Rushing in the door, I throw my keys onto the table and start pulling off heels in a frenzied dance.
"Joey?" Dawson calls out, then walks into the room "We're supposed to be there already!"
My fingers hover behind my back, searching out the tiny snag of the zipper, "I know, I know, Amtrak was delayed. I'm getting dressed right now, 3 minutes maximum!"
Dawson sighs, pacing back and forth, scrolling through his phone.
"I'll fix my makeup in the car," I say, mid-sprint into the bedroom. In seconds my clothes lay in a rumpled tangle on the floor and I throw on my dress, which thankfully I'd laid out earlier. Running a brush through my hair, I spray on some deodorant and appear back in the lounge, holding my shoes in my hand. Cinderella on the way to the ball, albeit slightly more disheveled and lacking a fairy godmother.
My dress is long, black silk and completely backless. It won't allow for a bra or underwear, so I check myself in the mirror to make sure everything is where it should be. I run my hands over the cool material and hurriedly smooth down my sides. Dawson glances at the dress silently and then back to his phone.
As I reach for my clutch, he looks up at me exasperated.
"I knew you'd be late," he shakes his head. My inherent tardiness for most appointments grated at him in the best of times. I felt a pang of regret for not running that little bit faster, trying to catch the earlier train.
Keys jingling in his hand, he turns and walks out the door.
"Dawson, I'm sorry," I grab his hand and spin him toward me. "We will be there on time, we still have fifteen minutes. The director never shows up on time to these things. You need to make an entrance!" I attempt to make a good situation out of a bad one.
He doesn't buy it for a second.
"But," he starts.
"Dawson Leery, RELAX! You've got this, the screening is going to be great, everyone will love it," I exude positivity, eyes wide, holding his gaze, trying to calm him. He's nervous. Everything he's worked for since he was a child has led up to this moment. He wants it to be perfect. For Dawson, it was perfection or nothing.
He sighs, letting the tension in his shoulders ease. I peer at him with my famed doe eyes and they render him weak. A smile tinges his jaw, he leans over and kisses me, "Okay, yes. Let's go."
We drive fast.
The screening is as screenings tend to be, long, drawn-out affairs. Dawson marked the occasion with an extended post-film speech about his influences, his vision and the obligatory reference or two to Spielberg. Of course, everyone loves it. Dawson sat beside me in silence, carefully gauging the audience's reactions. Listening intently for laughs in the right places and happy when he can see hands swipe at tears in the harrowing closing scene.
I'm by his side, smiling for photos with numerous strangers and shaking hands in 'congratulations' and 'thankyou' as the night wears on. Everyone is there, people I know, mostly people I don't. The air is buzzing with excitement. I'm buzzing from an open-bar and liberal refills of champagne.
Jen appears and hugs Dawson.
"It was incredible Dawson, really. It's going to get picked up, I just know it. I'm so proud of you."
Dawson glows, "Thanks Jen," before being pulled away by another admiring fan.
The producers have hired out a small venue to show the screening and enjoy drinks afterward. They'd invited critics, investors, film festival spotters and all the actors for this East Coast screening. Next week, the same would happen in LA, but without me.
"How is the fun table?" I ask Jen, motioning to the table I wish I was sitting at. Jack is there with Doug, Grams, Pacey and some other casual friends and acquaintances. Everyone at the fun table is laughing at something Grams is saying.
Jen nudges me and whispers, "Poor Jo has to sit at the boring table?"
I pout my bottom lip out dramatically.
"I will need to go soon, anyway. The babysitter turns into a pumpkin at 10," she says.
"Really? I was hoping we could blow this joint and all have a drink afterward together?"
Dawson overhears my comment, looks at me and frowns.
I turn to Jen with puppy dog eyes and a sigh, "I can't come out and play."
Dawson puts his hand around my waist, "Oh come on you big baby, we've got to go and speak to Jerry Liberman, he's one of the executive producers. See you, Jen." I give her a little wave, and follow Dawson to the next table.
It's getting late, and the room is slowly starting to empty. We've spoken to producers, executive producers, co-executive producers. All these people who believed in Dawson enough to back him, to help him realize his dream. He shows his appreciation, in person, to each and every one.
Sitting beside one of the elderly actors from the film who is recounting tales of her dalliances in the sixties with Steve McQueen and Paul Newman. I was fading, the champagne beginning to wear off. My cheeks ache from smiling.
I reach for my glass. Empty. The waiters have become more sparse on refills as the night wore on.
My phone vibrates in my handbag, and I pull it out.
10.27 pm from Pacey Witter How's the riveting conversation?
Spinning in my chair, I seek him out. He's not at the fun table. I can't see him anywhere.
10.28 pm from Joey Leery Dying! Send wine.
Diane moves on to tell me all about her purebred spaniel cross poodle, Sprinkles and his medication regime.
A body leans over my shoulder, champagne bottle in hand, and starts to fill my flute. Bubbles cascade, floating from the bottom to the top, tiny yellow buttons and I watch them intently. So focused I barely register the presence, glad for the top-up when I recognize the scent.
I know who it is.
Instantly, my cheeks flush and my arm grows warm with him beside it. His waist grazes my shoulder as he leans in, holding the bottle with precision. I forget to breathe for the entirety of the exchange.
Diane motions to him to fill her glass too.
Pacey moves towards her, performing the same elaborate, waiter-like move and fills hers. As he pours, his eyes raise to meet mine. It's the first look I've received this evening from those blue eyes.
It's a good one.
He's wearing a dark grey suit, crisp white shirt and light grey tie loosened. The suit is so well cut it looks like his body has been poured into it. I take the flute between my fingers, the cool of it startling my suddenly hot fingertips. Pressing it to my lips, I hesitate, reminding myself to keep breathing, in and out.
In and out.
His eyes dip to my dress for a second longer than appropriate. The corner of his mouth curls, he winks and departs as quickly as he came.
I take a series of settling sips.
My phone vibrates again.
10.33 pm from Pacey Witter That dress Jo. Are you trying to kill me?
A smile spreads across my cheeks, and I put my phone back into my clutch.
Yes, maybe I am.
The room nearly empty, only a few stragglers remain. Wait staff are clearing off tables, loading one empty glass after another into large grey trays. The members of the fun table were long gone, their chairs all pushed out. I feel my eyes dip and loll, exhaustion taking over.
Even Dawson has slowed considerably, no doubt overwhelmed by it all. He steers me to the bar with promises that it's the last meet and greet of the evening. I'm introduced to Kay, a tall woman with a neat, blonde bob who may in her early sixties, but it's hard to tell. She has the face of botox and tucks, shiny and immovable. She registers me with a polite nod. I stare back at her with a friendly smile, trying to place her.
"Many congratulations Dawson, it's been such a pleasure, this will surely propel you, I heard whispers about Sundance."
"Thank you, Kay, I couldn't have done it without your support." Dawson turns to me "Kay has been one of our major investors."
The bathroom door opens and a tall blonde exits, strolling on stiletto heels, she moves towards us and stands beside Kay. I see it in my peripheral vision before I turn my head. I know who it is, but I'm suddenly rendered incapacitated and too shaken to make eye contact.
Audrey Liddell.
"Hey guys," Audrey says with a small wave.
I eye the exits, feeling a cold flow of dread settle in my stomach.
"Audrey is the one who suggested I take a second look at that script of yours, Dawson."
"Audrey!" Dawson leans in and grabs her for a hug. "Wow, it's been years, I can't believe you're here!" she smiles and smooths down her dress. Wearing a stunning green strapless dress, she looks incredible.
She motions to me with an awkward 'hi' and a brief smile. We don't hug, not like old times. There were days when she'd barrel across the room, screaming 'Bunny!' and encase me in her arms. Not anymore.
"Yeah, I got a good chance to catch up, chatting to the 'old gang," she motions to the empty fun table. The dread tracks from my stomach to my chest, constricting my heart.
Audrey smiles "I'm so glad Pacey is back here with friends and some support," she says, voice level, almost practiced. It lacks the California appeal of the Audrey we once knew.
"I bet you're happy to have him back," she adds, and her eyes flick from Dawson and land directly on mine.
Fuck.
"Yeah, it's great," confirms Dawson.
"Audrey has stepped up recently and taken a seat on our board, she has a key role now in working with some of the big studios to secure funding," Kay explains, clearly proud of her daughter, which, if memory would serve, was not always the case.
"I'm so glad you could see my vision," Dawson adds.
I'm trying to remember how to breathe, how to remain casual. Open mouth, let lungs fill with air. Exhale. Repeat. It's immeasurably harder than normal with Audrey's eyes on me.
"Will we be seeing you at the LA premiere?" Dawson asks Kay.
"Certainly, I look forward to seeing you."
"It was great seeing you again, Audrey. We must all catch up together when we have more time," says Dawson, a genuine smile on his lips.
"For sure," she replies, with a plastic grin and they turn to leave.
I've never been more sure of anything that we will never be catching up again.
