Chapter 13 Jack
“What. The. Fuck?” I stand, stunned, staring through the open door of my trailer. Instead of the soothingly uninteresting beige interior that usually greets me, the entire space is so stuffed with balloons that I can’t get inside.
This is only the latest indignity in what I now recognize is full-out prank warfare.
It started small, last week: a few misplaced pins from the wardrobe department on my chair; salt in my coffee instead of sugar (I drank a worrying amount before that registered, but in my defense it was very early); an influx of spam emails from companies promising to increase the size of my genitals.
At first, I thought the sporadic incidents were a coincidence, but now… now, as a muscle begins twitching under my eye, I see the truth.
I take a deep breath. The first thing I’m going to do is to start popping all these stupid balloons, then, when I can actually get inside my trailer and make myself a cup of coffee, I will begin to plot my revenge.
She may not have signed her name, but I’m confident I know who’s behind this…
After all, the woman has swiftly become the bane of my existence…
even if she’s not a total disaster in front of the camera anymore.
“Whoa.” My assistant, Scott, arrives behind me, with Arjun alongside him. “What happened here?”
“Well,” I say slowly, “if I had to guess, I’d say someone filled my trailer with balloons.”
Arjun stifles a laugh. “Why would anyone do that?”
My eyes narrow. “Because they’re a vindictive shrew with the sense of humor of a three-year-old?” I suggest.
Scott blinks, his brow furrowed like he’s trying to work out this particular head-scratcher.
He’s a few years younger than me, a relative of Logan and Jasmine’s who smiles a lot and always carries the light, earthy scent of weed with him.
Despite these unpromising details, he’s surprisingly good at his job, and he makes an excellent cup of coffee (when he’s not being sabotaged by insane pranksters).
“I guess we should… burst them?” he says, finally.
“Yeah,” I agree with a sigh. “I need to get a pin or something. I was just going to head back to wardrobe.”
“We could stamp on them?” Scott suggests.
“We can use the prongs on our belt buckles,” Arjun advises, with the air of a man who’s had to burst a lot of balloons, and I have no idea why this would be the case… Maybe I’m just convinced by his quiet air of competence.
My eyes narrow. It’s actually possible he knows something about this—Arjun’s gentle, easygoing nature means he makes friends easily, and he and Cynthie seem to get on pretty well.
Of course, that could be because he finds any opportunity to haunt the hair and makeup trailer where Cynthie seems to have established a little gang: his crush on Patty is astronomical.
I swear I saw him doodling their names surrounded by hearts yesterday.
Either way, what he suggests makes sense, and so without further conversation the three of us unbuckle our belts.
As we stand on the threshold of the door, brandishing them, I can’t help laughing.
Obviously, it’s an annoying practical joke, and I’m tired after a long day of filming, but still, there’s something about three grown men about to go on a balloon-bursting frenzy that feels… fun .
Not that I’d ever admit that to the architect of this particular piece of nonsense.
“On your marks,” Arjun says, clutching his buckle.
“Get set,” Scott adds.
“Go!” I yell, and the three of us charge forward into the trailer, stamping our feet and jabbing into the balloons, which pop easily enough once the sharp prongs dig in.
Immediately, it becomes clear we’ve made a huge mistake.
“SHIT!” I yell.
“Ack!” Arjun sputters.
“Is this… glitter?” Scott asks ponderously.
As the cloud of multicolored sparkles settles over the three of us, I decide this question is rhetorical. Unfortunately, Scott elects to pop a couple more balloons, just to make sure.
“Stop, stop!” I am literally spitting purple glitter as I grab his arm. “She’s filled all of them!”
There’s a choke of laughter from behind us, and I swing round to find Cynthie, Hannah, Liam, and Patty cracking up outside.
There’s a flash as Patty takes a Polaroid of the three of us, shell-shocked and sparkling like a trio of fucking magical unicorns in the doorway.
“Oh no,” Cynthie says, solemn and wide-eyed. “What happened here?”
“ You ,” I growl, starting toward her, and she dances back.
“Uh-uh.” She waves her finger at me. “Don’t come too close.
I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but it’s very hard to clean up glitter.
That stuff gets everywhere .” She smirks, her gaze running slowly from my face to my feet, and then—pointedly—over my shoulder toward my trailer, which looks like a Jackson Pollock/My Little Pony collaboration.
I close my eyes as I realize she’s right.
I’m going to be finding glitter in my things for the rest of filming.
At least I’d changed out of my costume and I’m wearing my own clothes…
although that was probably part of her plan.
I don’t think she’d do anything to actively sabotage the film, but then again, I hadn’t seen this coming, so I suppose anything is possible.
I glare at the little she-devil in front of me. “Cynthie Taylor,” I say dangerously, though I’ll admit the glitter all over my face is probably ruining the menacing picture I’m trying to present. “You’re going to regret this.”
She doesn’t even flinch, only laughs and turns to walk away. “Ooh,” she calls over her shoulder, “I’m quaking in my boots.”
Patty takes another picture and hands the still-developing Polaroid to me, careful not to touch my glitter-covered hands. “A little memento,” she says, then she glances over at Arjun, and winks. “Looking good, boys.”
Arjun’s big, lovelorn eyes are glued to her as she shimmies away.
“You’re not being subtle,” I tell him.
“I’m not trying to be. She says I’m too nice for her,” Arjun replies sadly, still watching Patty go. “But, man, every time I see her… my heart…” He lays a hand over his chest.
“So what do we do now?” Scott asks, eyeing the remaining balloons with trepidation.
I look down at the photo in my hand—three startled, sparkly faces stare back at me. “First,” I say, “we dispose of these”—I gesture at the balloons—“ very carefully . And then, we plan how to get even.”
IT TAKES US AGES TO transport the balloons to a safe spot for bursting.
We handle each one like it’s a tiny explosive device about to detonate and we’re the bomb squad.
Scott digs us out some paint-spattered hooded coveralls from the props department so we even look the part.
I spend the time focusing on how sweet my revenge will taste.
By the time I’m back at Alveston Hall, it’s late and I’m exhausted.
I’ve taken three showers but am still finding bits of glitter not only on my body and my clothes, but somehow all over my room here as well.
I glare down at the smear of pink glitter on my favorite T-shirt, and when my phone rings the name on the screen makes my heart sink.
“Hi, Mum,” I say, reluctantly picking up the call.
“Hello, darling,” Mum’s voice rings out. “Your father is here too.”
“Oh, good.” I sink down onto the side of the bed, picking at the glittery T-shirt with my free hand. “I thought he was still filming in France.”
“Got back yesterday,” my dad booms. He likes to project when he’s on the phone, like he’s in a thousand-seat theater and you’re sitting at the back.
“Rained the whole bloody time. And that director didn’t know his arse from his elbow.
I don’t care how many Academy Awards the man owns, he doesn’t have the first clue about Voltaire.
No fucking subtlety!” This last part is bellowed without a hint of irony.
“I’m sure you were great,” I mutter.
He scoffs. “It wasn’t my performance that was the problem. Speaking of which…”
“Jack, your father and I were watching the dailies, and we have some notes.” My mum’s voice is echoing as if she’s stepped away from the phone. There’s the distinctive sound of ice hitting a glass.
“Dailies?” I repeat, confused. “What do you… Wait… Do you mean the dailies from A Lady of Quality ?” I laugh, a sound of pure disbelief.
“Of course,” Mum replies tranquilly.
“I—” I start, and then stop, my brain unable to take in what she’s saying.
“You’ve got to work on your diction,” my dad cuts in. “It’s like all those years with the vocal coach were for nothing. Enunciate! Are you doing your warm-ups? You should know better than to skip them.”
“How did you even get hold of the dailies?” I ask, rubbing my forehead. “Jasmine and Logan aren’t sharing them with us.”
“But, darling, you know Peter’s one of the producers!” Mum’s voice is closer to the phone again. “You must have expected he’d share them with us.”
“No,” I manage. “It hadn’t occurred to me at all.”
“The girl’s not as bad as I thought she’d be,” Dad says. “Bit green.”
“She’s got a very common face,” Mum sniffs.
“But I do feel there needs to be more dynamism in your movement,” Dad carries on as if she hasn’t spoken. “Your performance is lacking a certain…”
“Spark?” Mum suggests.
“Spark!” he agrees happily, and I’m glad the two of them are having a nice time, because I feel like I’m about to be sick.
“More dynamic movement,” I echo hollowly. “Got it.”
“Now,” Dad continues, and there’s the sound of paper shuffling. “Let’s talk about the scene in the ballroom…”