Another actor
Eric is drunk. If the objective was debauchery, depravity, then the cast and crew had thrown themselves towards it with open arms. He and Matthieu had raided ancient bottles of Armagnac from the liquor cabinet.
Jacob had made a call and suddenly, somehow, some assistant had turned up with several cases of champagne.
Things descended from there. Agathe, the producer, who’d only flown in this morning, was put to bed before any of them.
The make-up artist was spotted being sick off a balcony outside, the grip holding back his hair.
Two of the soldiers dared each other to skinny-dip in the moat, hoping some of the female cast members might follow.
They didn’t, choosing instead to cut loose on the impromptu dancefloor organised by Jacob and Clara.
Madame Director has been the life of the party, hair down, arms above her head, drinking everyone else under the table.
Eric has tried his best to keep up, but he can’t dance like he used to.
He’s flagging now, so he stumbles upstairs, a champagne bottle dangling precariously from one hand, pausing only for a breather on the antique chaise longue on the landing.
It’s here that he rests, eyes closed, clasping the bottle to his chest like a sword held by a dead knight.
He hiccups. He hears them, on the other side of a heavy velvet curtain.
Their voices are thick, their words produced with effort. Eric isn’t the only one who’s drunk.
‘You’ve been avoiding me,’ comes Seb’s low voice. ‘All night. All week.’
Seb has been absent tonight. Eric wonders if he’s been drinking alone.
‘Why would I want to be around you?’ Clara says. Her words are even more slurred than his. ‘I’m sick of you. I’m sick of being judged.’
‘You’re wasted.’
‘And there we are.’
There’s a silence. On the other side of the curtain, neither of them moves.
‘I don’t want to be like this,’ Seb says. ‘Always fighting.’
‘You think I do?’
‘No,’ Seb says. ‘It’s not too late to—’
‘To what?’
‘I don’t know.’
Another silence. Clara sniffs.
‘I think it is too late,’ she says. ‘I thought the film would help, but it’s made everything worse.’
‘So that’s all this was?’ Seb says. ‘An experiment?’
‘You weren’t always so bitter.’ Clara spits out the words.
‘And you used to talk to me.’
‘That makes one of us.’
A creaking floorboard. Eric is disoriented. Is Seb stepping towards Clara, or is he walking away?
‘It would have been different,’ Seb says. ‘If he wasn’t here.’
‘You need to get over this,’ Clara says.
‘How can I?’ Seb says, suddenly animated. ‘You created this situation. No one forced you to cast him. You could have said no to Nico, or Agathe. You wanted him here. Now every time I see you, he’s there, too. Following you around. Giving his opinion. Making you laugh.’
‘God forbid somebody makes me laugh,’ Clara says. ‘It’s been long enough.’ She adjusts her tone. ‘He is not the problem with this film. He’s actually made it better.’ She half hiccups, stomps her foot. ‘Despite what you may think, Jacob Steele is not the root cause of everything.’
‘Then who is?’
Eric imagines the look on Clara’s face. He can’t help but pity Seb.
‘Oh, come on,’ Seb says. ‘He’s made you think like this.’
‘Oh my god!’ Clara’s voice finally cracks. ‘Listen to yourself. Since when did you get so controlling?’
‘He’s controlling you.’
‘Oh, really?’ Clara says. ‘You’re the one who cares about keeping me to yourself.’
‘I care about you being yourself,’ Seb says. ‘You’re acting like a person I don’t recognise. You used to be more than just a fucking director. Now that’s all you are, all the time.’
‘People change,’ Clara says.
‘I’m the same as I’ve always been.’
‘No, you’re not,’ she shouts, unable to match Seb’s level of calm. ‘And the problem is that you think you are. Not growing up is not the same as being the same person.’ Clara is almost out of breath. ‘Everyone changes. Even you. And you’ve become someone selfish.’
‘Selfish?’ Seb’s voice rises an octave. ‘I’ve given you everything you wanted,’ he says. ‘All I’ve asked for is one thing.’
‘But it wasn’t one thing, was it?’ Clara says. ‘It was everything. And it would have taken over everything.’
Seb takes a moment to respond. ‘You’re already talking in the past tense.’
‘What else do we have?’ Clara’s voice is still raised. ‘I’ve spent the last three years watching you retreat.’ Eric can tell that Clara is holding back tears. ‘I needed you.’
‘You’re the one who’s been away all the time.’
‘I’ve been running away!’ Clara yells. ‘Being anywhere else has been better than being around you. Being your constant source of disappointment.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘You don’t get to decide what’s fair,’ she says, through tears. ‘Not when you never once asked me what I actually wanted.’
When Seb speaks, his voice has hardened again. ‘What do you want?’
‘Not this,’ Clara says. ‘Not any of this.’
Seb takes a long time to reply. He seems to know that they’re at a crossroads, that what he says next will matter. He seems to know he’s choosing the wrong path.
‘Have it your way,’ he says. ‘I’m done.’
The last thing Eric sees before he drifts off to sleep is the blurred shape of Seb storming down the corridor. The last thing he hears, heavy boots on the stairs.