Chapter 9 #2
I have repeated the words ‘I am fine’ to so many people since the light fitting fell.
To the on-set medic, who checked the bruises on my knees.
To Avi. To Alessandro, who ran over in a hurricane of apologies, my stalling apparently completely forgotten.
He was furious with the lighting department, absolutely losing his shit at them.
Shouting in Italian. Some quite expressive hand gestures.
And a lot of swearing. It’s the first time I’ve seen him like that; I guess he reached the limits of his patience, as Avi alluded to on our second day here.
It makes me incredibly glad that we’ve – somehow – found a way to get our shit together and I haven’t been on the receiving end of it.
‘I can’t believe this happened,’ Nat continues, her tone incredulous. ‘You would think that with the amount they’re spending on this film, they’d manage not to kill one of the leads.’
‘Nat,’ I say, as she rants about insurance and contractual agreements.
But I’m not worried about any of that right now.
And it’s crazy, because I should be. I should be thanking my lucky stars that I wasn’t injured, that I was fine. That Avi pulled me out of the way. And somewhere, under all of this, I am.
But my primary concern is what was happening before the light fell.
‘Nat,’ I say again, my tone so serious this time she stops mid-rant.
‘What, Lara?’ She sounds like she’s ready to go on the warpath for whatever I’m about to say.
Nat might not be one of the more experienced agents in the business, but she is all fire when it comes to looking after her clients.
It’s one of the things I love about her.
But I don’t want to discuss all of this right now. I need a second – alone. To process.
‘I am fine,’ I repeat. I want to get her off the phone.
‘Promise?’ she asks. And my heart thuds.
‘Yes,’ I reply.
Almost as soon as I hang up, there’s a knock at my door.
I open it, ready to tell the runner for the millionth time that I am okay, that I don’t need anything, and that I’m not going to sue the production company.
But it’s not the runner. It’s Avi.
‘Hey,’ he says, his voice low.
He’s wearing jeans and a burgundy sweatshirt, his hands in his pockets. It’s the most casual I’ve seen him since we arrived on-set, because he’s usually back in his suit straight after filming, and the image startles me a little. He almost looks like the Avi I knew before.
‘Hi,’ I reply. I suddenly have no idea what to say to him. But he did save my life earlier and I find, for the first time since we started filming, that I don’t want to turn him away. ‘Do you want to come in?’ I ask.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Thanks.’
He looks – now I see it – pretty shaken.
He sits down in the chair next to the door, under the shelf where I’ve stacked the few books I brought to set with me.
My old copy of A Murder in London, some notebooks where I’ve been recording the notes Alessandro has given me on-set.
Plus some of my old acting manuals, detailing various techniques and exercises – the presence of which is a little embarrassing and I find myself hoping he doesn’t look at them too closely.
I offer him tea and he asks for two sugars.
And I hate myself for it, but something lights up inside me.
At the idea that he might not have changed as much as I thought.
Stop it, Lara, I think.
I move to the kitchenette and put the kettle on, pulling a mug from the small cupboard above. Moving almost instinctively, automatically.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask, when he’s taken the cup of tea from my hands. He hasn’t really spoken since he entered the trailer.
‘I think so,’ he says. ‘The medic said that I might be in shock. But I feel like I should be asking you that question.’
‘I…’ I pause, an unwanted memory of how his body felt against mine for a moment, throwing me out of the way of the falling light. ‘I’m fine,’ I say, clenching my hand around the mug handle.
‘Are you sure?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I reply. ‘But mostly because I’ve been asked if I’m okay so many times in the last hour that words aren’t really words any more.’
He laughs. And I am reminded that Avi – no matter whether what I said was actually funny – always used to make me feel like I was the funniest person in the room.
‘I hope I didn’t hurt you,’ he says.
‘I think a few bruises are better than being crushed to death by a light fitting,’ I say. He laughs again and a thrill runs across my skin. Fuck.
‘I have to confess, I actually came here with an agenda,’ he says, taking a sip of his tea. I tense up, not sure what he’s going to say next.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Well,’ he says. ‘I did want to ask you anyway but I thought you’d say no. Then Alessandro…’ He pauses. ‘Well, he said he noticed that there was a bit of weirdness between us, before the light fitting fell. He thinks I’m throwing you off your game.’
Oh, fuck, I think. That’s the last thing I wanted – and I suppose he didn’t feel like he could say it to me. Given I nearly died. But still, it hits me like a punch in the gut. Sienna’s face, beautiful and perfect, and ready to step in, appears in my mind.
‘And given we’ve lost a day today, he’s worried about anything else that might cause delays.
So he wants me to take you to the Olivier Awards next week.
Partly to promote the film – he thinks it’ll be good for us to make a shared public appearance.
But also because he thinks we should spend some time together, outside work.
Get to know each other a bit. In case it’s my, uh…
profile that’s bothering you.’ He looks like he wants to vomit at that last sentence and I can’t help it – I almost laugh at his expression.
‘So he thinks I’m starstruck by you?’ I ask, the words slipping out of my mouth, betraying the shock and – to be honest – hilarity of the situation. I wish that was what was happening, I think. That would be much easier to deal with than… whatever’s going on here.
He nods, a smile passing across his face, dispelling some of the embarrassment. My heart kicks. ‘Pretty ridiculous, right?’
‘Well, you are one of the most famous people on the planet and I think a lot of people would probably sell their mother just to be in the same room as you,’ I say. ‘So I can see his point.’
‘Very funny,’ he replies. But he doesn’t laugh this time, a discomfort etched on his face that gives me pause. ‘So what do you think?’
And my first instinct is to hesitate. Because a) I’m not thrilled by the idea of a public appearance, so soon.
I’m not an idiot – I know I’ll have to do it at some point.
But I’m enjoying being in our filming bubble for now.
And b) it’ll be a whole evening. Alone. With Avi.
Who I might be getting along reasonably well with, professionally.
But who I don’t really feel comfortable going any further than that with. ‘When is it?’ I ask.
‘Thursday,’ he says. The day before we’re scheduled to film our kissing scene. Which makes me feel all kinds of weird. Between the light fitting and this offer, the prospect of kissing him – something I’ve successfully been able to keep out of my mind for the last two weeks – has my head spinning.
‘If you don’t want to go,’ he says, ‘it’s fine. I can lie to Alessandro and tell him I’m taking you out to dinner or something.’
‘I…’ I pause. Because there’s another half of this.
That maybe there’s something in what Alessandro is saying.
That maybe, if I spend some time with Avi, off-set, I’ll be able to not lose my composure around him over something as simple and stupid as him touching my hand.
I promised myself I’d do whatever it takes to get this role. To keep it.
‘Okay,’ I say, nodding before I really realise what I’m doing.
‘Great,’ he replies. ‘I should probably go – but make sure you tell someone if you start to feel weird, okay? There’s no sense being a martyr.’
I blink, unsure what he’s talking about. Because it sounds like he’s referring to us – to what I’ve just agreed to – and that would be insane.
‘Your fall,’ he says. ‘It was pretty major. We don’t want one of the lead stars ending up with a concussion and not telling anyone about it.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Y-yeah. I will.’ He gets up and carefully puts his cup down. ‘Shall we meet in the hotel lobby on Thursday, then? We can sort timings later.’
‘Perfect,’ I reply.
‘I was beginning to think you were too famous for me now,’ Alison jokes that afternoon when I call her.
Filming is done for the rest of the day so I’m in bed in my hotel room, bored of running lines and having thoroughly exhausted the TV that’s on offer.
I’m so sharpened to my own performance that whenever I switch the TV on I find myself taking notes, analysing what the actors are doing.
Their line deliveries, their gestures. How far they disappear into each role.
It’s a trait I’ve found useful in the past. But right now it’s affecting my ability to have any downtime.
So I decide to check in with Al instead.
‘How is it all going?’ she asks. But I deflect, insisting on hearing about what’s been going on with her.
She tells me she’s good but tired, out three of the five nights this past week.
She’s dating someone new: a French poet she met a few weeks ago at an open-mic beat poetry evening.
It’s going well, apparently – despite the language barrier.
She tells me she understands about half of the words he says, but it doesn’t matter because their connection is ‘beyond words’.
‘So,’ she says eventually. ‘Will you stop stalling now and tell me what’s happening with you?’
I pause for a second, wondering how much to share with her. The alarm bells going off like they usually do. Because if I admit that I’m struggling, even a little, she’ll just tell me everything I’m doing wrong, and how to fix it. ‘It’s going… okay.’