Chapter 10 Jack
When I wake on the morning of the first day of filming, the sun is barely struggling up and the weather outside my window is dreary and overcast. I try not to take that as a sign, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t shaking in my nineteenth-century riding boots.
So much of my future hinges on the next few weeks, and rehearsals haven’t exactly gone smoothly.
I’m ready to admit that some of that might be my fault. After my spectacular argument with Cynthie in the coffee shop, I decided to embrace the time-honored British tradition of pretending that nothing had actually happened, while letting the animosity simmer.
The trouble is that the simmering is really more of a roiling boil at this point. I’m worried that the stupid feud that has grown between us is going to seriously derail production, and I know that I have to put the good of the film ahead of my own pride.
Honestly, though, it would require the patience of an actual saint to deal with the woman—not only is she still not up to the job, but she seems almost gleeful when presented with any opportunity to unsettle me.
I glance at my phone, and as well as informing me that it’s 4:30 a.m., I also have a new message waiting from my dad.
DAD:
First day. Don’t fuck it up, and try not to go too big. You know what you’re like. Remember it’s not a bloody pantomime!!!!!
Stirring words of support as usual. My anxiety spikes and I draw in several deep breaths, trying to settle my body. I check the time again. There’s absolutely no point in trying to go back to sleep, so I might as well try to do something productive.
Heaving myself out of bed, I move to the bathroom and splash some cold water on my bleary face, brush my teeth, then I pull on a pair of jogging bottoms and a T-shirt and head for the gym.
It’s a small space, tucked away in the basement, and this morning I am—as I expected—the only person here.
My parents have had me working with a personal trainer since I was thirteen, but Jasmine and Logan want Edward to have quite a tough physique, so I’ve been doing a lot of lifting, trying to bulk up.
I pull up my workout mix and stick my headphones in, letting the music blare as I lose myself in the soothing repetition of the exercises.
My mind empties and it’s a blissful relief.
I’m standing in front of the mirror, on my second set of bicep curls, when I become aware of a presence in the doorway.
I think I knew she was there even before I saw her move in my peripheral vision: somehow I always seem to know when Cynthie’s around…
She’s like a thunderstorm, bringing a shift in the atmosphere along with her.
I pause the music.
“Oh, god.” Cynthie closes her eyes, she looks tired and pale in sweatpants and a ratty sweater. “It’s far too early for me to deal with you.”
I was also counting on ingesting an enormous amount of caffeine before having to speak to her, but right now I can only stand there blinking owlishly while my brain tries to catch up.
Clearly her hair and makeup trials have been a success because the awkward haircut is gone, and I feel inexplicably furious about it.
She looks… Well, if she were anyone else, I’d say she was beautiful—all eyes and mouth and soft, glowing skin.
But I know all too well that behind that sweet face lies the blackened soul of a banshee, and no haircut is going to make me forget it.
Her gaze travels over me, and when her eyes meet mine in the mirror there’s a second when that unsettling, unwelcome heat pulses between us again.
I pull a headphone from my ear. “Can I help you? Or have you just come to stare at my naked arms some more?”
“It doesn’t look like you need an audience—you’re clearly more than capable of admiring yourself. What a surprise to find you working out in front of a mirror.” Her eyes brush over me again. “Like a parakeet with its favorite toy. A tiny-brained little narcissist.”
“You’re supposed to lift weights in front of a mirror so that you can work on your form,” I reply stiffly. “Which you would know if you ever lifted anything heavier than a paperback.” I take my time giving her my own once-over in the mirror, and a slow, pink flush creeps into her cheeks.
“God, you really are the worst,” she spits.
“Right back at you.”
There’s a heavy pause. “What are you doing here, anyway?” I ask.
“I was just… wandering about a bit. I didn’t know there was a gym down here.”
“Couldn’t sleep?”
She shrugs her slender shoulders. “First day.” She flashes me a careful look. “We mere mortals are entitled to be a bit nervous. I’m sure you slept like a baby.”
My jaw tightens, but I’m certainly not going to correct her or share my own nerves—you don’t show a predator your vulnerable underbelly, do you?
I bet she’d just love to know about the nightmares I was having all night, the ones that featured me running down endless spiraling staircases, all my teeth falling out, and my parents turning up on set where I was naked and forgot all my lines.
You don’t exactly need a degree in psychology to see what was going on there.
Instead of answering, I put my headphones back in, and turn the volume up, pointedly ignoring her until she leaves, the angry stomp of her feet audible even over the blast of the music. It takes a long time for my pulse to settle, and I know I can’t blame it all on the workout.
This is an untenable situation.
Which is why—I remind myself—today, before we actually start filming, I need to suck it up and make peace. It’s not going to be a good look if the two leads on the film actually murder each other. One of us needs to be mature, and clearly that person is going to have to be me.
Decision made, I finish up another two sets and replace the weights, throwing a towel over my shoulder before leaving in search of coffee and Cynthie. Preferably in that order.
My phone pings with a text message and I pull it out of my pocket.
LEE:
Good luck today. Gran and I are thinking of you
LEE:
Gran says she would text you herself but she’s lost her phone again.
LEE:
Gran says that makes her sound senile. She hasn’t lost her phone. She’s left it at the home of one of her many loverrrrs.
LEE:
She rolled all her r’s like that. It wasn’t great for me.
Despite my mood and lack of coffee, I smile.
My sister, Lee, is eighteen, and while we aren’t precisely close (a six-year age gap feels pretty insurmountable when you’re a kid), like soldiers on the battlefield we have trauma-bonded over having Max Jones and Caroline Turner as parents.
Our gran is the one who undertook the practical aspects of raising the pair of us, and I can absolutely hear her voice in Lee’s message.
I send Lee back a quick thumbs-up emoji and head for the kitchen. Cynthie has clearly had the same idea because she’s already there, leaning against the counter, cradling a cup of tea. When she sees me, her face falls, but neither of us says anything.
I move past her around the kitchen island and flick the kettle on. A strained silence falls as I scoop an irresponsible amount of instant coffee granules into a mug and add a splash of water. It looks like mud and tastes like petrol, but does the job. My brain lurches slowly to life.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say, mirroring her stance and leaning back against the counter so that we’re facing each other, the kitchen island between us like a safety barrier. “I wanted to talk to you before we start filming.”
“I’m sure you did,” she says wearily. “Time for another one of your little pep talks about how I’m going to single-handedly bring down this entire production?”
I take another fortifying sip of coffee. “I just want the shoot to go well,” I say.
“And I don’t?” Cynthie’s voice is sharp. “I’m absolutely sick of this holier-than-thou attitude from you. You’re the one who started all this.”
“If you’re trying to claim some sort of moral high ground,” I say, “then I’ll direct you to our conversation of”—I look at my watch—“ ten minutes ago , when you called me a tiny-brained little narcissist.”
She has the temerity to snort with laughter. “I think I was referring to a parakeet,” she says, schooling her face into the picture of innocence.
“I think you were comparing the parakeet to me, so the point is moot,” I snap.
My temper is fraying already. I came here to try and make peace, but it’s useless, just useless, trying to have a civil conversation with this woman.
“Anyway,” I continue, drawing in a deep breath and thinking calming thoughts, “I think you know that acting like I’m the problem and you’re just a poor innocent is disingenuous at best.”
“ Disingenuous at best ,” Cynthie drawls. “No one knows how to pull out those sick burns like a private-school boy.”
“You seem very hung up on my education,” I reply coldly. “I can’t imagine why.”
She stills, but temper leaps in her eyes.
“At least you can draw on all your repressed, uptight bullshit when you’re playing Edward,” she says, and she takes a slow, dangerous step toward me.
“It’s just a shame you don’t have any of his charm.
Not sure you’re going to be able to pull it off, are you?
” She sighs, affecting sympathy. “I don’t blame you.
And you seem pretty desperate to have a scapegoat in place if things go badly. But do you know what I think?”
She takes another step toward me, and all I can hear is the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears.
“I think,” she says softly, “that you’re worried that you’re about to fail, that you’re going to be the one who can’t live up to people’s expectations.
Me?” She shrugs, a sinuous movement. “They’re not watching me…
not yet, anyway. But Jack Turner-Jones?” She exhales a low whistle.
“If his performance isn’t good, that would be quite the… disappointment.”
Yet again, she’s throwing darts at me with an uncanny precision. I wouldn’t be surprised to find her words have drawn blood.
There’s a moment of loaded silence while we glare at each other.
“Right,” I say finally, concentrating on getting my breathing back under rigid control.
I have a lot of practice in this area, so it’s going to take more than Cynthie Taylor to break my composure.
“Well, I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?
Because today the cameras are going to be rolling and there’s no getting away from any mistakes then.
Trust me when I tell you there’s no faking it now.
So if my performance isn’t good, everyone will know.
But, Cynthie,” I pause here, allowing a wintry smile to curl on my lips as I deliver the killer line, “the same goes for you.”
I’ve willed myself to an appearance of calm now, and the words are frigid, even though the argument has left my blood running hot. If Cynthie knew how hard I’m having to work to keep my emotions hidden then she certainly wouldn’t be questioning my acting skills.
As it is she glares at me, but the color has left her face and I know that I’m not the only one with weak spots.
For a moment I feel guilty about it, remember that I was supposed to be making peace, but the insults she flung at me last week are back, ringing in my ears: every insecurity I have is blasting at full volume, and that text message from my dad is in my pocket reminding me that I can’t fuck this up.
“Oh, sorry,” a soft voice interrupts then, and Claudia, Alveston Hall’s housekeeper, comes bustling in, pausing when she sees Cynthie and me locked in a vicious staring contest.
“I didn’t think anyone would be up yet. Can I get you some breakfast?” Claudia continues, and she’s eyeing us warily, presumably because we’re poised like two snakes about to strike out at each other.
I force my shoulders down, turn and smile.
“No, thanks, Claudia,” I say lifting my now empty coffee cup, “just needed some fuel to start the day. I’ll grab something from craft services when we arrive on set.
” I look at my watch. “Speaking of which, I’d better go grab my stuff. The cars are coming at six.”
My eyes slide over to Cynthie who is still standing rigid, but she forces her own smile.
“That’s right,” she says. “Hannah will probably be looking for me. Don’t want to be late on our first day.”
“Well, good luck,” Claudia beams.
“Thanks,” I say as I duck out of the kitchen, leaving the two of them behind.
I’m fairly sure we’re going to need it.