The Show Must Go On

Chapter Fifty-One: Don't Blame Me

Chapter Fifty-One Soundtrack: Don't Blame Me by Taylor Swift

hi! author voice here. in this chapter, and really throughout the book, ellie indirectly describes her anxiety in self-critical and derogatory ways (here, she describes herself as being 'abnormal'). that's representative of where she is in her healing journey, but i want to be really clear that there's nothing abnormal about experiencing anxiety. while ellie is making a lot of progress, anxiety will always be part of her life, but we hope that by the end she'll stop beating herself up about it. just wanted to clarify that language in this chapter in case it's inadvertently upsetting to any readers (love you all lots).

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A normal person might think there was nothing to worry about after the win. I have literally just achieved the career milestone I wrote about in my journal at eight years old. Nas has already turned on my phone to add 'BAFTA-winning Producer' to my email signature, which made me stand up and pour myself a drink to avoid crying in front of him.

A normal person wouldn't be worrying about anything.

But, as my mother always reminds me, my brain isn't normal. All I can think right now, other than 'Don't cry in front of him', is 'How do you start having sex?'.

Obviously, I understand the anatomy. Anatomy is not a problem. But now I need to walk over to him - my colleague - my famous, movie star colleague - and initiate sex. Ideally while seeming cool and chill and not at all like I'm too invested or like I've thought about this every night for months, maybe years.

No big deal.

I swallow a huge gulp of coffee. Coffee will surely help my racing heart.

He's lounging on the edge of the couch, with that catlike grace that claims every space he occupies. Maybe he's at ease here, or maybe he wants to set me at ease, or maybe there are deeper levels to this game of ours. Maybe he's playing for something else entirely.

With all these rational and completely realistic thoughts, I sit beside him.

'Hey,' I tell him, in a very normal, not-nervous voice.

'Hey.' If he rolls his eyes a little, who could blame him?

His eyes flicker to my bare legs. I hope he notices that I shaved. I'm watching his face, though, seeing his gaze flash and his eyebrows tighten. He's hovering right on the edge of something.

'Hey,' I say again, and before he can interrupt, I slide across the sofa and perch on his lap.

His entire body tenses. It's almost funny.

'This okay?' I breathe. He nods, frantically. His eyes still haven't met mine: they're hovering around my collarbone, flickering staccato back and forth, like he's reading a vital document. His brain is extraordinary. I wish I could read those thoughts, too.

His eyes are dark, darker than I've ever seen them. Slowly, he touches my knee, and I tense without meaning to, until we're both perched on the brink, scared to breathe, scared to scare each other.

He runs his hands up my leg, beneath my skirt, to round against my hips and grip me tightly.

And then, without looking up, his lips drop to my collarbone. My collarbone has been kissed before. I'm sure it has. But now, my whole body is leaning into the feeling, my eyes closing, lips parting, breathing a ragged gasp.

His teeth scrape my neck.

It's enough to make me whimper, and I know he feels it because he does it again, and again. Only when it's painful do I realise how tightly he's gripping my hips - gripping them because they're rolling, grinding against him, over and over, until I'm sighing.