Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Delilah sat in the folding chair, skirt of her blinding tennis whites sticking uncomfortably to the backs of her thighs under the hot lights.
The virgin court set gleamed with newness, the net strung taut.
Delilah’s racket rested against her knee, slippery in her hand, no matter how tightly she gripped it.
Across the court, the director, James Rourke, twitchy and impatient, was in conference with a nodding stunt co-ordinator and the tennis consultant, a tall man in a tracksuit who gestured like he was trying to land a plane.
They were deep in discussion about footwork, debating whether the camera should track her left or right as she dived for the ball and snapped her ankle like a KitKat.
Delilah sat. And waited. Every minute she wasn’t moving gave room for the nerves to jangle further. Her throat was dry; she couldn’t remember if she’d drunk any water since they called her into costume.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She slipped it out and almost groaned with relief when she saw the name.
Cassie: How’s it going?
Delilah hunched over, thumbs moving fast. Still waiting. They’re figuring out blocking or whatever. I feel like I’m about to puke.
The reply came almost instantly.
Cassie: You know how to do this. You’ve practised. Just trust yourself.
Delilah bit her lip. She wanted to believe it, but the nerves were getting the best of her today.
I don’t know. I feel like such a fraud. She hit send before she could stop herself.
The dots appeared. Cassie was typing. Then they vanished. Nothing came through.
Delilah stared at the screen, waiting. Nothing.
She’d pushed too far, been too needy. And, of course, Cassie had decided this wasn’t her problem after all. And it wasn’t. She was a tennis coach, not an emotional support dog.
Delilah shoved the phone aside, forcing herself to breathe as if it wasn’t her first time doing so. Twenty minutes crawled by, slow and torturous. Every slap of the board, every murmur from the crew made her shrink a little more inside herself.
Finally, James clapped his hands, decisive at last. ‘Alright, bring in Delilah. Let’s get this blocked.’
Delilah rose on legs that didn’t feel like hers, palms damp. She took her place at the baseline, heart hammering.
The stunt co-ordinator strode over, headset crooked around her neck. ‘OK, Delilah, listen. You’re going to move on the assistant’s throw. Big first step, plant your right foot here—’ she tapped the neon tape—‘and then commit to the dive.’
Delilah nodded, trying to keep her face from betraying panic.
And then she heard it. A voice, familiar, low and steady, drifting in from the side of the set.
‘Yeah, I’m here for Delilah.’
Delilah’s head snapped round.
There she was. Cassie, in jeans and a hoodie, half-arguing with a harried production assistant at the edge of the soundstage. For a second, Delilah couldn’t move. She blinked once, twice, convinced her nerves had finally tipped into hallucination.
But then Cassie caught her eye, and she gave a small wave.
Delilah was already moving, half-running across the floor, her racket bouncing against her thigh. She grabbed Cassie’s arm, breathless. ‘You came.’
Cassie shrugged, casual. ‘I was nearby. Just thought maybe you could use a bit of support.’
Delilah couldn’t speak. She swallowed the emotion down. She nodded crazily for want of words.
‘Ready when you are,’ the stunt co-ordinator said, stepping back.
The director clapped for quiet. The cameras rolled.
Delilah fixed her eyes on the tennis ball that a production assistant was about to lob in her direction.
The call came, action, and she moved without hesitation, meeting the ball.
Then she braced and rolled, just as she’d drilled with Cassie—Cassie, who actually came!
— the impact carrying her across the mat they’d disguised as court.
The first take worked. Not perfect, but OK.
The stunt co-ordinator gave her a quick nod. ‘Good. Reset, and this time keep your head down a beat longer.’
Delilah reset, heart pounding, Cassie’s presence steady at the corner of her vision. On the second attempt, she nailed the timing of the dive, the roll smoother, more convincing.
By the third, the director was grinning. ‘Perfect. That’s the one. Wrap it there. It’s gonna look great.’
The crew scattered, cameras wheeled away. Delilah lay there on the mat for a moment, chest heaving, sweat clinging to her skin. Relief crashed through her, wild and overwhelming. She wanted to laugh, maybe even cry.
And at the edge of the set, arms folded, Cassie was still there.