Chapter 41 Cynthie
The day after we get back from London, I find an envelope with my name scrawled across the front taped to the door of my trailer.
“What’s that?” Hannah asks.
“No idea,” I reply, pulling it free. It’s been a long day of filming, and honestly, I wouldn’t describe my emotional state as particularly calm.
The events of the past forty-eight hours have been intense to say the least, and my focus is not on my work the way that it should be.
Instead my focus leaps between the hours I spent locked in Jack’s bedroom and the conversation we had in his kitchen.
I want to be able to say that I feel nothing but giddy about it, but that’s not true.
I do feel giddy. The world and everything in it is beautiful.
Jack Turner-Jones says he’s in love with me.
But I also feel terrified. I have this sensation in my stomach like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Seeing Jack on set today, I half expected him to turn around and yell “psych!” in my face and then high-five the crew as his greatest prank was revealed.
Obviously, that didn’t happen. He lit up at the sight of me.
He split a cheese toastie with me for lunch, texted me while I was in hair and makeup.
He forwarded me a photo of a picture that Nico must have dug up of him aged eleven and dressed as a tiny, earnest magician with a mustache drawn over his lip in eyeliner.
It was the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen and I teased him mercilessly for the rest of the day.
It’s delicious; it’s easy. So why do I feel like I’m on the edge of a panic attack again?
“Cynthie!” Brooke’s voice stops me in my tracks.
She’s jogging after me, Declan hot on her heels.
“Sorry,” she wheezes when she catches up.
“Phew! I’m definitely not as fit as I thought I was.
I wanted to grab you before you went home…
We were going to film a talking head with you today, but I know the shoot ran late, do you still have time? ”
“Sorry, Brooke, I totally forgot,” I say, thinking longingly of the sofa in my hotel room and a large glass of wine. I glance at Hannah, who gives a tiny shrug: my call. “Sure,” I say. I slip the envelope into my pocket.
“Great!” Brooke bounces on her feet. “We’re all set up in Jack’s trailer. He finished early today so he said we could use it for a change of scene.”
Inside Jack’s trailer Kara and Cooper are waiting, and the four of them flutter around, getting everything ready while I perch in the folding director’s chair they’ve put in the middle of the space.
“How’s it all been going?” I ask idly.
“Really well.” Brooke nods, fiddling with the lighting they’ve brought in. “The vibe is great, isn’t it?”
“It’s a good set,” I say. “It was the first time around too.”
“Yeah,” Brooke settles into the seat across from me, off camera. “I get that impression. You’re all so close, like a weird, giant family.”
I laugh. “It’s true,” I say. “And it’s special. It’s not always like that.”
“Okay, so we’re good to go?” Brooke checks in with the rest of her team, who nod. She settles in, asking me questions about the filming we did today and how I thought it went.
“You and Jack have such incredible chemistry on-screen,” she says.
“It’s easy to have chemistry with Jack. He’s an extremely charismatic actor.” I grin. “As I’m sure he’s told you himself.”
Brooke laughs. “The two of you clearly have a strong relationship both on and off-screen.”
I hesitate, thinking about what Jack said, that we should try just telling the truth, being who we are.
“Yes, we do,” I agree. “It wasn’t always so comfortable between us, but he’s a brilliant actor and an even better man. I’m so happy we get to make this film together.”
“You and I haven’t had a chance yet to talk about the sex scene that you filmed the other day.” She glances down at her notes.
“What would you like to know about it?” I shift uncomfortably. Brooke did catch my meltdown, but I’d been hoping she wasn’t going to mention it.
“Is it awkward filming those scenes?” she asks.
“A bit.” I laugh. “It’s very technical, which in some ways makes it more awkward—you know, ‘Cynthie, can you just move your bum a bit to the right’—but in other ways that makes it easier. Everyone’s very focused on getting the shot. It’s not titillating.”
Brooke nods. “And having Nisha there helped?”
“Having Nisha there definitely helped. I’m a huge fan of intimacy coordinators and I’ve worked with some great ones. It’s important to make those scenes feel safe.”
“Have you filmed scenes like that where you haven’t felt safe?” The question is casual.
I hesitate. “Yes,” I say finally. “A lot has changed in our industry in a short time, so even when I was starting out, there weren’t the same practices and standards that there are now. It was a bit like the Wild West, and you were at the mercy of your director.”
“And some of those directors didn’t prioritize your well-being?”
I shift in my seat. “I wouldn’t say that. There were times when I don’t think it occurred to a male director that something might be uncomfortable for me. Often the expectation was that I should get on with things without complaint because to do otherwise was unprofessional.”
“Can we talk about Rufus Tait?” Brooke asks.
“Rufus?” I repeat in surprise.
“You’re aware of the accusations surrounding him.” There’s a glint in Brooke’s eye that I’ve caught a few times—a hint of steel under the sunshine—and I think it’s entirely possible that she’s more than happy to let people underestimate her.
“I am.”
“What was your experience of working with him on A Lady of Quality ?”
“I personally didn’t have any trouble with him apart from some off-color remarks,” I say thoughtfully.
“But that’s not to say I don’t believe the women who have come forward.
I absolutely do. Rufus had a reputation among the female cast and crew on set, and we were warned not to be left alone with him. ”
Brooke looks surprised.
“What?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know, I just didn’t think you’d answer the question.”
I shrug. “I’m not sure the lawyers will let you use it, but I don’t think there’s any harm in telling the truth.
We have to let the light in on this stuff instead of trying to hide it away.
It’s not in my interest, or anyone’s interest, for us to cover these things up.
That’s what creates the problem in the first place. ”
It’s Brooke’s turn to look thoughtful.
“Who exactly warned you about him?”
I furrow my brow. “I don’t remember specifically. I suppose it was one of those whisper networks that so many women have to rely on. You know, this one’s a problem, pass it on .”
Brooke nods. “So not Jasmine?”
My eyes narrow. “No, not Jasmine. For what it’s worth, I think if she’d known about him, she wouldn’t have had him on the film. You could ask her about it.”
“Oh, I did,” Brooke says airily. “That’s exactly what she said. And I believed her.”
“Good.” The word comes out a little sharp.
“I think Jasmine is actually very concerned about the well-being of people on her set,” Brooke continues. “Is that typical?”
The question feels pointed. “It varies,” I say, cautiously.
“Have you worked with specific directors who you think have created a problematic culture on set?” Brooke’s face is the picture of innocence, but I can see that she’s been plotting a careful path through this particular interview.
“Yes,” I answer shortly.
“Would you like to talk about that?” she asks blandly.
My eyes meet hers, and there’s something new there now, something that might be sympathy. “Not at this time,” I say, finally.
“Fair enough.” Her smile is bright and she backs off at once. She asks me another couple of questions and then I get up to leave, unclipping the microphone and handing it back to Kara.
“Thanks for doing that,” Brooke says, walking me to the door to the trailer. She reaches out her hand and lays it tentatively on my arm. “If there’s ever anything you want to talk about… on or off the record. Just let me know.” The words feel heavy, loaded.
I think about her face when she asked me about Rufus. I wonder why she didn’t ask about my near panic attack during filming. I have more than a passing suspicion that what she wants to ask me about is Shawn Hardy.
Interesting.
“I’ll think about it.”
My brain is going about a million miles an hour as I walk away, turning over Brooke’s questions in my head. When I get back to my trailer, Hannah’s not there. I reach in my pocket for my phone and feel the crinkle of the envelope that I’d forgotten about.
Pulling it free, I tear it open, and when I see what’s inside I sit down, right where I am on the floor of the trailer.
Dear Cynthie,
Not so long ago, you and I had a conversation about love letters.
You said it meant something to have them, to be able to pull them out and see a love story committed to paper.
I want us to have that. I like to imagine you in the future, taking out this letter and remembering how it felt when we were like this—something new and real.
Of course, I haven’t written a letter in…
god, I actually don’t know when I last wrote anything except my own name.
My handwriting leaves a lot to be desired, and I had to send Scott on a mission for stationery.
Do not ask me why he understood this to mean that I needed a professional letterhead, but an hour later I was in receipt of a thousand sheets of tasteful, linen-blend, personalized stationery with Jack Turner-Jones, (PGA) emblazoned across the top.
I’m just sorry that your first love letter looks like something I might send to my accountant.
I am writing with a fountain pen, though.
It’s a gold one that my dad gave me on our first day of filming, thirteen years ago.
I don’t know if you remember, but I’m pretty sure this pen was the cause of the first of many black marks against me.
Truthfully, I used to hate it too. When he gave it to me, it didn’t feel like a gift to commemorate the occasion—it felt like a physical reminder of the weight of his expectations.
Maybe that’s on me; maybe he was genuinely trying to do something nice and I couldn’t see it because I was so scared of disappointing him.
Now it doesn’t feel so heavy in my hand.
Now it just feels like a pen. Time can change a lot, can’t it?
I’ve been thinking about you and me, and time.
Last night you slept in my arms, and I found myself wondering…
if I’d done things differently; if we both had, would we have spent the last thirteen years together?
It’s hard to realize that you’ve been in love with someone for over a decade, that the way they fit into your life, your home, your heart, is perfect, and that possibly through your own stupidity you’ve spent so much time apart.
After a bit of manly brooding on the subject I realized that thinking like that wasn’t just unhelpful, it was wrong.
In my heart of hearts I know that the versions of us that existed then couldn’t have made a relationship work, but now?
Now, when I look at you, I see forever. I think I might need to bring you around on this (you did call me a dickhead yesterday, after all), but I’m pretty confident.
I have it on good authority that I’m extremely charming.
You told me yesterday that you’re a mess, that you have shit to work out, and I understand that, but I hope you know that if you have growing to do, that you can grow with me.
I don’t think any of us are ever done changing—I certainly hope I’m not.
I’m excited about the us we’ll be in ten years, in twenty, in fifty.
I can’t wait to know every single version of you, if you’ll let me.
Remember when I stayed at your place and I was reading Persuasion?
That book was a real kick in the teeth for a man who was going through it, let me tell you.
Jane Austen knew her shit. It’s hard work, writing a letter to the person you love when you know nothing will ever compare to “you pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.” Captain Wentworth and I have a lot in common.
I’m going to stop writing now, because I’m sitting in my trailer and Scott is going to come in and rush me over to wardrobe and he’ll probably be horrified by the ink stains on my fingers, even if I tell him it adds authenticity.
I love you. (God, what a relief to say it!)
Jack
I’m still on the floor when Hannah finds me a few minutes later. All thoughts of Brooke and our conversation have fled.
“What are you doing down there?” she asks.
“I couldn’t stand up anymore,” I say, which is the honest truth. Jack Turner-Jones took me out at the knees. A love letter. I suppose I should have expected it—he did tell me he had some ideas about what should happen next.
“I think I need to talk to you about something,” I tell Hannah, tapping the envelope against my hand, as she placidly ignores the fact I’m sprawled across the carpet, and gathers the stuff she left in here earlier.
Her head snaps up. “I knew something was going on. You’ve been so cagey since I got back this morning.”
I take a deep breath and look up at her. “I slept with Jack.”
“Fucking hell, Cyn!” Hannah plops down onto the sofa. “Give a girl a warning before you drop a bombshell like that.”
“Yes, it’s actually not the first time it’s happened,” I continue apologetically.
Her brow furrows. “When did you sleep with him the first time?”
“Okay. I just need you to be very calm about this.”
“About what?” Her eyes widen. “Was it when he stayed at your place? That was weeks ago.”
“It was thirteen years ago.”