So she did, even though she had no idea who this Ryan was, and the image on the screen seemed too blurry to recognise.
But then he was there. A face she had seen, in movies and imaginings, many times.
“Hey, babe. Just checking in with a friend. We’re still friends, right?”
She knew the voice too. American, rugged, charming. Famous.
She heard Joanna whispering to someone else on the coach: “She’s on the phone to Ryan Bailey.”
Ryan Bailey. Ryan Bailey. As in the Ryan Bailey. As in the Ryan Bailey of her fantasies,
where they talked about Plato and Heidegger through a veil of steam in his West Hollywood hot tub.
“Nora? You there? You look scared.” “Um, yeah. I’m... yeah... I’m...”
“I’ve just... I’m here... On a bus... A big... touring... yeah... Hi.”
“Guess where I am?” She had no idea what to say. “Hot tub” seemed entirely inappropriate as an answer.
“I honestly don’t know.” He panned the phone around a vast and opulent-looking villa,
complete with bright furnishings and terracotta tiles and a four-poster double bed veiled in a mosquito net.
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