Chapter 14
Elle
Isuppose you’d like to know what the hell’s been going on for the past five years. Well, on some matters, I’m as clueless as you. But—deep breath—I’ll give you a quick recap.
I never got any answers or explanations from He Who Shall Not Be Mentioned. I never heard from him again. Ever.
Within twelve hours of Mara showing up at my door, I’d accepted that He Who Shall Not Be Mentioned—oh, what the fuck, let’s call him Dickhead; it’s far easier and he’s not worth the effort of the long version—had dumped me.
Within forty-eight hours, I was in such a state I triggered a flare-up with bad enough haemorrhaging to require two blood transfusions. I was in Chelsea and Westminster Hospital for a week.
By the time they discharged me, Mara had managed all the messaging around my love-life cluster-fuck.
She’d put out a statement on my behalf saying Dickhead (another pithy nickname we settled on for him) and I were no longer in a relationship.
At least the language of his tweet (Elle and I aren’t together anymore) allowed us to suggest it had been a mutual decision.
Not that anyone was fooled. Not for one second.
Josh Lander had dumped my shapely little arse, and the world knew it.
I spent six months trying in vain to steer media interviews away from my love life and towards my work.
Richard and I reviewed tonnes of seriously amazing scripts.
And Dickhead’s behaviour made the decision to accept the lead in Fae, a big-budget Tolkien-esque movie being filmed in New Zealand, a no-brainer.
It proved the perfect place to hide myself away and throw myself into my work.
I only left New Zealand once during that year of filming: to fly to LA and accept my Academy Award for Best Actress. It was the most incredible evening, but the whole thing was marred by my constant worry in the run-up that Dickhead would show.
He didn’t.
Shortly after I’d got out of hospital seven months previously, we heard he was in rehab. And a few months after that, he began to materialise on the LA scene again, often with a model or wannabe actress in tow.
I can’t tell you how sick to my stomach every glimpse of him made me feel.
Ignoring Dickhead’s antics became a matter of survival for me. He was dead to me. Thank fuck for work.
I’ve made four more movies since Fae. Two in the UK, two in the US, but I’ve avoided filming in Hollywood (you don’t need me to spell out why).
It’s been a whirlwind. And I’ve loved every moment.
And with every movie release, the public has taken me more seriously as an actor in my own right and not as that poor girl Josh Lander once chewed up and spat out.
See? I can say his name when I need to.
I’m not that broken.
I can’t say I’ve really dated, but I’ve had enough sex to keep me sane.
And we’ve slapped every one of those guys with an NDA before I’ve so much as kissed them.
Ironically, there’s practically no overlap between the guys I’ve fucked and the guys the world has seen me ‘date.’ All the latter have been meticulously set up by Mara, and I haven’t touched them out of sight of the cameras.
That’s who he’s turned me into.
That’s who this industry has turned me into.
Strangely enough, the more cynical I’ve become in real life, the more I’ve turned to romance novels. Specifically, historical romance. It’s odd, right?
When we were on location in New Zealand, my makeup artist was a historical romance obsessive.
She always had an Amanda Quick romance on hand and I found them the perfect distraction from this weird, lonely mess my personal life had become.
There, in the bubble of Fae’s lovely crew, I found healing.
And heaving bosoms, feisty heroines and rakish dukes definitely helped with that healing.
It’s been a closet obsession ever since, but it’s only in the past few months that my secret penchant for historical romance has had any impact on my professional life. Because it’s only recently that Richard came to me, triumphantly clutching a heavily embargoed script of Grosvenor.
Grosvenor is the latest mega-project from streaming platform Azure in their battle to take Netflix’s crown. The storyline isn’t groundbreaking, at least not to anyone who’s well-versed in regency romance—like yours truly.
But the series of books by Nicola Marchant, on which the show is based, is one of my all-time favourites. The main storyline for the first season of the show involves a young lady of noble birth, Georgiana Kenworthy, who catches the eye of Dominic, Duke of Coventry.
The Duke is, of course, a thoroughly rakish rake, but he’s decided it’s time to find a wife and sire an heir to his considerable fortune. Georgiana’s family is only too thrilled to force her into this glittering match, even though she’s decidedly underwhelmed by the Duke’s rakish tendencies.
The script writers have honoured Georgiana’s roots from the novels.
She’s fabulous. I know as soon as I get my greedy little mitts on the script, and proceed to spend the rest of the day reading it in Richard’s office while he plies me with almond-milk lattes, that I have to have this part.
I’ve wanted to do a regency production for years.
And I love Georgiana’s don’t-give-a-fuck attitude and her refusal to be impressed by a guy everyone else is in a total tizz over (I can relate).
But most of all, I adore their love story.
I adore how, once they’re married, the Duke wins her over, slowly but surely, with a combination of patience, thoughtful gestures, fabulous banter and some seriously hot moves in the sack (and in the stables.
And in the folly. And in the library). Because this show is going to be steamy. Whew! Georgiana is one lucky girl.
Sex scenes don’t scare me. Today’s intimacy coordinators are experts at making us actors feel comfortable, and I’m at a level in my career now where I can put iron-clad stipulations in my contracts.
But I’m also happy to put out, professionally speaking, where the plot dictates it, and I get that the chemistry, which is smoking between these two, is integral to the plot (not to mention to Azure’s aspirations to hit a hundred million households with this series).
I just hope my co-star and I can work together to achieve the right level of chemistry, because with it, this show is going straight to the top of the charts. And my gamble to make the move from big to small screen will hopefully pay off in a big way.
Richard asks me to come see him today at eleven sharp, and I’m hoping he has news about my Grosvenor co-star.
I skip along to his unnecessarily shambolic offices just off Brewer Street in Soho, clutching an almond-milk latte for myself and a full-fat one for him.
It’s a gorgeous October day, still mild enough for a light trench coat.
I’m in full baseball-cap-and-sunglasses disguise.
It’s hard to get around London incognito these days. No more public transport for me.
Richard is dark and skinny and intense, with more than a hint of Stanley Tucci about him. I love him dearly. Especially since he procured the part of Georgiana for me.
‘Darling.’ He kisses me languidly on both cheeks. The ennui is an act. He adores me as much as I adore him. More, I should hope, since the mega pay cheques started rolling in.
But when I pull back, his expression stops me in my tracks. I narrow my eyes at him. ‘What?’
‘Have a perch.’
I sit on his ancient leather sofa and cross my legs. ‘What?’
‘I have some news, darling. And you’re going to flip your pretty little lid. But I need you to know we’ll handle it.’
Fear hits me in the stomach. ‘Give it to me straight.’
He sits in his swivel chair, facing me. Leans forward and takes my hand. Jesus Christ. What the hell is going on?
‘Grosvenor hasn’t fallen through, has it?’
A ghost of a smile. ‘No. It’s most definitely on.’
‘Okay, then.’ I loosen up my shoulders. ‘Anything else I can handle.’
‘It’s the Duke. They’ve cast him. Alyssa called me first thing. They’ve got a press release ready to go—she wanted to extend us the courtesy of letting us know in advance.’
Damn right she did. My contract doesn’t stipulate my sign-off on the casting of any other characters, but for a show this reliant on the sparks between the two leads, I’d expect a chemistry read before casting anyone as the Duke.
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Well? Who is it?’
Richard looks as though he may barf. ‘Lander.’
Something seriously weird happens to my body, like a full-body shiver or convulsion. It’s a thrill, but not in a good way. I’m ashamed to say it happens every time I come across him in the press or in conversation (with people who should know better).
But hearing it from Richard’s mouth, in the context of a casting for Grosvenor, magnifies the effect a million-fold.
‘Sorry. I thought you said the L word.’
‘I did. Alyssa’s offered Josh Lander the role of Coventry.’
It’s such a ridiculous statement, on so many levels. I say the first thing that comes into my head.
‘But he’s American! He can’t play a Duke.’
Richard’s still gripping my hand. ‘They’ve brought Victoria Wright in, apparently.’
Oh, shit. Victoria Wright is one of the most esteemed dialect coaches in the business. I switch to another method of rationalising this nonsense.
‘Alyssa wouldn’t do this to me.’
Alyssa Anderson is Grosvenor’s creator and showrunner. In a movie, the creator cedes authority to the director. In TV, it’s the opposite. The creator quite literally runs the show.
‘I wish I could believe that, darling. But Alyssa can do whatever the fuck she wants, and you know every decision she makes is for the good of the show. Not its stars.’