine.'

He looks a little hurt.

'Just 'cuz you're marrying someone rich and famous doesn't mean we're not here for you.'

'I know.'

It wasn't that I didn't want help, or didn't think they could help me - I didn't want to be a burden. Everyone was busy. I didn't want to be in the way.

Already bored, those watching eyes turn away again - unsatisfied with the lack of immediate drama.

Sal looks up at something behind me - Lionel stands close by - I can feel the cold night air still clinging to his clothes.

'Hi! Um. Ch... Sh... Charlotte?'

Casey laughs.

'Casey.'

'Ah, sorry!'

He holds his hand out to Sal.

'I'm Lionel.'

Sal regards the hand with suspicion for a moment before he shakes it.

'Sal.'

The joy of seeing all my friends again in one place almost made me forget that I hate parties. There is nothing less interesting than introductions and pleasantries, except perhaps being made to answer the same prying questions over and over, or repeating the same anecdote for people who haven't yet heard it.

At least I know nobody here would ever try to have me kidnapped.

They're all just theatre nerds, hanging out, having fun, enjoying the catharsis of heavy drinking and poor volume control after the stress of performing on stage, night after night. A party with these people is infinitely more bearable than a party with the kinds of people Frances invites to her parties.

Not that I've been to more than one of hers.

This party has the added benefit of it being completely fine for me to find a corner and encamp myself there. I don't have to introduce myself to anyone. They already know me. They know I'm bad at parties. I don't have to pretend to be perfect.

Somewhere back near the door, I hear a high-pitched squeal - not entirely unusual - but there's a certain timbre of excitement to the squeal that makes me turn around.

It's Jaq.

Just when I thought I could relax.

He's in his regular suit and tie ensemble, with his regulation awful hair. In this light, it looks unnatural, like a toupee.

I'm suddenly embarrassed that he'll be introduced as my fiancé.

I don't want people to think that I'm that shallow. Money, fame, and one skill don't make him a good person.

I can't pretend to be lovey-dovey with him either. They'll see through it and think I'm manipulating him to get at his money.

I know I wanted him to come, it was such a good opportunity to make our relationship look real for his parents... but it never occurred to me to consider how it would affect me. My reputation. My standing as a member of this group.

I don't want to be made an outsider.

Ollie leads him over to us. He's pretending to be helpful, but I can tell he's doing it as an excuse to get in on this conversation. He's so nosy.

Casey cheerfully chirps;

'Hi Jaques! I was worried you wouldn't come!'

The tone of disapproval underneath the friendly surface isn't subtle.

Our small group shuffles around to make space for the latecomers as greetings are exchanged. In the way of small groups, it is a negotiation of hierarchy of attachment. Space ought to be made beside me for Jaq, but as I move closer to Casey, Sal follows; protectively placing himself between me and the unfamiliar new person.

Sal's papa-bear instincts must have been set off by the harassment comment - but this is ridiculous.

Jaq seems put off by the snub. I'm almost surprised he noticed it. He doesn't remember that he's met Casey before.

I suppose he's only met her once. All the times he should have been with me and met her, Lionel has taken his place.

I reverse course, trying to make space on the other side of me, but Sal blocks my movement, stubbornly refusing to allow the space to appear. Ollie sees what's happening, bless him, and forces his way into the group. Ollie isn't a threat, so finally Sal relents and lets me shift around - only to halt again when Ollie steps out so Jaq can step in. He scampers off with a backwards glance that says 'you owe me.'

Jaq's smug expression won't endear him to Sal. He might as well be waving a red flag at a bull.

I don't have the capacity to endure this kind of masculine posturing right now.

The conversation revolves around Jaq and how he met me. They ask him; forcing him to take centre stage. I'm thankful for the chance to remain silent. He remembers the backstory we devised, and despite his social ineptitude, his responses sound sincere. My friends are shocked by how long we've been 'dating,' because I said nothing to them about it.

'I asked her to keep it a secret,' he says.

The last time he spoke about this stuff he was so stiff and guarded. He struggled to answer direct questions.

Perhaps he felt bad lying to his friends after all.

Here, among my friends, his lies flow almost naturally.

I hate it.

I hate all of this.

I want to go home.

Something orange and fluffy lands on my head, and a flat cap falls down in front of me.

Ollie has the tiger.

Was he that desperate for gossip?

'Hey, Mr. Jaques, I want to j'accuse you of being the person who sent us this guy. You were the anonymous supporter all along weren't you? It's very romantic of you to secretly support your girlfriend's theatre company.'

That's not how that phrase works.

Jaq looks stunned.

'Why would I send a tiger?'

I stoop to collect the hat from the floor so I have time to organise a suitably puzzled expression.

'It wasn't him.'

It's Lionel's turn to look smug.

I place the hat back on the toy's head, tucking the ears inside in the hopes that they'll help wedge it in place. I feel a cold sweat begin to prickle along my spine. He wouldn't tell them it was me, would he?

Lionel continues;

'I know who bought it, but I can't tell you who. I can tell you they're not here, though.'