I Knew You Were Trouble

Prologue

Los Angeles, USA

March

‘And the Oscar… goes to…’

A hush descends over the packed auditorium at the Dolby Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard. I hold my breath as the envelope is opened, bracing myself, armed with my best fake smile, elegant yet graceful in defeat. At twenty-nine, I’m pretty sure I’m too young to win an Oscar for Best Documentary Feature. Glancing down, I realise I’m gripping the arm rest, the knuckles on one hand turning white. My designer dress – on special loan from a boutique on Rodeo Drive – is worth more than I earned for my last two projects.

The presenter, a well-known actress, leans forward towards the microphone, baring her generous cleavage for the benefit of her equally famous peers, whilst glancing down at the card in her hands.

‘ Crossing Over. Lexi Hart, director,’ she reads out.

A rushing sensation bursts inside my chest at the announcement of my name; Duncan leaning over, throwing his arm around my shoulders, shaking me, shouting his congratulations in my ear. All around, applause sounds out, particularly from the large portion of Silverpix employees who surround me, many of whom have worked to promote my now award-winning documentary, yet I’ve met precious few of them.

I walk to the stage on jelly legs. It takes a while to get there, since only the famous people sit in the rows at the front. I’m aware of camera lenses everywhere. The Oscar statuette that I’m handed has a substantial, rotund base, the statuette itself glinting under the stage lights. Holding it feels surreal. As I turn to find the microphone, armed with my memorised acceptance speech that I’ve recited countless times – in secret hope – in my London flat, I look out across the crowd, noticing one individual is still on his feet, applauding me, arms raised high above his head.

At the sight of him, the blood drains from my face.

For the first time in more than ten years, I’m looking at my father.

Being shepherded from the Oscars press room, following my win, I feel shaky and breathless. A production assistant with a microphone and a clipboard congratulates me, ushering me away from the main thoroughfare, directing me back to the entrance to the auditorium to return to my seat, as though I’ve just come off an exclusive conveyor belt. The sight of my dad in the audience leaves me uneasy. Did I imagine it? The glimpse of him caused panic in my brain, my speech coming out all jumbled as a result. I go over what I think I said, hoping I didn’t leave anyone out. Duncan, my cameraman, is, of course, top of the list. Silverpix: the global streaming giant who funded both my films. I dedicated my award to my late mother, as I always knew that I would, if I ever won, which at this moment also doesn’t feel real.

‘Lexi! Congratulations!’

I look up. The man towering above me in a tuxedo is holding out his colossal hand, the buttons on the front of his shirt straining against the fabric. ‘Vaughn Herrera. I truly loved your film.’

‘Thank you,’ I breathe, as my fingers are crushed. ‘I’m so sorry… I don’t think I know you.’

‘Ah, but I know you ,’ he grins with a knowing wink, and I wonder if I’ve somehow forgotten a prior introduction. ‘And I’m very much looking forward to your next offering. Think big, won’t you, Lexi?’

I frown, but his attention is grabbed by someone else before I get the chance to respond.

‘Lex?’

I stiffen. People are still rushing everywhere, the next award recipient already inside the press room behind me.

Despite his prolonged absence, I recognise his voice. American filmmaker, Patrick Hart. So I didn’t imagine it.

‘How did you get back here?’ I turn and ask in a low tone.

He keeps his distance. His hair has turned white since I last saw him. ‘One of the sound guys I know snuck me a backstage pass. I wanted to offer you my congratulations.’

I jut out my chin. I can barely stand the sight of him. ‘Alright. You’ve offered. That doesn’t mean I have to accept them.’

‘Pumpkin—’

‘No,’ I bite out, a flurry of anger sweeping over me at his use of my childhood nickname, grasping my Oscar by its miniature neck. ‘No. It’s bad enough that I have to see you in the crowd. It’s bad enough that you’ve just ruined the best moment of my life. Now, please. Leave me alone. I don’t need you in my life, Patrick. So go back to your wife. Stay away from me. I don’t need you, not anymore.’