After the Stand-In Wrapped, My Ex-Husband Suddenly Wanted More Screen Time

The day Simon Graves's first love came home, he brought her to my birthday party.

She wore a white dress just like mine, and even the little mole near her temple was seventy percent a match for mine.

One of my friends, drunk, pointed at the two of us and laughed.

Damn, no wonder Simon married you. From a distance, you're practically a knockoff of her!

The whole table went quiet.

Simon frowned and told him to shut up, but he never looked at me.

When the party ended, he unclasped the sapphire necklace from my neck and fastened it around the woman's throat with his own hands.

"This was made to her measurements in the first place."

"You've worn it three years. It's time you gave it back to her."

That same night, he had his lawyer bring over the divorce agreement. He left me one apartment.

I looked at the two similar faces in the old photograph, and my tears fell onto the paper.

Seeing me sign in silence, Simon, irritated, added a car and eight million.

I sniffled and thanked him nicely.

Simon didn't know that a stand-in is worth the most on the very day the real one comes back.

After all, when an employer feels guiltiest is usually when they're most willing to pay severance.

...

After the lawyer left, the living room was quiet enough that all I could hear was the wall clock ticking.

Simon sat across from me, an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

He'd quit two years ago.

Back when I was getting ready to try for a baby, I couldn't stand the smell of smoke, so he threw out every cigarette hidden in his study. He even complained that his assistant reeked of it and wouldn't let the man into the house.

Now the baby never came, and it was the marriage that ended first.

I stared at the new numbers written into the agreement and decided that cigarette looked a lot easier to bear.

"Anything else you want?"

Simon spoke first, his tone cold, though his eyes stayed fixed on the hand I held the pen with.

I gave it some serious thought.

"Those six cases of liquor in the basement. Can I have them?"

His face darkened.

"Judith Hughes, I'm asking about your future."

I was thinking about my future too.

Those six cases were expensive. Sold off, they'd cover a decent set of equipment for my studio.

Of course, I couldn't say that.

A stand-in has to know how to protect the client's pride.

Especially a client who's just fired you and is cycling between guilt and irritation.

I lowered my eyes and explained softly, "I just can't bear to part with them. We picked those out together when we got married."

The tension in his shoulders eased a little.

"They're all yours."

Sure enough, a half-truth usually works best.

I really couldn't bear to part with them.

As for how much they'd sell for, that was the other half.

Simon snapped the cigarette in two and dropped it in the ashtray.

"Cindy Cox just got back. Her health isn't good. These past few years have been hard on her."

I nodded.

"Mm."

He waited a moment, and his brows slowly drew together.

"You have nothing else you want to ask?"

"Would there be any point in asking?"

Simon said nothing.

The answer was already clear enough.

I closed the agreement and held it against my chest.

"Then I won't ask. Get some rest."

As I passed him, he suddenly caught my wrist.

The warmth of his palm was so familiar it stung the bridge of my nose.

"Judith, you're allowed to demand an explanation from me."

He said it slowly, as if granting me the right to exercise something.

I looked up at him, the film of water in my eyes just barely not falling.

"I'm afraid if I make an ugly scene, you won't even give me the eight million."

His hand tightened all at once.

He probably wanted to call me greedy, but his gaze hit my reddened eyes, and he swallowed the words back down.

After a long while, he said in a low voice, "The money will be in your account tomorrow."

I gave him a small smile.

"Thank you, boss."

Simon let go, and his face was worse than that of anyone who'd ever been handed divorce papers.

I went back to the guest room, locked the door, and called Mavis Palmer.

She listened to the whole thing, then went quiet for a full ten seconds.

"Eight million, an apartment, a car, and six cases of liquor?"

"That's right."

"Did you take the sapphire back?"

"No."

Mavis drew a sharp breath, the kind she saved for when I'd let her down.

"You're slipping. That necklace is worth two million, minimum."

I lay on the bed, tears sliding silently into my hair.

"It was made for the real one. It always felt too tight on me anyway."

The other end went quiet again.

Mavis had known me for ten years. She knew when a joke would land and when to just play along and pretend I hadn't been crying.

She changed the subject and asked whether I was going back to the set.

I got into the business at eighteen, working my way up from extra to stand-in.

At my busiest, I took slaps for four different actresses in a single day.

Directors didn't want my face on camera, so the makeup artists smeared me with grime until you couldn't make out my features.

Mavis was managing the stand-ins back then, and she had one line she said all the time.

The camera can leave your face out. The contract has to have your name in it.

Later I married Simon, walked away from the set, and Mavis cursed me out for handing back everything she'd taught me.

Now it seemed I had some catching up to do.

"I want to open a stand-in actors' studio."

I wiped my eyes and stared at the ceiling.

"Find people work, and make sure they get the money they're owed."

Mavis's voice perked right up.

"Eight million to start?"

"Two million to start. I'll bank the rest. I need to guard against my own lovesick relapses."

She laughed and told me I'd finally grown up, then asked when I was moving out.

I said once the apartment was ready.

After I hung up, there was a soft knock at the door.

Simon stood in the doorway, a glass of warm milk in his hand.

"You didn't eat tonight."

I looked at the steam rising off the rim and didn't reach for it.

Three years of marriage. No matter how late he came home from a dinner, he always brought me something to eat.

I used to think of these small habits as roots that love had grown.

Only tonight did I understand how shallow those roots went. Cindy came back, and she could pull the whole thing up at once.

Impatience flickered between Simon's brows, and he pushed the glass into my hands.

"Drink it, then sleep."

I cupped the glass and asked quietly, "Does Miss Cox drink warm milk too?"

His face went stiff.

"This has nothing to do with her."

"Good," I said, and smiled a little. "I thought maybe this was another habit she left behind."

Simon stared at me. His lips moved.

Downstairs, a phone suddenly rang.

Cindy's name lit up the screen.

He turned and went down, his steps quick.

The milk was still warm. I took a sip, and the sweetness turned bitter in my mouth.

At one in the morning, I heard the door open downstairs.

Simon stood in the living room for a while, then came up and knocked on my door.

I wasn't asleep. Through the door, I asked if he needed something.

"Cindy's gone back to her hotel."

He said that, and then nothing more.

I sat on the bed with my arms around my knees and waited a moment.

"All right."

The person outside still didn't leave.

"You saw her photo a long time ago, didn't you?"

"Mm."

"You know why I got close to you?"

I buried my face against my knees, my voice muffled.

"I know. Mavis said I was lucky back then. I landed a stand-in role even in love."

Simon's breathing turned noticeably heavier.

"If you knew, why marry me?"

I'd asked myself that too.

The answer had always been humiliating.

"Because I loved you."

Outside the door, it went completely silent.

I waited until the hallway light switched itself off, and still I didn't hear his answer.

That he loved me was something he had never once admitted.

At least silence couldn't be written into a divorce agreement, and it couldn't be docked from my account.

The eight million landed right on time the next morning.

I stared at that string of zeros, and for a moment my mood lifted a little.

Money can't heal heartbreak. But it can at least give you a place of your own to lie down and hurt in slowly.

I contacted an agent to go inspect the apartment, then sent the car in for an appraisal.

When Simon found out, he threw down his spoon at the breakfast table.

"I just signed the car over to you, and you're already selling it?"

"I can't drive something that big, and the upkeep is expensive."

"There's a driver at home."

I reminded him. "After the divorce, the driver still belongs to the Graves family."

Simon went quiet.

After a while, his face cold, he said, "Brendan Dickerson goes with you from now on."

The driver waiting at the doorway visibly froze.

So did I.

There's a limit to how much a person can take. A driver has his own life. You can't cart him off like a case of wine.

I shook my head quickly.

"That's not necessary. I can learn to drive."

Simon's expression got worse.

"You're afraid of cars. How are you going to learn?"

I was in an accident when I was seventeen, and after that I couldn't bring myself to sit in the driver's seat.

Simon had tried to teach me plenty of times.

Every time I gripped the wheel I'd break into a cold sweat, and he would fold my hand into his and tell me not to be afraid.

That patience of his had been real.

But there's a long road between a man who was once good to you and a man who will keep choosing you.

I lowered my head and drank my porridge.

"I'll take it slow. I'll get there eventually."

That afternoon I went back to the room to pack my clothes.

Simon came home from work early. He pushed the door open, saw the cardboard boxes on the bed, and stood in the doorway without moving.

"The apartment isn't even ready yet. What's the rush?"

"The agent says I can move in this weekend."

I took my own clothes out of the closet. They filled less than half of it.

The wedding gown I'd bought when we married still hung all the way at the back.

Simon reached out and pressed a hand on a box.

"You don't need to take that. There's room for it here."

I followed his gaze to the gown.

"I'm planning to list it on a resale site. I only wore it once, and it's been kept well."

"Judith!"

He bit down on my name, his face dark. "Are you really that desperate for money?"

I wanted to say yes.

Before I turned eighteen, I'd counted every meal against my adoptive mother's medical bills.

After I married Simon, my account held a lot of money, but I could never bring myself to store my sense of security in his bank card.

The words came to the edge of my tongue, and I traded them for a joke.

"Even eight million won't last if you just sit and eat through it."

Simon took the gown out of the closet and hung it back where it had been.

"You're not selling it."

"Then will you buy it?"

He stalled for a second.

I pulled out my phone, looked up what it had cost back then, and knocked off the odd change for him.

Simon let out a laugh of pure anger and transferred the money on the spot.

The payment alert chimed. I promised him the gown would stay right here, exactly as it was.

He looked at the emptied closet. The anger in his eyes hadn't faded. If anything, something restless had crept in beside it, something I couldn't name.

It struck me then that what he really wanted to keep might have nothing to do with the gown.

But he didn't say a thing.

So I went back to taping the box shut.

Simon seemed on the verge of speaking again when Cindy came down the stairs.

She'd changed out of the white dress and was wearing one of Simon's black shirts.

The spoon in my hand paused for a beat.

Cindy caught my look and tugged at the hem.

"My dress got wine on it last night, and Simon told me to wear his for now. Don't read into it."

I smiled and said it was fine.

The agreement was signed anyway, and the position was already being handed over.

If the real employee helped herself to the boss's personal things early, the stand-in had no channel to file a complaint.

Simon looked at me and explained in a low voice, "The guest room's empty anyway. She's only staying two days."

"Sure."

I answered too fast, and that familiar irritation surfaced in his eyes again.

Cindy sat down across from me, the sapphire at her throat catching the morning light.

"The necklace is a little tight. Simon said he'd take me to have it resized sometime."

I looked at it carefully.

"It is tight. Better to size it up, or it'll cut off your circulation."

Whatever Cindy had lined up to say stuck on her lips.

Simon shot to his feet.

The chair legs scraped the floor with a harsh screech.

"Judith, do you have to talk like this?"

I looked up, blank.

"I'm just showing concern for Miss Cox."

He stared at me for a few seconds, then grabbed his coat and walked out of the dining room.

Cindy watched him go, the smile fading from her face.

She lowered her voice and asked me, "You're really willing to let it all go?"

I touched my bare neck.

"Willing or not, I can't just take it. That would hurt my severance."

She looked at me for a long moment, as if she couldn't tell whether I was joking or telling the truth.

I couldn't tell either.

When the ache in my chest flared up, the happiness eight million had brought always went quiet for a while.

Simon and I met five years ago, on the set of an ad shoot.

I was the lighting stand-in for the lead actress, in a thin gown, soaking in a tank of cold water for six hours.

When we wrapped, everyone crowded around the lead actress, fussing over her, asking if she was cold. No one noticed I couldn't even get my shoes back on.

Simon passed through the set and saw me crouched by the roadside. He had his assistant take me to the hospital.

The next day, he sent over a check.

I refused it.

Mavis rapped me on the head right there.

"That's for your medical bills. What's with the too-good-for-this-world act?"

I chased him down in the parking lot to return the money. Simon was leaning against his car, looking at an old photograph.

The girl in it wore a white dress, with a small mole near her temple.

He looked up and saw me, and his gaze held for a long time.

In that moment, I understood why he'd helped me.

I fell for him anyway.

Liking someone doesn't follow reason.

Even knowing the light was on you only because you'd stepped into the wrong spot, your skin still felt warm under it.

Simon was direct when he pursued me too.

He got me roles, paid off the medical debt my adoptive mother left behind, and pulled me out of the dangerous stunt work.

I asked him once whether I resembled someone.

He said I did.

Then I asked if he could try to see Judith Hughes.

He was silent for a long time, then nodded.

We dated for two years, married for three.

He knew I feared cars, knew I wouldn't eat cilantro, knew I had to leave a small light on before I could sleep.

When I ran a fever, he'd put down his meetings and stay by the bed.

When a nightmare made me kick him, he'd wake up and only tuck the blanket back over me.

All those years, I thought he'd long since seen my face for what it was.

I had once tried, in earnest, to make the marriage work.

When Simon's stomach hurt, I taught myself to make a light soup for him.

When he worked late into the night, I'd leave a lamp on outside the study.

The things he gave me, I rarely asked the price of.

The sapphire necklace was the only exception.

The night I got it, I asked him why he'd chosen blue.

He said the moment he saw it, he thought it suited me.

I was so happy that night I didn't sleep, sneaking looks at myself in the mirror over and over.

Looking back now, maybe there was some truth in what he said.

That's the part of love that wears you down.

There was real feeling in those days, and no matter how ugly the ending, a person can't rule all that tenderness a fake.

I can only admit Simon was good to me, and accept, at the same time, that when it came to a choice that mattered more, he gave me up.

Put the two together, and they don't cancel each other out.

That word at the birthday dinner, "knockoff," tore a slit in my confidence.

Simon didn't speak up for me.

And he used that necklace to remind me that three years of marriage were only a borrowed costume.

The day I moved to the apartment, he didn't come to see me off.

Brendan set the last box into the car for me and asked, carefully, "Mrs. Graves, will you and Mr. Graves be coming back?"

"Call me Miss Hughes from now on."

I thought about it, then said with a smile, "Once a stand-in wraps, she usually doesn't sign on for the next season."

Brendan's eyes went red at the rims.

He turned his face away and handed me a jewelry box.

"Mr. Graves had this sent over."

Inside was a new diamond necklace, worth more than the sapphire one.

The card held only a single line.

Don't read into it. Consider it a replacement.

I took a photo and sent it to Simon.

Is this mine too?

He replied almost at once.

Yes.

Can I sell it?

The little "typing" note kept flickering above the chat.

Five minutes later, he answered with one word.

Suit yourself.

I handed the necklace to Mavis and asked her to find a buyer.

That night, Simon called seven times.

I was asleep. I didn't take a single one.