Chapter 7
DANNY
My babysitter is not very good. For starters, she’s so green she might as well have been pulled off the street. Hell, they really could have pulled her off the street, I have no idea where she came from.
From the moment she dropped into the seat next to me on the train, pretending she had no idea who I was, I knew she would be a pain in the ass. I spent the whole journey trying to psychoanalyze her technique. I’ve met enough women — on the job and off of it — who like to pretend that they have no idea who I am. As if that was going to make me fall at their feet in gratitude for being seen me as a real person and not a character they have as their screensavers.
But no, when I overheard her phone call where she clearly had no clue who she had been sat next to, it surprised me. And then it pissed me off. Why had my father hired her? Someone who obviously had no idea what she was doing. He clearly did it on purpose. What a way to prove how much you don’t care about someone, then to not care at all about the quality of staff set to look after them.
Not only is she incompetent but she’s opinionated, bursting into my trailer with her hands on her hips and a flush on her soft cheeks. God, when she backed up, basically climbing the counter, I could have sworn she wanted me to kiss her. And I could have sworn I was tempted.
The minute the door closes behind her, I rub my hands across my face. Turning to the mirror above the counter I look at my eyes. I don’t have bags .
Sighing, I pick up my tablet and desperately try to memorize my lines. I had been sent a digital script the day after the meeting with my father, but after my cursory read, I procrastinated revising my lines.
The train would have been the perfect time to read but the whirlwind sitting next to me became an instant distraction. Her shiny hair in disarray after she pulled that ridiculous bobble hat off her head…I’d had to clench my hands to stop myself reaching out to smooth the wayward strands. And then I couldn’t help teasing her, poking her to see that gorgeous blush spread across her cheeks and down the column of her throat. I had found myself wondering what else I could do to make her blush like that.
So, yeah, not much work happened on the journey.
Glancing at my watch, I try to quell my rising panic. I’m not ready for this. My heartbeat is a steady drum in my ears and I swear I can see my chest rising with my haggard breaths. My phone rings in my pocket.
“Hello?”
“How’s it going?” My sister’s voice is calm and brisk, and I feel myself relax.
“Fine.”
Pip laughs, “First day jitters?”
“Please, as if you’ve never been nervous on your first day.”
“I’m not a household name.” Pip lies. She is just as much, if not more, famous than I am. Largely thanks to her many social media accounts, a skill that missed me in the gene pool. My social media presence consists of a retweet when the Lionesses won the Euros and a picture of a cat I saw when I was in Greece.
“Have you started shooting yet?”
I lean to peer out the window, not seeing anyone scurrying between the trailers. “I’m going to makeup soon.” Where a black coffee will be waiting, hopefully.
“How’s the hotel? I’ve been meaning to stay there.” The Belle Palais is a five star hotel with a view over the Sacré-C?ur. I made my own way there last night as my so-called assistant can’t seem to organize a piss up in a brewery but the grand opulence of the place is more suited to the film I’m starring in than what I would have picked for myself. But then again, having the option to pick where I’m sleeping is, naturally, out of my hands.
“It’s fine,” I say sharply. “Look I’ve got to go, they’re waiting for me.”
“Sure, all you need to do is remember your lines, stay out of any fights and don’t disparage the family name.” Pip quips, making me huff a laugh.
“I’ll make sure to get on that.” I hang up the phone, before grabbing my tablet and heading to the makeup truck.
When I get there, Anya is nowhere to be seen, but a steaming cup of black coffee is waiting for me in my chair.
The hair and makeup designer, Sally, introduces herself before ushering me to my chair and tucking a napkin in my collar. “It’s a pretty simple set up this morning, so you won’t be too long.” Sally turns away from me, gathering some supplies. “We didn’t get a test run but I’ve been assured it will be fine,” she mumbles under her breath.
I stay quiet. I would have liked a makeup test, a camera test, a costume test — I would have wanted it all. When I first started out, I used to love getting to prep with the crew, where I felt that I was a part of a team, where I could really sink my teeth into the project. Now, I’m just dumped into it the first day of filming like a child on his first day of school, disoriented and nervous.
I pick up my tablet and read through my sides. Thankfully, it’s mostly non-dialogue scenes of my character working. I can manage that. Probably. A scene scheduled for later in the day is a page and a half of dialogue, so I focus on that.
Sally keeps buzzing around me, twisting my head this way and that, pulling my concentration away from the script. I can feel my irritation rising with every turn of my head. I need to get these words into my brain.
Robert: It’s all here, there’s no way LeCleric doesn’t know about this. It’s gross misconduct sure but almost certainly criminal negligence.
I repeated the words under my breath, my lips forming the words. It’s all here, there’s no way LeCleric doesn’t—
Fingers moving my chin make me jump. “Can you not?” I snap.
Sally’s eyes widen. “I’m sorry,” she stumbles. “I need to add some Vaseline.”
“Can you ask a man before you touch him?” I spat. “For Christ’s sake I’m not a doll.”
“No—no of course not.” Sally steps back. “I think we’re good here, I think you’re needed in costume.”
“Great.” I stand and rip the napkin out of my collar. My heavy footsteps shake the trailer as I head to the exit.
My babysitter is outside, leaning against the opposite wall and playing around on her phone. She straightens with a start as I stomp down the stairs. I look away before I can get distracted by her silky hair and dusting of freckles.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her struggling to catch up with my quick strides.
“Costume next,” she says brightly, as if the confrontation in my truck twenty minutes ago never happened.
I let out a grunt of acknowledgment.
When I get to the bottom of the stairs, she darts in front of me, damn near tripping me up in her rush to open the door for me.
I don’t say a word, my jaw clenching, as I’m ushered into the truck.
Inside, the eccentric-looking costume designer guides me to a changing room at the back of the truck, and hands me a bundle of clothes. As soon as the curtain closes behind me, I slump on the rickety stool.
I can hear hushed voices outside the curtain, probably talking about what a prick I’m being.
Gritting my teeth, I pull my costume on.
When I’m ready, I emerge to allow the costume people to fuss around my body like I’m a mannequin.
“Perfect measurements,” one woman says with a big smile. Yes, I think, I don’t know who gave them to you but I’m sure they’re accurate.
As soon as I’m excused to leave, I’m escorted by my babysitter to a waiting car, and escorted from the car to the set where cameras are being prepped. I clock a few looks from the crew but elect to ignore them, focusing instead on the sides in my hands.
Robert: It’s all here, there’s no way LeCleric doesn’t know about this. It’s gross misconduct sure but almost certainly criminal negligence.
Gwendoline Marcs comes up to me, shaking my hand and introducing herself. Of course, I already know who she is. Which is good as I will not be able to absorb any information given to me now.
Soon, I’m ushered to my mark where I listen like a good boy to the instructions from Gwen. My movements are bulky, unnatural, and wrong. No one seems to notice, no one shakes their heads and audibly complains about how terrible I am. No. They stare with what could only be described as confusion, and a bit of pity.
It’s worse when we get to the dialogue scene. I stumble through each sentence, barking ‘Line!’ every five minutes, sweat beading on my forehead despite the mild weather.
Now I know the crew are getting irritated. They have started to realize what a disaster this whole operation is going to be. I’m a fish out of water, drowning on dry land under the artificial lights and the glare of the camera. They all know it.
Eventually, someone calls wrap.
I wait patiently as the sound guy pulls my mic off. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t speak to me. What’s there to say anyway?
I let myself be led to the transport car, to the costume truck where I pull on my street clothes. I don’t look up from the floor until the car door closes behind me, ready to take me back to the hotel.
I take a deep breath and lean my head back, the city passing my window in a blur.
“Are you okay?” a gentle voice asks to my left. I start. I hadn’t even noticed Anya was in the car with me. Her big hazel eyes wide with concern.
I bristle under her attention.
“Do you have to come with me everywhere?” I snap.
“Apparently,” she shakes her phone in her hand.
“Great,” I mumble, closing my eyes.
I keep my eyes closed the rest of the journey, Anya’s flowery scent filling the car and invading my senses.