Chapter 17
Tuesday
Asolitary cream-filled, sugar-glazed donut, plucked out of the twelve-pack of Dunkin Donuts I found in my trailer this morning, demands my attention.
A note left on top from Alfonso reads, It’s been a pleasure working with you on this film.
I’m not sure I would call this experience pleasurable for anyone, but I’ll take the donuts.
If it wasn’t for the rest of my team getting their greasy hands on the box, I’d have demolished them all. I’d hoped the sugary sweetness would remove the bitter taste that lingers in my mouth.
Christopher’s distance over the last fifteen hours is the root cause.
I thought we’d gotten closer after Sunday night’s heart-to-heart, but after we’d had sex last night, he made his excuses and headed back to his room. I’d initially written off his aloofness to his tiredness and being busy with work. But now it seems like sheer avoidance.
He even chose to stay at the hotel today rather than joining me on set for the film’s wrap celebration.
And he only agreed to fly on the private jet I’ve got for traveling to New York later, rather than going commercial, after I told him there were no middle seats.
I’ve added all of this to the long list of things I need to discuss with Lee, who is presently staring back at me from my laptop in my first post-rehab therapy session.
“You know what they say about falling off a horse.” Her tone is cautious but cheerful.
“You’ve got to jump straight back on,” I say, unable to fight back a yawn.
I reach for my third iced coffee of the day, sitting next to the laptop, which has done little to keep me awake. Maybe Rob’s getting me decaf now?
“What’s the part that scares you the most?” The corners of her eyes crinkle, studying me with all the intensity of a detective holding a magnifying glass. I don’t know what she’s seeing, having chosen to hide my self-view on Zoom.
Let’s see.
Returning to New York, aka the scene of the crime.
Fucking up on live TV again.
Pushing my father even further away.
Losing Christopher again.
The list gets longer with every passing day.
“It’s the fear that something bad will happen again. That I’ll fuck everything up.”
Like I always do.
I scratch my beard and wipe the sugar-glaze stain from my black jeans.
There’s still so much for me to learn about RAINN before the TV interviews tomorrow. What if I get the statistics wrong? Or use the wrong terminology?
I usually only ever talk about myself, my music, my acting. But this time, it’s about something far more important. Something bigger than me.
“Remember the fried egg metaphor we talked about?” Lee reaches for her coffee mug, the same shade of purple as her cardigan. She’s coordinated in a way my stylist Laurie would be proud of.
I nod in agreement, recalling not only the fried egg, but all the different metaphors I’d picked up at the Meadows: Navigating a boat through the storm. Handing back baggage that’s not mine to carry.
“You can’t focus on the white part. That stuff is out of your control and is only going to add to your anxieties. Focus on the yolk. What’s in your control? What is it that you can do?”
I take a quick glance at the RAINN notes Connie printed out and left for me.
“I can ensure I read all these key talking points.” I reach over and hold the papers up to the camera. “I can try and meditate before each show, focus on my breathing.” My chest expands as I take a deep breath in before exhaling.
Lee nods and makes a note.
“And how are your cravings?” She raises the pen to her mouth.
I’m tempted to lie so I don’t get in trouble. But, like Lee said, the only person I end up lying to is myself. And unlike others, she’s never made me feel ashamed when I’ve disclosed stuff.
“The cravings to have a drink or take drugs have subsided, but you were right about the sugar.” My tongue glides across my lips to find any remaining trace of the glaze.
“And the sexual cravings?”
I shift my weight on the couch at Lee’s question.
“I slept with Christopher last night.”
I lower my head, and notice donut crumbs on the brown carpet underneath the table.
“I see.”
Lee’s sigh hits my ears, and I don’t need to look up to see the disappointment that’s no doubt written across her face.
“It was different this time though. I took control. And I wasn’t using it to fight off any feelings, to avoid dealing with stuff.” I return my attention to the screen.
The downward dip in her lips and her arched brows reaffirm that it’s not Lee I’m trying to convince, but myself.
“And the reason you felt like you needed to take control…” Her tone is flat.
My mouth lets out something resembling a sigh.
I hate that she knows my reasons before I do. Our conversation about repetition compulsion plays back in my head.
“To reclaim the power that was taken from me.” Frustration rises in my throat.
God, I’m so stupid.
“Right. And what have you been left with since?”
What haven’t I been left with would be a quicker answer.
Anger. Guilt. Rejection. Shame. Frustration. Hurt.
“I feel like crap. Christopher’s been distant ever since.”
“And you haven’t asked him why he’s being that way?”
It’s clear from her tone that she already knows the answer.
My conflict-avoidant nature is part of my addictive personality. I hide parts of myself, and seek comfort and solace in things that can distract me from my feelings.
“Go ahead,” she says when I reach for my phone.
Sk8er Boi
Can we talk later? I feel I’ve done something to upset you. X
The crew all gathers closely together as Alfonso steps up on the dining table on set, his head nearly hitting the chandelier that dangles above him. He begins his speech by rolling off a list of thank yous to the various people who have helped make this movie come to life.
His hair looks a lot more salt and a lot less pepper than when I met him back in London five months ago, when we’d first discussed him directing the film.
“And lastly, I’d like to thank Alexander Morgan.
” He points toward me as everyone turns my direction.
“The fact that we've been able to turn this film around in such a short space of time, even with a break in filming, is a testament to how hard you've worked. So, thank you.” He waves at someone to pass him a champagne flute. “To Alexander Morgan.”
The cast and crew all join in, grabbing glasses from the dining table and raising them while I hold up my Fuji water. Laura stands to my right. Her toned abs are now completely gone, replaced with the tiniest of bellies that shows between her crop top and floral skirt.
“I’ve been messaging you all day, how come you aren’t responding?” Laura whispers in my ear as she clinks her champagne flute with my water bottle.
The forced grin on my face as everyone continues to stare widens.
“My phone’s playing up,” I say dismissively.
Giving Laura my new number is not a mistake I’m going to make twice.
“Can you believe he still hasn’t responded to my message?”
Laura turns to face me, her grip so tight on the champagne flute, I’m expecting it to shatter any second.
Of course, I fucking can.
I fight back my urge to tell her the truth.
That threatening him was not the way to go.
And that she shouldn’t be drinking while pregnant.
But I don’t need nor want to be at the tail end of her wrath.
Nor do I want to be accused of mansplaining, or seen as one of those sober people who tell others not to drink.
I reach for my watch and twist it, trying to catch Lucy’s attention, who’s standing next to Erica by the tall lampshade.
“I assume you haven’t gone to the press yet then?”
I’m completely uninterested in her response, but I’ll pretend to be somewhat supportive. The last thing this movie needs is another scandal.
“No. But I booked my ticket for Italy. I leave in the morning.” Her eyes swirl with rage. “No way he can avoid me then.”
He can’t, but I can. I’m relieved at the sight of Lucy walking toward us. Her petite frame is hidden by her baggy jeans and grey hoodie. It’s the complete opposite of Laura’s style.
“Alex, we need to get going to the airport,” Lucy says, sliding between Laura and me and pulling at my arm.
“Good luck with everything,” I say to Laura. I place my bottle down on the dining table and quickly turn toward the exit without a hug or kiss goodbye.
“Thank you for rescuing me.”
I slide my arm over Lucy’s shoulder as we walk toward the exit, my elbow resting on her backpack.
“We actually needed to get moving anyway,” Lucy says as Alfonso approaches.
“You off?” he asks, grabbing my left arm as I drop the other from Lucy’s shoulder. The strength of his grip is stronger than his frame would suggest.
“Yeah. Gotta catch the flight to New York.”
“It’s been great working with you, Alex.” Alfonso leans in and hugs me.
Has it?
Does he actually wish we’d never met? That he’d never agreed to come on board?
“Sorry for the headache I’ve caused you and the studio.”
I still sit with guilt for the production delays I caused.
“Come on, Alex. Life happens. The most important thing is that you’ve made it through the other side to tell the tale.” He shakes my arm once more.
My cheeks warm as my eyes begin to mist.
It’s time to leave before I become a big blubbering mess.
“Thank you,” I say. I lean in for one more hug before heading out of the sound stage to the shuttle van, where the rest of my team and our luggage are already waiting.
I’m not sure I’ve fully processed that this is the end of shooting the film. That my part in its creation is officially over. Now it’s in the hands of Alfonso and the postproduction team.
There’s a slight discomfort in trusting someone else to make me look good in the final product.
It’s reminiscent of how I felt when making my first two albums, which I now listen to and cringe over.
But it’s also a relief knowing I no longer need to focus on the film, learn my lines, or continue to look disheveled.