Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Sybil had gone to eight new schools before moving to Crane Cove. Her mother moved her and her sister Mallory to wherever that year’s model of stepdad lived or wanted to live. She was used to being an outsider, to not fitting in. Never once had she been as nervous as she was when she showed up to the set of The Light Below . It was surreal seeing the title of a detective thriller she’d read on the black T-shirts the production assistants wore.
She showed her badge to a security guard and then one of the black T-shirt-wearing production assistants whisked her off to hair and makeup. The whisking was wholly unnecessary because she had to sit in a chair and wait for them to be ready for her. Sybil didn’t have any games on her phone, but she wished she did. Someone should have told her to bring a book.
“Here.” A book appeared under her nose, and she jumped, startled. She took the mass-market paperback and held it so she could read the title. Night Watch by Terry Pratchett. “I just finished it.”
Sybil looked up at Peter, who towered over her from her seated position. He’d been transformed into the quintessential Pacific Northwest Man. Hiking boots, jeans, a blue-and-green flannel, and a Columbia Sportswear rain jacket. Either he’d already been to wardrobe or he’d embraced method acting.
“You’re still reading Terry?” she asked, turning the book over to read the back cover.
“I love Sam Vimes. He’s my favorite literary copper,” Peter said, continuing to stand instead of taking the open seat next to her. “I’m trying to get into that suspicious bastard headspace.”
A muffled chuckle made her shoulders jump. “You’re too nice to be a suspicious bastard,” she said, and immediately wished she could take the words back. Not because they were mean, but because they were nice . Friendly. He was going to think she wanted him hanging around, smiling at her, making her heart beat like it was trying to break out of her chest to get to him.
“It’s called acting. I’ve been told I’m quite good.” He had the audacity to wink at her.
Sybil averted her gaze and saw Madelyn Penn swan out of hair and makeup. She understood now how Charlotte could have mistaken her for Madelyn. It was eerie to see someone she resembled walk toward her and stop next to Peter. Except she was the knockoff version of Madelyn Penn. Not quite as thin, not quite as pretty, more freckly, and her hair wasn’t lusciously silky. Hopefully hair and makeup was staffed by actual fairy godmothers.
“Do you think crafty has any potato chips? I read online— Oh, hi! You must be my double.” Madelyn caught sight of Sybil and smiled like a pageant queen greeting commoners.
The urge to stand overwhelmed Sybil, and she rose, clutching the small book to her chest.“I’m Sybil.”
“That’s such a pretty name,” Madelyn gushed, but then her smile vanished. She was perfectly still for three seconds, and then she walked off quickly without saying goodbye.
“That was like looking into a funhouse mirror, but instead of looking weird, I looked prettier,” Sybil said.
Peter frowned, but she didn’t get to find out if he would have argued with her because hair and makeup beckoned her into their lair of foundation and hairspray.
There were Polaroid pictures of Madelyn taped to the mirror she was sat in front of, and two women immediately went to work on her like she was an F1 car and they were her pit crew. It wasn’t a collaborative process. At one point they measured the length of her ponytail and then teased her hair to make it a little shorter.
When they stepped away, the effect was astounding. She could never be an exact match for Madelyn Penn, but she could easily win a look-alike contest. They smoothed out her complexion, made her eyes look bigger and more doe-like, and had somehow managed to get her hair into a ponytail that looked good and not like she was a colonial drummer boy who had fallen through a rift in time.
“Wow,” Sybil breathed, wanting to touch her face but not daring to disturb their handiwork. “Do you offer classes on how to do this?”
“Maybe on a more relaxed day we can give you some pointers,” the makeup artist said, and then studied Sybil’s face. “But this isn’t how I would do your makeup if I was doing it for you and not to make you look more like Madelyn.”
There wasn’t a chance for Sybil to ask any follow-up questions because another black-clad production assistant showed up to collect her. She was hustled to wardrobe where they put her in the exact same outfit as Madelyn: gray slacks, black belt, white blouse with the first three buttons undone. Professionally sultry. Her gift from props were a badge and fake gun.
“It’s not loaded,” the props person told her, and showed her that it was empty. “So even if you want to shoot someone, you can’t.”
Sybil stood still while they adjusted her gun and holster. “Have we met before?”
“Because I showed you it wasn’t loaded?” They grinned. “Peter told me to tell you so you wouldn’t be tempted to point it at him.”
“It’s day one, and my reputation has already preceded me.”
“I worked with him on a western. He teases a lot, but he’s a really nice guy. Don’t be nervous.”
“A western? Someone handed him a loaded gun?”
The prop person chuckled. “Not loaded. Okay, you are good to go, my friend.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” Sybil asked.
The prop person frowned. “That is a great question.” They looked around and pursed their lips. “I swear the PAs have a sixth sense for when I need them and hide from me— Oh! Hey!” They grabbed a passing PA. “This is Madelyn’s double. Can you take custody of her?”
“Am I a prisoner now?” Sybil asked the PA as she was hustled off, her book— Peter’s book—clutched tightly in her hand.
“By the end of the day, this all feels very Hotel California,” the PA told her. “So, in a way, yes.”
The PA took her up the magnificent staircase in the lobby of the Crane Hotel, and then to a hallway stuffed with people, lights, and cameras.
“Holy shit,” she muttered under her breath.
“Yeah, it’s a lot,” the PA agreed.
So maybe not as under her breath as she thought.
Sybil saw Charlotte talking to two other women, one with a thick binder, and one with a clipboard. Charlotte glanced up briefly, then did a double take when she caught sight of Sybil, and the relief on her face was clear.
The PA deposited her with the trio and managed to slip away without being given another task.
Charlotte put a gentle hand on Sybil’s shoulder. “Sybil, this is Michelle, my assistant director, and Ayesha, my second assistant director. They are my brains outside my body. And this is Sybil, who is going to be standing in for Madelyn until she feels better.”
“Wow.” Ayesha looked her up and down. “The resemblance is uncanny. You really found her in the lobby?”
“Coffee shop, actually,” Sybil corrected. “I own Stardust downtown.”
“And we’ve used up our time for chitchat,” Michelle said after a look at her watch. “Tick-tock.”
“So, we do need you to have another conversation with Dahlia, the intimacy coordinator,” Charlotte began once her assistant directors had dispersed to make sure everyone was doing their jobs. “Madelyn is currently indisposed, so we’re very grateful for you. We’re going to shoot as many of Peter’s shots as we can, but there is a kiss on today’s schedule.”
Sybil’s stomach flipped anxiously and her palms became embarrassingly damp. “But we might not get to that part?”
“I’m hoping Madelyn will be back with us before lunch,” Charlotte said, “because fuck, I do not want to be behind on day one.”
From the corner of her eye, Sybil spotted Peter down the hall, talking to a tall woman with electric blue hair and a yellow dress that looked like something out of Eloise’s closet. That had to be Dahlia, the woman who had called the night before to talk to her about kissing Peter. It had sounded like such a remote possibility twelve hours ago.
“I will go talk to Dahlia, then,” Sybil promised.
“And then we need to do lighting and focus checks,” Charlotte added. She looked down at Sybil’s hands. “You can leave your book on Madelyn’s chair.”
Sybil picked her way down the hall, carefully trying to avoid stepping on cables or being in anyone’s way, but she came a hair’s breadth away from being smacked in the face by a boom mic. By the time she reached Peter and presumably Dahlia, the book cover was slick with sweat from her palms and her pulse was ragged. Then Peter looked at her with a friendly smile that faltered, and she tossed the book like a frisbee onto the nearest chair.
“Sybil, this is Dahlia. I was just telling her how”—he paused ever so imperceptibly, but she noticed the rest and how his smile faded further—“Graham and Eloise’s wedding was at the hotel. Are you okay? You’re very flushed.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted, dodging his hand when he tried to check her temperature. That kind of casual intimacy was akin to cruelty because the only people who would have dared were her very close friends and the only person in her history who had logged the man hours to know exactly how to make her legs shake uncontrollably. “There’s just a lot of fucking people around here.”
“It’s normal to be nervous,” Dahlia interjected, “but everyone here is a professional. To them, you’re a moving part.”
“Was that supposed to make me feel better?” Sybil put her hands on her hips because she didn’t know what else to do with them. “Is it always this hot?”
“Kind of,” Peter answered cautiously.
“We can get you a fan for between takes,” Dahlia said. “So, yesterday I spoke with both of you about the possibility of a kiss, and you both said you were okay with that. Does that still stand?”
Peter nodded stoically, and that small gesture set her teeth on edge. Then her knee-jerk reaction to be frustrated that he wasn’t jumping up and down with excitement to kiss her made her more frustrated, and it wasn’t until Dahlia repeated her question that Sybil realized she hadn’t answered.
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
“So this is supposed to be a very passionate kiss. You’ve had feelings for each other for a long time, you’re finally reunited, you’ve been pushing those reemerging feelings aside because of the case you’re working on, but it’s finally too much,” Dahlia explained.
Sybil dared a glance at Peter. He was studiously listening to Dahlia’s rundown of how she saw the kiss playing out, but then his eyes flicked to hers and she quickly focused back on Dahlia.
“Boundaries are very important so everyone feels safe and comfortable. Peter, is there anywhere you don’t want to be touched?”
Peter shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m up for seeing where the mood takes us.”
Dahlia looked at Sybil expectantly, waiting for her answer. What was she supposed to say? That she still had dreams about Peter’s hands and the paths they’d forged across her body? That she was anxious and terrified that he still could find his way without a map—or worse, that he’d forgotten his way entirely?
Her clothes were too tight. She wanted to tear them off, run outside, and jump into the ocean. Her skin was so hot she’d sizzle when she hit the frigid waves.
“Yeah, it’s, uh, fine,” Sybil said. “It’s just acting, right?”
“Don’t be surprised if your body has a different reaction than your head,” Dahlia warned. “It’s not uncommon for actors to become physically aroused during intimate scenes, even when they’re not emotionally aroused. Our bodies don’t always listen to our brains.”
Dahlia was preaching to the choir.
“I’ll be on set all day if you have any questions or concerns,” Dahlia promised. “If you’re uncomfortable talking to each other, or to Charlotte, I am a neutral third party here to make sure everyone feels safe and heard.”
“Thank you, Dahlia.” Peter smiled sincerely.
“Sybil, I’m going to go hunt you down a fan.” The intimacy coordinator gave a small finger wiggle wave and headed back to the mass of crew further down the hall.
“If you grab my boob, I will punch you in the throat,” Sybil said.
Peter stifled a laugh by pretending it was a cough. “Didn’t feel comfortable saying that in front of Dahlia?”
“I didn’t think she’d approve of justified violence.”
“I’m not going to maul you. It’s a kiss. We’re professionals.”
“ You’re a professional,” she reminded him. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Why does it feel like you’re going to blame this on me?”
“Because it is your fault. If I hadn’t been dropping off your stupid estimate for the stupid coffee cart, your mother never would’ve realized I look a little bit like Madelyn Penn and I’d be at work right now instead of playing dress up in front of”—Sybil tried to get a headcount of the crew in the hall but gave up—“too many people. I don’t even understand what I’m supposed to be doing. Do I stand there while you talk at me?”
Peter put his hands on her shoulders, and the tornado of terror swirling inside of her slowed to a sedate dust devil. “It’s a lot like how you used to help me rehearse. You’re going to do great. The camera will be focused on me. They might catch some of the back of your head.” He gently tugged her left ear lobe. “Maybe your ear will be famous.”
“I don’t want to be famous,” she said in a voice just above a whisper.
A few feet away, a PA cleared her throat. “They’re, um, ready for you.”
Any calmness Sybil had achieved vanished. Peter squeezed her shoulders.
“You’re going to be fine,” he promised.
“I’m not. But I’ll get through it.”
Inside the hotel room they were filming in, they got a brief rundown of what they’d be shooting, while at the same time someone else pointed a light meter at her face, and a PA—they were all blending together now—put some papers in her hands.
“Those are your sides. We highlighted the lines you need to read. Look over those real fast, and then we’ll get rolling,” Charlotte said. “And Sybil, you don’t need to give an award-winning performance, but a little oomph when reading helps your scene partner a lot.”
Sybil’s head swam with all of the directions she’d received. Could she get fired on the first day? They should have hired a real actor for this , she thought, then remembered technically they had, but were making do with her.
Her next self-pitying musing about why they couldn’t just wait for Madelyn to feel better to get started soon became clear to her. Charlotte’s version of “real fast” was another fifteen minutes for everything to get adjusted. Multiply this by however many scenes they had to shoot, and she could see how waiting around for Madelyn wasn’t going to work.
Then it was time for her to open the door to let Peter in so they could start the scene. Except when she opened the door, she didn’t let in Peter. She let in Glenn, a detective with the sheriff’s department of a rural county. The transformation was jarring. But Peter had been right: it was a lot like helping him prepare for auditions, except she had to move around the room instead of laying on the bed reading lines while he did all the actual work. He’d been so good back then, in his small bedroom in his dingy flat that he shared with a few of his mates, but now he was incredible. She didn’t know how he remembered the little adjustments Charlotte made to his performance, how he managed to repeat his performance exactly for every take after they’d repositioned the camera, but he did.
It cracked her heart right down the center, but they’d made the right choice to break up. Peter never could have done this if they’d stayed together. That wide-eyed hopeless romantic in him would have prioritized her over his career. He’d have passed on opportunities because it interfered with her birthday or their anniversary. She never could have survived in LA or New York, where he could find work as an actor, and he’d have withered and died in Crane Cove, resenting her a little more every year for not wanting to live anywhere else.
“Cut!” Charlotte shouted from her chair in the hallway.
The mask fell, and Peter was Peter again.
“You’re doing great.” He’d told her that after almost every take.
Charlotte poked her head into the room. “Madelyn’s here, so Sybil, you can go have a seat. Peter, we’re going to shoot her sides and then hustle into the kiss before we break for lunch.”
He nodded. “Sounds good.”
Sybil slipped out of the room and down to the empty chairs reserved for Madelyn and Peter. Madelyn was seated in her chair getting a last-minute touch up from one of the makeup artists.
“How did it go?” she asked, glancing at Sybil as she got her under eyes powdered.
Sybil picked up her book and sat in Peter’s chair. “It was fine, I think?”
“I know it’s your job, but thank you for being here.” Madelyn fumbled blindly for Sybil’s hand, and squeezed her forearm instead. “I appreciate it.”
Sybil didn’t know what to say. It was her job, technically, though two hundred and fifty dollars didn’t feel like enough money anymore. It had been hours, and they’d produced maybe one half of five minutes of film.
“You’re welcome.”
The makeup artist finished with Madelyn, and then Sybil was alone. No one cared that she was there, but she wasn’t allowed to leave yet. So she read the book Peter had handed her. Or tried to read it. She couldn’t see what was happening in the room, but she could hear Madelyn and Peter delivering their lines. They sounded spectacular. She could imagine the emotions playing across their faces from just their voices. It was a good thing she wasn’t an actress or she’d have developed a complex.
“Let’s get this kiss in and then we can go to lunch,” Charlotte hollered from her chair. “Quiet on set!”
Peter was outside the door again. Sybil’s stomach twisted sharply. He was going to kiss Madelyn like he meant it. Logically she understood it was his job, and Dahlia had said they were professionals and it didn’t mean anything, but she’d also said that arousal happened. There was an immense amount of pressure on her sternum and Sybil couldn’t breathe right. A selection of her worst imaginings from the last twelve years paraded through her mind. Peter kissing other people. Peter undressing someone else. Peter in bed with other people, making them buck, and writhe, and whine like she did back when she was his. Bile rose in her throat when Peter began to deliver his lines of longing and regret, and she shut her eyes tightly so she couldn’t possibly accidentally glimpse?—
The sound of Madelyn puking might as well have been music to her ears.
“Cut,” Charlotte groaned. “I need air freshener, a glass of water, and someone to take Madelyn back to her room.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Sybil, you’re back in.”
Sybil jumped to her feet, dropped the book she’d barely opened on the chair, and was down the hall in a flash. Hair, makeup, and wardrobe appeared like fairy godmothers to give her a quick once-over while the crew reset. Peter lingered in the doorway, glancing between her and Madelyn, who refused to go back to her room and stood behind Charlotte’s chair, sipping delicately at a bottle of water.
The helpers vanished as quickly as they’d appeared, and then Charlotte was in the doorway with Peter.
“Sybil, you’ll start behind the camera back by the desk, and then answer the door after he knocks. He’s going to say some stuff, the kiss cue is going to be ‘please.’ Are you good? Are you ready?”
Sybil nodded. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Quiet on set!” Charlotte bellowed as she hustled back to her seat behind the monitors.
Sybil went to her spot by the desk, and the door to the hallway was shut. Charlotte’s next set of commands were muffled, partly by the door and mostly because her pulse was pounding in her ears.
“Action!”
Even though she was expecting it, the knock at the door made her jump. She concentrated hard to keep her steps slow and even because her first instinct was to run to the door to get this over with before she lost her nerve. Her palm slipped on the door handle, but she managed to cover that up by looking through the peephole. She opened the door, and there was Peter as Glenn, looking tortured and wretched, visibly struggling with his inner turmoil.
“Did you forget something?”
“I didn’t come here to talk to you about the case, Honor. That was just an excuse. I came here because—” He gave a small, uncomfortable, rueful chuckle, his eyes following the line of the doorframe. “I’ve never stopped thinking about you. I’ve never stopped wanting you, Honor. I know you don’t want me or this town or the life we almost had, but my heart doesn’t understand what my brain knows. I can’t sleep because I know you’re close and I’m not with you. I don’t think I can keep doing this—being so close to you and not being able to touch you. It’s fucking torture. I couldn’t go another minute without you knowing that it kills me to pretend that I don’t want you on the off chance that you want me, too.”
Reality and fiction blurred because the pain in his eyes crushed her soul. The hope that lingered in the shadows breathed life back into her.
“Say something. Please.”
“Fuck it.” She grabbed the collar of the white cotton undershirt under his flannel and twisted the material around her fist, pulling him to her. She didn’t know who kissed who first, but when their lips met it was like dropping a match into a pile of fireworks that had been doused in gasoline. Her world exploded and heat consumed her body. She didn’t dare release her grip on his shirt, but her other hand gripped the hair on the back of his head, and she felt the rumble of approval against her lips.
And then she tried to gasp for air and Peter’s tongue slipped into her mouth and slid against her tongue and Sybil lost whatever sense she had left. One of his hands cradled her cheek, his long fingers burying themselves in her hair, and his other hand trailed down her spine to the curve of her ass and pulled her flush against him.
She caught his bottom lip between her teeth and drank in his full-body shudder like top-shelf liquor. Peter plunged his tongue into her mouth once more and then broke away, leaving her breathless and reeling. She put up no resistance when he backed her into the wall and then scraped his teeth against her neck like he meant to bite her. Her pussy clenched uselessly around nothing, and she would have begged for some relief if she had the ability to marshal her brain cells into any semblance of order to make speech possible.
Then his hands were on the backs of her thighs and he lifted her enough so she could wrap her legs around his waist. He kissed her again, lips warm and firm. She shifted and his belt rubbed against her clit, but he swallowed her gasp.
Something hard and cold hit his side and bounced off her thigh. They both started, mouths breaking apart, and her legs reflexively tightened around his waist. Peter’s pupils were blown so wide he looked like he was high. Sybil looked down to see what had hit them.
It was a water bottle.
“I said cut!” Charlotte shouted from the doorway. Sybil hadn’t heard her open the door. Dahlia stood behind her, eyes wide with surprise. Charlotte looked at her. “What exactly did you tell them to do?”