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They decide to run off to Paris, speeding off like an undead Thelma and Louise, but instead of a cliff they’re on an airport tarmac, and there is no sweet release of freedom as their car explodes on the Arizona rocks.
No, there's no freedom at all, at least not for Helen.
In the last 12 hours since they left the still writhing stain on the ground that was Ernest Menville - he’s fine, Mad chirped, his hand still looked like it can sign divorce papers - they had stopped in 17 different boutiques, signed, selfied, and hugged 36 fans, dodged four calls from the police, all while Madeline refused to let go of her hand, nails digging in even when Helen insisted she needed to use the bathroom.
She didn't actually need it; their bodies don’t need food or water, and by proxy, the bathroom, but Madeline didn't know that yet. She was too busy tittering to her suddenly re-adoring fans and patting Helen’s arm, her old friend, as Helen felt herself seep back into the person she used to be, the one who patiently waited and held the headshots, who’d seen Madeline’s face in pictures more than her own in the mirror.
But - that was then, and that Helen was dead, literally, shed off like a sad little skin after the horror that was the health spa. Now she, whoever she is, walks around with smooth skin, bright eyes, a frankly well-endowed figure, and refuses to be shoved to the side again.
They currently sit in the first-class seats, Ernest’s credit card doing even worse than his coccyx, Madeline watching one of her own movies and munching on Helen’s airplane pretzels. Helen straightens her spine and turns to Mad, their hands still intertwined.
“Mad, I want to talk about-”
“I know, I was incredible in this, thank-”
“No,” Helen scowls, “It’s not about the movie.”
“But I was so good in it!”
She clasps her fingers sharply around Madeline’s chin and pulls their eyes to meet with a harsh jerk. Mad’s eyes widen, the bright blue of her eyes visible even in the dim overhead lights, then narrow into something more vicious as she smiles.
“Hel, here? Get a girl to Paris, first,” she purrs.
Helen considers the suggestion but sets her jaw instead, because if they’re doing eternity together, they’re going to do it right.
“If you want me to stay, you’re not shoving me to the side again. Got it? No my old friend, no making me hold the camera, no shoving me off the minute some actor wants to show you his award shelf. I’m serious about this, Mad.”
A flash of something real - anger, fear, panic, or just brazen stubbornness - runs across Madeline’s face, and she shakes her chin loose from Helen’s grip.
“I’m sorry, Hel,” Madeline hisses, glancing over to the hovering flight attendants with an overenthusiastic smile, “For trying to enjoy my first day of being wanted again. It’s a little hard to adjust to the whole being dead thing.”
Helen feels her eye twitch. Feels her now empty hand close and clench into a fist. If they were home she’d probably punch right between Madeline’s eyes and give her that sixth nose job she’s always dreamed of, because sorry is supposed to be sacred, and it’s the only reason Helen is on this runaway flight at all.
One flight attendant, probably noticing her penchant for rage and Madeline’s instinct to jab, wheels a squeaky cart by with two glasses of champagne. Perfect, because Madeline is always so much more pleasant when she’s tipsy. Madeline takes the glasses as Helen sends her own overly polite smile to the poor attendant and they settle back into their seats, silently seething.
Helen takes a sip of her champagne, feeling the liquid roll straight through her long-defunct organs. She’ll have to tell Mad what happens when they do eat, the Lovecraftian nightmare that awaits those airplane pretzels - that’ll make her feel like an A-list actress again, Helen’s sure. She looks up to the movie that’s still playing, Madeline already enraptured again with her own batting eyelashes.
“Didn’t I review that one in the Tribune? The nominating committee must have had a mass aneurysm?”
Madeline looks over with a sneer, “It was the only thing anyone talked about. How my former creative acquaintance,” she says the word with an impressive venom, “Panned my first Oscar nomination. Very kind of you, Hel.”
“It was only owed for the performance. Look at you now, you’re practically the beating heart of the in-flight entertainment industry.”
“You're horrible.”
“Forever and ever, Mad.”
She can't pinpoint when they met, which is strange because Mad swore that everyone knew exactly where they were the first time they saw her. Helen had swiped back that she sounded more like a natural disaster than a natural beauty, and then Mad had gone off and slept with several of Helen’s boyfriends, as all best friends tend to do.
It might have been at an open audition, one of the few times that Helen had considered putting herself in front of the camera instead of behind it, but all she really knows is that she went home with Madeline’s number scribbled on a torn piece of a script page and a promise to call.
What Helen does remember is their first lunch together, in some grimy diner in Chicago. The burnt out lights flickered overhead as flies swirled around their coffee to the old juke music. It was one of the few places they could afford to eat at as starving, stubborn artists, but neither of them seemed to mind. Helen timidly handed over her scripts, likely reason Madeline had wanted to meet up at all, and Madeline had beamed as she read, saying, this is good, Hel, this is really, really good.
Maybe it had been the way Madeline had smiled, or squeezed Helen’s hand without a second thought, or how she had immediately launched into delivering the lines with a strange talent that Helen still can’t quite admit exists, but she knew - this was something; That Madeline Ashton would be a great force in her life, whether she liked it or not, and maybe she should get medicated before it all caught up with her.
She wouldn’t, but c’est la mort, as the French say.
Apt, considering where she is now, standing out on the balcony of their penthouse suite, smoking a skinny little French cigarette, listening as Madeline scurries around inside, trying her best to take a shower.
After nearly knocking each other’s teeth out in the airport bathroom, they had spent the day wandering the streets of Paris, the city of lights scorching them in the summer heat. Helen could tell her paint was starting to wearing loose by lunch - her stomach is now in bits and pieces on the bathroom floor, spilling that airplane champagne all over the marble. There had been a run to the hardware store, then another to the morgue to get the needed beauty essentials - spray paint and formaldehyde - and now?
Now, she’s not sure where they go from here; the idea of tomorrow already too overwhelming, much less an entire eternity together.
She’s ready to continue her French malaise when Madeline comes up behind her with a sigh and a peck on her shoulder, lips brushing against Helen’s still-drying sealant as she flicks the cigarette to the ground.
“Ugh, you’re going to end up half tar if you keep doing that.”
“We’re dead, Mad, I don’t think lung cancer is really a concern.”
“We’re also flammable. I can smell it on us, remind me to reach out to my parfumier tomorrow.”
Helen shrugs, her empty hands now twitching against the railing. Mad reaches her hands around Helen’s waist to find them, sharp nails scratching against Helen’s ever-peeling skin. Who knew immortality would be so flakey. Maybe she’ll call Viola and see what she does to stay in one piece - wait, is that why that place was so dark?
Madeline’s voice cracks, as if her vocal cords are still adjusting to being twisted around her spinal cord, “Hel?”
“What?”
“Are we actually going to be alive forever?”
It’s a question that Helen truly doesn’t have an answer for, their skirting of death. That they could somehow ignore broken necks and shotgun shells through the stomach. She doubts even Viola truly knows the terms and conditions in full of the contract they’ve all signed themselves up for - surviving longer than the stars, perpetual hell, eventual madness - all to get a mediocre book deal in return. Well, who the hell is she to turn that offer down?
Madeline sets her chin down on Hel's shoulder. Helen responds by reaching her hand back to touch Mad’s cheek, feeling a light kiss on her fingertips as they look out at the city.
“I don’t think we can get away from each other,” Helen says honestly.
“Not even in - what did you say? A black hole that devours the sun?”
Helen shakes her head, “No, I just need to mention that old review and you'd find a way to kill me.”
“I’d die trying."
Warm air spins around them as they lean against the railing, Helen’s eyes drifting from light to light, car to car, the world terrifyingly huge but - more manageable, maybe, with Mad by her side, brandishing that terrible charm of hers until they get what they want
“You know,” Helen says, turning her back on the city to face Madeline, “You forgot a part of it.”
“Of what - the review? You want to bring up another one of those Sharp remarks?”
“I remember writing that you were the only good part of that horrible series.”
“A stunning delight in an otherwise disappointing franchise,” Madeline says, slowly.
Helen shrugs, “Flattering, but I'll admit it was true.”
Madeline squints her eyes, then widens them, then squints again, like she's a camera shutter trying to adjust to the light, her brain short-circuiting from - what, Helen’s not sure. Suddenly, she’s worried that it's her turn to be pushed off the balcony, and she’s about to raise her hands for mercy when Madeline grabs her by the robe with a squeal and kisses her.
“Oh, you bitch,” she snorts into Helen’s shocked mouth, “I almost had that tattooed on my ass and it was you.”
"It was?"
Madeline squeaks again, drawing back to put her hands on Helen’s chest, but not before licking a finger to swipe at the sealant smeared from her kiss.
“Listen,” she says, looking down at Helen’s breasts - who wouldn’t - and taps them affectionately, “I was thinking about my, our, next move, and picture this: closeup - Madeline Ashton caught leaving hotel room amidst a tragic divorce. A scandalous affair!”
Helen is about to ask what poor French bastard will be the sacrifice to Madeline’s tabloid addiction, but Madeline continues on, framing Helen’s face with her hands.
“And - Helen Sharp, creative genius entangled in the sheets of a returned ingénue?”
Madeline finishes her pitch, breathless. She looks radiant, light from the room inside lighting up her hair as the city shines in her eyes. It reflects back onto Helen, seeming to bathe her in that light, too.
Helen feels as something horrible starts to bubble in her gut, or whatever is left of it, spine tingling as it begins to spread out through each dead nerve, crawling with a vicious persistence into her face, her throat, a sickly warmth - oh God, it's either love or that cigarette is igniting her from the inside out.
She shakes her head and takes Madeline's hands into her own.
“Mad, that is the craziest thing I've ever heard and we just killed each other yesterday - but, sure, let’s do it. What’s the worst that could happen, we die in a yacht explosion?”
Madeline laughs, “That's a great idea!”
They're doomed.