Chapter 20: Four Million Watching

The roof was lit for the largest audience we had ever had.

Six cameras stood on sticks at the edges, and a crane arm hung over the middle.

The crew had come at six, as the grip promised, and they stood at their marks in black with their headsets on.

They did not look at Dennis.

They looked at the back of the crowd, where I stood against the stairwell wall with Isla's hand in mine.

I had no camera.

It was the first live shoot of my life where I held nothing at all.

"You look ill," Isla said.

"I'm fine."

"Your hand's like ice."

"It's cold up here."

"It's a roof," she said, and squeezed.

The sponsor's people sat in a row of white chairs by the rail, the vice president in the middle with her tablet on her knee.

Dennis stood beside her in a fresh blazer.

He smiled at everything.

The prompter stood at the front of the roof under its lamp, a tall dark slab with the glass facing the couple.

The grip with the huge forearms sat beside it on an apple box.

He caught my eye across the crowd and lifted one finger off the control.

I lifted mine back.

At nine o'clock the director in the headset said, "Live in thirty," and his voice cracked on the second word.

Demi walked onto the mark.

She wore white, the dress we had picked for her three months ago, from a rack in a shop in Soho, when I thought we were choosing it for a joke.

Her hair was down and loose, the way I liked it.

She did not look at me.

Wyatt took his place opposite her, and he looked as good as he always did.

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